Now it’s my turn to blink at him. Because those are most definitely two words I don’t want to hear from him when he currently looks and sounds likethat.
Something warm and tight coils in the pit of my stomachas my mind starts unhelpfully racing with thoughts of scenarios where he might repeat those two words to me.
‘Noelle?’
The use of my name snaps me back to reality and I pray to whichever deity is currently looking out for me – apparently, none – that my cheeks aren’t as red as they feel.
‘The heater you allegedly fixed earlier today stopped working,’ I say, tugging the duvet around myself a little tighter. ‘I don’t mean to be the bearer of bad news but I can’t sleep in there.’
Hoxton rubs at the back of his neck and squints down the dark hall, as if the act of focusing might somehow repair the broken heater telepathically. ‘That’s… that’s unfortunate,’ he says after a moment or two, the edges of sleep still clinging to his voice in that distractingly attractive way.
‘Very,’ I say. ‘Is there another room I can sleep in? Another guest room? Or I guess I could take the sofa.’
Hoxton shakes his head. ‘I only have the one guest room.’
A house this big and only two of the rooms are capable of housing someone for the night? Insane.
‘Okay…’ I say slowly. The yoga mats in the gym are starting to look worryingly enticing. ‘I guess… the sofa, then?’
I grimace as I remember the abomination in his living room. I’m sure it cost thousands upon thousands of pounds, but I’d pick my cheap and fluffy IKEA sofa over his rigid leather one any day. Needs must, though.
Hoxton steps fully into the doorway. His gaze drops to my bare feet, which are still most definitely freezing from the icy hallway floors. His eyes flicker up to meet mine and a faint frown creases his forehead.
‘I’m not sure the living room will be much of an improvement on your room,’ he says, voice still rough. ‘And it won’t exactly be comfortable.’
I raise an eyebrow at him, my mind already working through various snarky responses. Something like ‘better than freezing to death in there!’ But something in his tone makes me hesitate. It’s like he’s trying to be… considerate? Which feels weird coming from him. Very weird. But then again, it is Hoxton, and apparently nothing he does is ever quite what it seems.
‘Well, I’m not exactly spoiled for choice here,’ I say, forcing a half-smile, though I don’t know why I’m even trying to lighten the mood. The situation’s ridiculous. And, most importantly, not my fault. I’m a guest here. Technically. Where is his sense of hospitality? ‘So, what do you suggest I do? Just camp out in the gym? Use one of those yoga mats?’
Hoxton looks momentarily startled and I cringe inwardly.Damn it.Wasn’t planning on admitting to snooping around. I watch as his gaze flicks between my still-shivering form and the hallway beyond. Then he sighs and rubs the back of his neck again. ‘I suppose… I mean, it’s only fair – you can stay here for the night.’ And then he steps aside and gestures into his room.
I blink, stunned by the offer. I mean, Iheardhim, but it takes a moment for the words to fully register. I probably look as surprised as I feel, because Hoxton doesn’t strike me as the type to inviteanyoneinto his personal space – I’m still running with the theory that any ‘late-night’ visitors take the guest room.
But here he is, suppressing a yawn as he waits for me to enter the most personal room in his house.
Another chill suddenly hits the both of us and Hoxton visibly shudders. I wasn’t imagining things. Itisgetting colder in here. He raises a silent brow at me and I nod stiffly, not needing to be told twice.
I shuffle past him, duvet still wrapped tightly around myself, and immediately feel every muscle in my body begin to relax. The warmth from Hoxton’s room floods every single one of my senses, and it’s all I can do not to moan in pleasure. It’s like stepping into a different world entirely – one that doesn’t feel as cold and clinical as the rest of the house. The room is spacious, minimalist and undeniablyhis. Everything is dark wood, clean lines and sharp angles, just like his living room, but there’s something about it that feels more comfortable than the rest of the house.
I let out a quiet sigh of relief, my impromptu duvet cocoon still wrapped around me like a safety net. But then, it hits me.
I glance around, and the realisation slams into me a split second before I can stop it.
Wait.
This isn’t just any old room in Hoxton’s home… This is hisbedroom.
There’s a bed. A massive king-sized bed covered in a thick, incredibly warm-looking duvet, and a surprising number of plush pillows.
The silence in the room suddenly becomes deafening, the only sound the soft hum of the heating system, as I realise thatwe’re going to have to share it.
A sudden flush crawls up my neck, heat rushing to my face as the awkwardness settles in. Hoxton’s offer is kind, sure. But has he considered the implication of what he’s offering here? Has he even thought about the fact that this ishis bed? I’ve been invited into his most private space, the one place in this house that doesn’t belong to the meticulous, businesslike persona he puts on for everyone else.
And I’m expected tosleepin it?
Withhim?!
Roland was wrong. Hoxton’s at no risk from an aneurysm, but I definitely am right now.
