Hoxton nods, hovers for a beat too long and then disappears out into the hall, gently closing my door behind me.
As soon as I hear his footsteps disappear down the hall, presumably to his own room or back downstairs to finishThe Return of Krampus, I march over to the control board by the bed and turn the heating up to the highest it can possibly go. The vents kick in almost immediately, sending a blast of welcome warm air straight into the room.
Perfect.
Once I’m satisfied the room is going to heat up to a decent temperature in the next ten minutes or so, I make my way to the bathroom. Just like the rest of the room, it’s perfectly serviceable, but also nondescript. You can tell that the cleaner whom I assume Hoxton employs doesn’t skip this room, but I also get the sense that it hasn’t been used as an actual room in forever. I half-heartedly wonder why he even bothers with having a guest room.Singular. There are plenty of rooms in Hoxton’s home, but it hasn’t escapedme that he was very explicit about this being the only guest room. I wonder what he’s using the other rooms for, since it’s certainly not for entertaining.
Gran would have a heart attack if she ever found out one single man was living in a house this big. The whole reason my family are even able to have the giant Christmas spectacle we throw every year is because of her and her home. It’s a gorgeous, eight-bedroom country manor she managed to snag at an auction for repossessed homes years ago, and spent the better part of a decade renovating. When Grandad passed, there was a lot of talk about Gran selling up and downsizing because everyone thought she’d be lonely in that big old house. Those conversations lasted for all five minutes before Gran shut them down.
‘A family needs its heart. And that’s what this house is. If I sell, where would we all spend Christmas? Where would we be a family?’
I can practically hear her voice in my head, sharp as ever, the words delivered with that no-nonsense tone she’s always had. It’s hard to argue with logic like that and I don’t think any of us really wanted to see her sell. The house is as much a part of her as anything else. It’s her sanctuary, her pride, the place where all the chaos of our family can come together every holiday.
Not that Hoxton would understand. Given how cold and sterile his home feels, I doubt he’d understand the idea of a place being the ‘heart’ of something. He’d probably scoffat the thought of it and dismiss it as sentimental nonsense, but not me.
Eve always says I get my love of cooking from Gran. Not directly – though Gran can throw it down in the kitchen like nobody’s business – but how she sees her home is exactly how I see food. It’s the heart of everything and brings people together like nothing else. Sometimes it feels like a superpower, being able to pull together a dish the way I do, and I don’t take it lightly. There’s nothing I love more than cooking for people. Except, maybe Christmas.
The thought of missing Christmas jolts me back to reality and I step inside the shower. It’s gleaming like it’s brand new, and I don’t hesitate to turn the tap to the hottest it can possibly get, strip down, and jump in.
The warm water seeps into my bones and helps to work out the knot of anxiety and stress I’ve felt building inside me. It’s exactly what I need right now, and I give myself the luxury of twenty minutes of peace and warmth as I stand under the powerful spray and force myself to forget all about the ridiculous situation I’ve somehow managed to find myself in.
It’s not until I step out of the bathroom and back into the bedroom, a slightly scratchy towel wrapped around me, that I realise something.
I have nothing to change into.
Shit.
I glance at my pile of discarded clothes by the door to the en-suite. The idea of forcing myself back into my slightly damp work clothes – a not entirely comfortable pair of black trousers and a fitted black turtleneck – isn’t high up on my list of things I desperately want to do right now.
I briefly entertain the idea of crawling into bed and under the duvet in nothing but my birthday suit but, for some reason, the heat coming out of the vents above isn’t as powerful as it was twenty minutes ago and I can already feel a creeping chill spreading throughout the room.
I need something to wear. Ideally something I haven’t spent the last twelve hours in and that doesn’t smell vaguely of pork loin and cheese. I briefly consider striding down the hall to ask Hoxton if there’s any chance I could borrow something for the evening, but I shut down that idea as quickly as it comes.
I’ve asked Hoxton for enough already and I’m not keen on seeing what his limit is. For some reason, I think opening his bedroom door to find me standing there in a towel asking if he happens to have a spare pair of boxers might just be it.
Spare pair of boxers.
Spare clothes.
And where might Hoxton keep those?
I whirl around and tug open the drawer nearest to me. Surely these can’t just be for show? The first drawer is filledwith linen sheets, all the same white as the ones on the bed, and so are the next three I rifle through. Just sheets and pillowcases galore. Some are still in their original plastic packaging, further reinforcing the belief that Hoxton probably hasn’t had a guest stay over in months at best.
The last two drawers prove more fruitful. I find a stack of old clothes folded at the bottom. One drawer is filled with old sweatshirts with a university logo embroidered across the front and the other, blissfully, has several pairs of dark sweatpants stuffed into it. It occurs to me suddenly that everything looks a size or two too small for Hoxton. These are probably old clothes from several years ago, long relegated to an unused drawer in an unused room. I doubt he even remembers they’re in here.
I have to tell myself this so as to assuage the slight twinge of guilt – and creepiness – I feel as I hurriedly pull one of his sweatshirts over my head and then dive into a pair of sweatpants. For having sat dormant at the bottom of a drawer for God knows how long, they’re surprisingly comfortable. The cotton is still soft and, as I make my way towards the bed, I get a waft of something familiar.
Vanilla tinged with… something. Something warm. Something inviting. Something I want to stay wrapped up in for a little longer.
Something nice.
Whatever it is, I don’t have time to dwell on it. My eyelidsare becoming heavier with each passing second and a wall of tiredness hits me as soon as I crawl under the sheets. I curl around myself, causing another wave of that something nice to caress my senses, and let my eyelids flutter shut.
Only to snap them open a second later.
The steady stream of heat blasting from the vent above has dwindled into a pathetic huff every so often and the chill that was steadily creeping up on me has turned into a full-blown arctic tundra.
‘For fuck’s sake,’ I murmur, twisting my body around so I can stab at the control panel again. The screen lights up as soon as my fingers make contact, and I frown. According to the panel, everything should be working as it’s supposed to. The temperature is as high as it’s going to get and everything looks right.
