Not once over the course of the last two years has Hoxton ever come out to greet me directly. I suppose he saves that honour for men dressed in stylish grey suits who stand with all the confidence of someone who knows he’s important.And the man I’m watching him greet right now definitely fits that description.
I watch as Hoxton claps his guest on the shoulder and pulls him into a stiff hug, like the action isn’t something he’s quite used to just yet and he’s forcing it a little. The man breaks out into a wide grin, his shoulders shaking slightly as he says something I can’t hear. Whatever it is, it makes Hoxton’s lips turn down at the corners into a familiar scowl.
There we go.
That’s the man I know. Grumpy. Brusque. Borderline rude.
Much better.
I lose sight of them as they head inside the house, so I turn my attention back to the meal. Without tooting my own horn too much, I’m pretty excited about tonight. I’ve worked on several Christmas menus for clients this holiday season, but Hoxton was the last client I’d expected to get a request from. I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that I’ve put a teensy bit more effort into Hoxton’s menu than I usually do.
I’m serving a feast that incorporates traditional Christmas flavours with a modern twist: alongside the brie, I’ve prepared rosemary and garlic pork loin, honey-roasted Brussels sprouts, cheesy potatoes au gratin, and a phenomenal cranberry pear tart. To top it all off, I’ve got some Christmas cookies and I’ve also made my favourite dessert as a festive extra – a spiced rum pumpkin cake that’s been a familyrecipe for decades. My grandmother taught me how to make it as a child, and I’ve spent years perfecting my own unique twist on it, adding an almost scientific blend of cinnamon and star anise to the rum mixture.
It’s actually the first time I’ve made it for a client, and I feel a twinge of anxiety at the thought of serving it to Hoxton of all people.
The door to the kitchen suddenly swings open and I tense, expecting to see Hoxton’s scowling form emerging from the doorway.
But it’s not him.
‘Ah, here’s the kitchen.’ The guest who just arrived beams at me as he leans against the nearest wall. He’s got a mess of floppy brown hair and a boyish charm to his features that immediately coaxes out a smile of my own. ‘You must be Noelle.’
I nod in response, not entirely sure what to make of his sudden appearance in my kitchen. I can’t tell whether it’s the way he carries himself or the curious way he’s currently peering around the kitchen, but there’s something refreshingly carefree about this man.
Something that suggests he doesn’t take life as seriously as Hoxton does.
‘And you are…’ I trail off, waiting for him to fill in the blank.
‘Luca.’ He grins at me, his dark eyes sparkling withsomething I can’t quite place. ‘Luca Fenchurch. It’s great to finally meet the famous Ms Noelle Jones.’
My brows shoot up in surprise before I can temper my reaction. ‘Famous?’
Luca laughs lightly. ‘The way Alex talks about you? I feel like I’m in the presence of a celebrity right now.’
That’s difficult to believe but I play along, assuming Luca is just trying to butter me up in an attempt to get a sneak peek at dinner. ‘And what exactly has Mr Hoxton been saying?’
He shrugs, that easy grin still on his face. ‘Something, some-thing, “culinary genius”. Something, something, “would put Gordon Ramsay to shame”. The usual, you know?’ He leans over the farm table and reaches out for the bowl of crackers I’d set out to snack on while I work.
My cheeks warm at the unexpected compliment. I’ve never been one to shy away from praise, but this is the second time today I’ve had positive feedback from Hoxton – and neither have come from the man himself. I’m not sure what to make of that, so I push the conversation onto something other than myself. ‘How do you know Hoxton again?’
Luca pops a cracker into his mouth and chews thoughtfully for a few seconds. ‘We’re friends.’
I barely manage to muffle my snort and Luca is polite enough to pretend like he doesn’t hear it. Hoxton and the wordfriendsjust don’t seem to compute in my mind.
‘And we work together,’ he continues, correctly deciphering the sceptical look on my face. ‘At HoxTech. I’m on the Board.’
That makes a lot more sense. I can’t imagine anyone tolerating Hoxton’s icy personality for long enough to genuinely call him a friend without needing some financial incentive to do so.
The door to the kitchen swings open once again and Hoxton appears.
Speak of the devil…
Hoxton pauses for a moment, his gaze flitting from Luca to me before his features settle into his signature scowl. ‘I thought you were going to use the bathroom.’ His tone is almost accusatory. ‘You’ve been in here the whole time?’
‘Got lost,’ Luca says cheerfully. He’s apparently immune to Hoxton’s mannerisms, because his grin doesn’t fade at all under the scrutiny of Hoxton’s glare. In fact, I’m pretty sure it widens. ‘And I was just introducing myself to the lovely Ms Jones.’
The way he says my name is loaded with something unspoken. It reminds me of the way Eve and I speak to each other when we’re trying to gossip in front of other people.
Hell, maybe Hoxton and Lucaarefriends.
