Hoxton’s face tightens ever so slightly. ‘Particularly then. So…’ He nudges my leg with his thigh and I pretend like the touch doesn’t set every nerve ending alight. ‘Enlighten me. What does a Christmas look like for Noelle Jones?’
He’s really got to stop saying my name like that. It’s starting to do something to me.
I shift slightly on the sofa, all too aware of how close we are. ‘Normally, right about now, I’d be heading over to my grandmother’s house to spend Christmas with my family.’ I shift on my seat until I’m facing him, one leg tucked under the other. ‘I always finish my Christmas shopping by December 1st and that means I can spend the week eating good food and making memories.’ Just the thought of it brings a smile to my face. ‘What wouldyounormally be doing right now?’
Hoxton frowns. ‘How do you mean?’
I gesture around the sparse living room. ‘Obviously you weren’t planning on staying here.’
The corner of his mouth twitches up slightly, like he’s just heard a joke but I’m not privy to it. ‘Obviously?’
I nod and scootch a little closer, closing what little gap there is between us. ‘I know Christmas isn’t your thing…’
He exhales deeply through his nostrils and I laugh.
‘Okay, yes, understatement of the year,’ I concede. ‘But seriously? If aliens invaded right now and knocked on your door, they’d never even know it was Christmas.’
‘I’m not seeing the problem,’ Hoxton says dryly.
I swat his arm gently and roll my eyes. ‘You weren’t really planning on spending the holidays here, were you?’
Hoxton’s face remains a blank canvas.
‘Seriously?’ I ask. ‘Here, alone? Without so much as a fairy light or even a little bit of tinsel to inject any Christmas joy into your life?’
‘Christmas joy is overrated, forced and also—’ Hoxton leans in and drops his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. ‘Not a real thing.’
I reel back and pretend to clutch at my chest. ‘Spoken like a true Grinch.’
Hoxton throws his head back and laughs. A real, shoulder-shaking laugh. It rapidly climbs up my list of favourite sounds and nestles itself right at the top. ‘If you say so.’
‘You really were just planning on staying here over the holidays?’ I ask. ‘Alone? What about your family? You guys don’t do anything?’
Hoxton’s smile falters. ‘Theyusually do something,’ he says slowly, and it’s clear he’s choosing his next words carefully. ‘I believe my mother is hosting this year.’
‘And what?’ I ask, trying to wrap my head around afamily dynamic so clearly different to my own. ‘You weren’t invited?’
I know I’m not one to talk, considering I’ve spent the last two years complaining to Eve about what an asshole Hoxton is, but I didn’t think he wasthatbad. I feel a small spark of anger light up inside me on his behalf, but it snuffs itself out almost immediately when Hoxton turns a wry grin on me.
‘Of course I was invited,’ he says. ‘I choose not to go.’
Choose. Not chose.Choose. This is a conscious decision he makes every year, not just this once. The idea of missing even one Christmas with my family is enough to make me tear up. How many Christmases has Hoxton deliberately skipped out on over the years? Andwhy?
I can’t help but ask. ‘Why not?’ I know that I’m prying, that I’m getting far too close and any semblance of professionalism or keeping an appropriate distance from my client has disappeared out the window and into the storm about ten minutes ago, but I can’t help myself.
Hoxton shrugs. I can tell it’s supposed to be nonchalant, light and airy, but it comes out stiff and forced. ‘I’m not fond of Christmas.’
I want to push, to get to the bottom of whatever it is that’s caused this hatred of Christmas, but it’s clear Hoxton is reaching his limit with me and my questions, and I don’t want to ruin whatever this is between us right now. Though, to be fair, I think I already have.
His shoulders tense imperceptibly, his jaw clenching slightly as he avoids my gaze. The casual air that once enveloped us now feels strained and the weight of his unspoken words hangs heavily between us. Hoxton’s once-relaxed posture stiffens visibly, his shoulders tensing imperceptibly as he shifts slightly in his seat. Two minutes ago, his gaze was warm and inviting, but now it’s turned distant.
I offer Hoxton a gentle smile before shifting back slightly, putting some distance between us.
I’m not going to push. He can have his secrets.
I clear my throat awkwardly. Hoxton’s distant gaze lingers on me for a moment longer before he blinks, as if he’s coming back to reality.
‘Well,’ I start, my voice sounding too loud in the now-quiet room. ‘I should probably let you get some rest. It’s been a long day.’
