It’s so quiet, sostill, that the tiniest noise feels amplified.
A pang of irritation flickers in me. The small, rational part of me knows that this isn’t Hoxton’s fault. That this is just an unfortunate side-effect of the blizzard still battering us from all angles, butstill. What exactly is Hoxton’s deal? I can’t understand how a guy who owns a house this big – thiscold– could have a home gym like this and still let someone freeze to death in their own room.
The air around me seems to grow heavier with the thought of Hoxton, and I feel my frustration bubbling back up. Maybe it’s the cold that’s making me angry, or maybe I’m just fed up with everything about being trapped in this house. I don’t know. But I definitely don’t want to sit around in here any longer.
I back out of the home gym, careful not to leave any trace of my snooping, and try the next door to the right. I knock a few times and then wait, conscious that this might be Hoxton’s bedroom. When I get no response, I tentatively push open the door and flick on the light. It’s a bathroom. But it’s not a bathroom I ever would’ve expected to see in Hoxton’s home.
With the massive clawfoot bathtub dominating the centre of the room, I can’t help but feel that this is the kind of bathroom that wouldn’t look out of place in a kitschy country hotel. The tub is a gleaming white, impossibly inviting, and its curved shaped is more decadent than any tub I’ve seen in my life. This is the first room I’ve seen that doesn’t have the same hardwood flooring as the rest of the house. Instead, it’s made of sleek black tiles that contrast sharply with the soft, warm light emanating from the lights dotted around the walls. There’s even a huge, framed mirror hanging above a marble countertop that’s packed neatly with expensive-looking toiletries.
The only thing that doesn’t quite fit is the stillness of the room; seemingly everything in this house bar his office and kitchen feels untouched. Almost frozen in time. The towels hanging on the towel rack are too neat, too perfectly folded. The bottles of shampoo and soap are labelled in elegant fonts, but there’s not a single fingerprint on them. I think about my own tiny bathroom back home. There’s just enough room for a small shower and all my toiletries are haphazardly stuffed in a basket on the floor. There are at least three half-empty shampoo bottles in the basket, along with no less than twelve various cosmetic tubs that are almost certainly out of date by now. Hoxton might just have a heart attack if he saw the way I lived.
I wonder how else we’re different.
My curiosity gets the better of me, and I cross the room, my bare feet leaving faint impressions on the cool tile floor as I move past the tub. I can’t help myself; this feels like an opportunity too good to waste.
I glance at the shelves above the bathtub, half expecting to find some basic bath products – something utilitarian and manly, something that makes sense for someone who likely has no time for anything as indulgent as a hot soak after a hard day at work. But what I actually find makes me pause.
Bath bombs.
A collection of them.
Rows of neatly organised, colourful bombs in all shapes and sizes lined up in perfect formation.
For the most part, the labels are from Lush, and each one promises something different. There are lavender bombs to soothe, rose ones to relax, and a whole stack of citrus ones to energise, more than I can even count right now. My fingers hover over the colourful bombs. I can’t believe he has so many, and I can’t help but smile a little. Hoxton, of all people, has a smallarsenalof bath bombs in his ridiculously decadent bathroom. It’s the last thing I expected to find in this sterile house. But here they are, rows of soothing, fragrant little balls and squares, and even an animal-shaped one or two. Their brightly coloured wrappings feel almost too cheerful for this kind of surrounding.
I take one out, a delicate pastel pink one wrapped in a paper that promises ‘relaxation’ in bold black letters and I press it lightly between my fingers. It’s soft, delicate. It doesn’t feel like it’s been used. None of them do. I peer around some more and try to see if there are any half-opened bath bombs, but they’re all neatly packed away as if he just brought them home from the store and hasn’t touched them since.
What is he waiting for?
A moment of peace and quiet that never comes? Are these rows and rows of bath bombs just wishful thinking on his behalf, or maybe they’re a gift? That makes a little more sense. Maybe he’s got a headstrong aunt somewhere who sends him the same birthday gift year on year and Hoxton doesn’t have the heart to simply throw them out.
Yeah, that’s it. That’s got to be it. Because why else would someone like him – someone so impeccably sharp, cold, and distant – have so many bloody bath bombs? It’s almost…humanising.
I snort quietly to myself, realising I’m actually starting to understand Hoxton a little bit better, even if it’s just based on the fact that he apparently has a secret soft spot for bath bombs. It’s not a side of him I’d have expected to see, considering how private and guarded he is about everything else.
But then, I catch myself.
What the hell am I doing?
The second the thought crosses my mind, I quickly stuff the bath bomb back into its place, pretending like I wasn’t just having a small existential crisis over the fact that Hoxton maybe has something resembling self-care in his life. But the discovery doesn’t feel like something I can just ignore.
I move on, trying to pretend like I’m not already a little too invested in the mystery that is Alexander Hoxton. I don’t know why, but something about this room feels like an inadvertent invitation. Like Hoxton never meant for anyone to see this side of him, but I’ve somehow stumbled into it anyway. He’s always so composed, so businesslike, it’s strange to see these small human moments sprinkled around his house like breadcrumbs; likehemight need to relax, to unwind, to indulge in little luxuries at some point.
If he’ll ever let himself.
I stand up straight, take a last, lingering look at the clawfoot tub and then turn to leave. When I step out into the hall again, it feels noticeably colder than before. Like the paralysing chill from my room has seeped out and is steadily infecting the rest of the house.
Damn it.
I glance down the hall at the door right at the end. That’s got to be his room, right? I shuffle towards it, duvet still wrapped tightly around me like some marshmallow-esque gown, and rap my knuckles against the door to the rhythm of ‘Your heater sucks, and so does my mood.’
I wait a beat, my hand hovering over the doorknob. A small part of me actually hopes thisisn’this room and I’ll get another opportunity to snoop around and learn something new about my unwilling host. But then the door swings open, revealing a yawning Hoxton looking as dishevelled as a man worth millions can possibly look at one in the morning. So, not really dishevelled at all, but his dark hair is sticking up in every direction, and his eyes – usually dark and piercing – seem softer and clouded with sleep.
He stares at me, unblinking, for a few seconds and then asks, ‘Is something wrong?’ His voice is rough with sleep and, despite my annoyance at this whole ridiculous situation, I can’t help but find the groggy tone irritatingly attractive.
‘Add “heater repair” to the list of fields you probably shouldn’t go into anytime soon,’ I say, injecting as much humour as I can into my tone, despite the fact that I’m rapidly losing feeling in my toes. When Hoxton continues to stare at me, dumbfounded, I add, ‘My room’s turned into a walk-in freezer.’
He stands there for a moment, blinking the sleep from his eyes like he’s batting away snowflakes caught on his long lashes. ‘Come again?’
