‘I’m not crying,’ I sniff, blinking away the tears before they can spill. ‘I’m just… it’s just, what if I don’t make it to you guys for Christmas?’
It sounds ridiculous to admit it out loud – childish even – but that question has been festering in the back of my mind since last night. What if I don’t make it home? Christmas has always been a huge deal in my family. We’ve never been the type of family to come together during the summer for barbecues and games at the park, and we’re far too spread out across the country for the majority of us to turn up at birthdays or christenings or any other special occasions with any kind of regularity. Christmas is all we have. The one time of the year everyone has unanimously agreed to set aside for family, and I love it.
I love catching up with my cousins and sitting by the fireplace listening to and sharing a year’s worth of drama. I love waking up on Christmas morning to the smell of cinnamon and spices wafting through the house and watching all the little cousins tear into their gifts with megawatt grins on their faces. Even Mum and Aunt Valerie’s eternal feud has carved itself into the backbone of Christmas, and the thought of missing it is genuinely enough to make my vision blur.
‘You will,’ Eve says firmly, even as the wind howls in the background. ‘Trust me, by tomorrow morning this storm will have broken and you’ll be on your way.’
‘And if it doesn’t?’ I ask, brow raised because someone has to be a realist right now. It feels weird being on this side of things. Our relationship for the last twenty-odd years has been reassuringly steady: Eve is the resident drama queen and I’m the constant voice of reason, steadfastly reassuring and logical.
Eve shoots me a weak grin. ‘Like I said, there are worse things than being cooped up with your sexy boss.’
‘Client.’ I roll my eyes. ‘And in any other situation, sure. But it’s Christmas—’
‘It’s December 22nd,’ Eve mutters.
‘And he,’ I continue, pointedly raising my voice and ignoring her smirk, ‘is quite possibly the most miserable person I have ever had the displeasure of meeting. Saint Nick himself couldn’t coax any Christmas joy out of that man.’
‘Maybe that’s what you’re here for,’ Eve says sagely, wiggling her brows just a littletoosuggestively for my liking. ‘Let some of your festive spirit rub off on him.’
‘And how am I supposed to do that?’
She shrugs. ‘Get creative.’
Despite everything, that gets a snort out of me. ‘He’s got a cinnamon scented stick up his ass when it comes to Christmas. I swear, I just want to wipe that smirk off his face.’
Memories of last night flood my mind. Hoxton glaring daggers at me from the head of the table, his eyes zeroing in on my apron and the plate of Christmas cookies in my hands. The way he refused to even crack a smile when the others were belting out Christmas tunes. The barely concealed sneer when I dared mention it being a white Christmas. Just the thought of it twists my lips into a frown.
‘Put Hoxton and the Grinch in a room, and even the Grinch would say he’s doing too much.’
Eve’s loud cackle in response is drowned out by the sound of something thudding. For a moment, I think it’s the storm outside upending another branch or sending a rock hurling across Hoxton’s drive, but then I hear it again.
It’s a little muffled this time – hesitant, even.
‘I’ll call you back,’ I murmur to Eve, hang up the call before she has the chance to protest, and pad to the door. Just as I wrap my fingers around the door handle, I hear itfor the third and final time. As I feared, someone is knocking on my door. And, unless things are about to take a very dire turn, there’s only one person it could be.
‘Yes?’ I ask as I yank open the door and find Hoxton looming over me once again. I notice several things right away: there’s a slight flush to his cheeks, his eyes refuse to meet mine and – and this is definitely the most pressing issue right now – he’s got a pile of clothes neatly folded in his arms.
Before I have the chance to question it, Hoxton shoves the pile straight into my chest. ‘Here,’ he says gruffly, still determinedly staring anywhere but at me.
I stumble backwards slightly under the new weight in my arms. A quick once-over shows that he’s handed me a pile of cosy-looking sweats, all in varying shades of black, blue and grey. I shift onto one foot and the movement is enough to jostle the pile and a familiar, vanilla-tinged and oddly comforting scent wafts towards me. The urge to lean forward, bury my face in the fabric, and take a deep,deepinhale creeps up on me with surprising fierceness.
‘Thought you might need these,’ Hoxton says, his voice breaking the sudden silence that has blanketed itself over us. His usual stoic façade is in place, but there’s a softness in his eyes that definitely wasn’t there before. ‘The ones you’re wearing have been in that drawer for God knows how long. They should be clean, but I—’ He shrugs, still refusing tomeet my eye. ‘I thought these might be more comfortable.’ Every word that falls from his lips sounds stiff, almost robotic. Like he’s following a badly written script and he’s afraid to go off page.
A hot flash of panic suddenly shoots through me as I realise that Hoxton probably – most definitely – heard the tail end of my call with Eve.
Put Hoxton and the Grinch in a room together, and even the Grinch would say he’s doing too much.
Hot shame crawls up my body. Oh God.
But he doesn’t look mad, offended or even mildly irritated. The look on his face is more akin to the one last night, when I flung open the kitchen door and barrelled straight into his chest. He looks almost… shy?
I choke down the snort that threatens to bubble out of my throat, dismissing that thought as quickly as it came. Hoxton and shy are two words that just don’t mix.
‘Thank you,’ I say as I step back into the room to drop the clothes onto the bed. I glance over my shoulder and find he’s still lingering in the doorway, like he’s not sure if he should come in or not.
A flash of something that looks like panic but couldn’t possibly be darts over his features, before he seemingly makes a decision and remains awkwardly in the hall. I watch, amused as he rolls back onto his heels and stuffs his hands into his trouser pockets. If it weren’t for the violentwhooshing of the storm outside, I’m pretty sure I’d be able to hear the gears turning in his head.
‘This is your house,’ I say, more to break the silence than anything else.
