I frown as we walk past the dining room. Like the rest of the house, there’s not so much as a single candle on the large wooden table in the centre of the room. ‘It’s really not very Christmassy in here though, is it? Is he sending someone to come in and decorate?’
He’s cutting it very fine if he is.
Roland pulls a face. ‘I did suggest it, but he insisted that you’d be more than enough.’
A twisted jolt of pride shoots through me. I think that’s the closest I’ve ever got to receiving genuine praise from Hoxton, even if it was second-hand.
‘Still,’ I continue. ‘It’s not just about the food, you know? It’s in the atmosphere. Where are the party hats and the Christmas crackers?’ I poke my head into the living room as we pass it. ‘Does he even have a tree?’
Roland barks out a laugh, presumably at the thought of Hoxton wearing a party hat, and then quickly tries to muffleit. ‘I offered to run out and get him one this morning, and he acted like I’d threatened to set the whole place on fire.’
We come to a halt outside the kitchen door – my office for the evening – and Roland fixes me with an apologetic grimace. ‘Listen, Noelle. The holidays aren’t always a great time when it comes to Alex.’
As far as I can tell, there’s never a good time when it comes to Hoxton, but I keep those thoughts to myself. Roland and I have a decent-enough relationship, but it’s obvious he feels a kind of protectiveness over Hoxton. He’s been his assistant for close to a decade now and while Roland has no problem rolling his eyes or laughing with me at some of Hoxton’s more irritating habits, I have no doubt where his loyalties truly lie.
‘Just do what you do best and then head home and enjoy the holidays. Don’t let him get you down.’
‘That was always the plan,’ I say with an easy grin. Get in. Make some money. Get out. Simple.
Roland surveys me for a few long seconds. I get the distinct impression that there’s something else on the tip of his tongue, but then he shakes his head and throws open the kitchen door.
If there’s one thing I truly love about Hoxton’s otherwise sterile home, it’s his kitchen. It’s the only room in the whole place that feels like it has any character to it. There’s a large skylight that bathes the room in natural light, and the wallsare covered in rustic bricking that makes the entire room feel warm and cosy, despite the soft layer of fluffy white snow blanketing the skylight right now.
The centrepiece, though, is the cream Aga oven that sits against one of the walls, emanating a constant, gentle warmth that I felt in my very bones as soon as I stepped over the threshold of the house.
There’s a spacious wooden farm table in the middle of the kitchen and, to my dismay, Hoxton is currently sitting at it, tapping away on his laptop. He’s dressed as he usually is on the rare occasions I do see him, in a crisp white shirt, tailored trousers, and a pair of comfortable-looking slippers. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Hoxton wear anything that couldn’t be described as business-ready, like he’s always anticipating jumping into a meeting. Eve once joked that he probably wears a three-piece suit to bed.
He looks up as I enter the room, his dark eyes appraising me with cool detachment. His hair is styled to perfection and his jawline, tight as his gaze roves over me, could cut steel. ‘Ms Jones,’ he says, his voice deep and wholly disinterested.
That’s the only acknowledgment I get from him. He doesn’t wait for me to return the greeting before his attention is back on his screen and he’s furiously tapping away.
‘Mr Hoxton,’ I say anyway, my voice just as cool as his.
Roland clears his throat. ‘Noelle, all the ingredients you ordered are packed away. I’m leaving in an hour but let meknow if you need anything else before then and I’ll run out and get it for you.’
It takes me five minutes to scan the cupboards and fridge to make sure everything I ordered for the night is there. Once I’m satisfied, I give Roland a nod and he disappears to finish the rest of his tasks before he needs to leave for the evening.
And then it’s just me and Hoxton.
Alone in the kitchen.
He doesn’t say a word, so I don’t either. I’ve long since learned that Hoxton isn’t one for small talk, and I’m not desperate to make it with him either. I hum quietly to myself as I reach into my bag and pull out the apron I’ve chosen specially for tonight.
A friend bought it for me last Christmas as part of a Secret Santa gift swap and I’ve been waiting all year to bring it out again. It’s one of those ridiculously cheesy Christmas aprons, with a dancing Santa Claus and reindeer littering the edges.
It’s bright.
Very bright.
Definitely not my usual workwear, but it’s Christmas. Can you blame me?
Hoxton apparently can.
I’m not sure when he stopped staring at his laptop but when I look up, he’s glaring at me.
His jaw ticks.
I raise a brow.Say something if you’re bad.
