In the two years I’ve been working for Hoxton, I’d say we’ve both been in the house at the same time a grand total of maybe five times. And never alone. Roland is always here with me, pottering around in the background and acting as a helpful buffer between me and Hoxton. He’s the one who leads me through the house, forcing me to stick to the pre-approved route that doesn’t allow for any detours or good-naturedsnooping. Two years in, and I only vaguely know the layout of the downstairs. The upper floor of Hoxton’s home remains a mystery – one that I doubt I’ll ever solve.
I jump as the kitchen door suddenly creaks open and Hoxton’s head pokes through the gap. I watch as he scans the room before his gaze settles on me and his brows furrow.
‘You’re still here?’ His frown deepens as he steps fully into the kitchen.
A flash of irritation shoots through me and I gesture silently to the pots still in the sink and other bits and pieces I need to finish off. I turn back to the sink to resume washing up, assuming he’ll leave and head back to whatever dark and joyless corner of his home he came from, but instead of the door slamming shut behind him, I hear his footsteps shuffling closer.
I hear the creak of wood as he leans against the island and then clears his throat. ‘What I mean to say is – you can go.’
I drop the pot I’m holding into the soapy water and glance over my shoulder. Why do I feel like I’m about to walk into a trap? ‘I need to finish cleaning. It’s part of the job.’
‘You’re mostly done,’ he says gruffly, avoiding any eye contact with me. ‘I can finish up here.’
I swallow down a scoff. For some reason, I just can’t imagine Hoxton with his sleeves rolled up to his elbows, standing over the sink and scrubbing away at these dishes. Surely he’s the type of guy to let it sit and soak until hiscleaning staff turn up, and I’m not going to give them any extra work if I can help it.
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘It’ll only take me another half hour or so, and then I’ll be out of your hair.’
Thank God.
Hoxton’s gaze flickers towards the window. I follow his line of sight and feel a slight twinge of alarm when I notice how frosted the glass has become in the time since I last glanced out of it. The twinkling lights from his neighbours’ homes are blurry now, and I can barely see the outline of my car in the drive.
‘Are you sure? It’s getting pretty—’
‘I’ll be fine,’ I say again, a little firmer this time. How much worse could it really get in another half hour? And besides, Hoxton is already in a sour mood thanks to the Christmas-ness of this evening; I don’t need to give him another reason to criticise me and my work.
Hoxton opens his mouth, looks like he wants to argue, then clamps it shut and shrugs. He pushes himself off the counter without another word and leaves me blissfully alone once again.
I won’t lie though; the increasing intensity of the snowstorm has got me a tiny bit rattled. The last thing I want is to get stuck on the side of the motorway or, even worse, stuck here with Hoxton. Just the thought of it sends a shudder wracking through me. With that thought motivating me,I get the rest of the kitchen done in record time – eighteen minutes to be exact – and try very hard to ignore the increasing howling of the wind outside.
Once I’m officially finished, I heft my bag onto my shoulder, grab the bin bags to toss on my way out, and frown. Typically, once I’m done, I’ll let Roland know and he’ll lead me to the front door and that’s it. Even on the rare occasions that Hoxton is home while I’m busy working my magic in his kitchen, he’s never come to see me off himself and I’ve certainly never had any desire – or chance, with Roland around – to pop my head into his office and say goodbye.
But it feels weird leaving without a word tonight. Rude, almost. Which is just laughable considering how Hoxton pretty much owns the trademark on rudeness. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t give a damn about being rude to the man who glowers at me as if I’m responsible for every wrong in his life, who doesn’t bother to even wave a hand in greeting when I enter his home.
But I do.
Hoxton may have been raised in a cave, but I most definitely wasn’t.
I stride over to the kitchen door and tug it open, stepping over the threshold before I can talk myself out of it.
I don’t get very far.
Mostly because I immediately hit a wall. It’s somehow equal parts hard and soft, and there’s a warmth emanatingfrom it that floods my senses. And it’s moving. Something that feels oddly like an arm wraps itself around my waist and steadies me as I stumble backwards.
I glance up.
Not a wall.
AHoxton.
A Hoxton with one arm wrapped loosely around my waist to steady me, his chest pressed up against mine, and a look on his face I don’t recognise. It’s not his standard scowl, but it’s not anything I could describe as being even remotely close to a smile either.
His brows are furrowed, his cheeks slightly red, and his lips are parted in what I think is surprise. I watch as his dark eyes drop a fraction, roving over my body before flitting up to meet mine again. His lips twitch into an almost smile.
‘Oh, shit, sorry,’ I mutter, dropping my gaze as I leap out of his touch and back at least five steps. ‘I didn’t realise… didn’t hear you coming.’
Hoxton clears his throat, and his cheeks darken a little more. ‘I was coming to…’ He trails off and clears his throat again. ‘To check how things were going.’
I raise a brow – we haven’t even got close to the thirty minutes we agreed on – and gesture around his now-pristine kitchen. The urge to respond with a snarky ‘Yeah? Well, clean-up takes a while’ is on the tip of my tongue, but I swallow it down because I know what he’s getting at.
