Page 28 of Just a Taste
The kitchen door is slightly ajar and I nudge it open, intent on grabbing a slice of toast before I migrate to my office and get a head start on some of the Q2 forecasts for next year.
And then I freeze.
Noelle is sitting at my kitchen table, tension carving deeplines on her forehead as she cradles a bowl of cereal, spooning it into her mouth with mechanical movements while her other hand swipes across her phone screen.
It’s… it’s jarring to see her sitting here, like a scene from a domestic dream I would never admit to having. She’s wearing some of my old university tracksuit bottoms rolled up at the ankles, and a hoodie that’s much too big for her, sleeves bunched up at her elbows but still swallowing her hands. I watch as she lifts a hand and tucks a stray braid behind her ear, a soft sigh falling from her pursed lips. The unexpected wave of attraction hits me like a sucker punch to the chest and—
Noelle glances up. ‘Oh…’ She inclines her head in my direction. It’s a shadow of a nod more than anything else. ‘Morning.’
Morning, she says.
Good morning, I should respond.
That’s the correct response. The polite response. I know it is. But instead, my voice gruffer than I intended, all I say is, ‘What’re you doing here?’
Her brows lift momentarily in displeasure before she schools her expression into something more neutral. ‘Have you looked outside lately? No way I could drive back in this.’ Her words hang between us, an explanation offered up with a shrug of resignation. ‘The Met Office is saying we should stay put if we can. We’re officially snowed-in.’
‘But your car…’ I start, glancing out the nearest window.
‘It’s still out there,’ she says with a sigh. ‘Somewhere under that new glacier in your drive.’
I press closer to the glass and squint past the frosty veil. She’s right. There it is – a barely distinguishable shape beneath a shroud of white. Her car has been disguised as just another mound in the winter wasteland that my drive has become overnight. I step away from the window and, despite my best efforts, I can’t help but linger on Noelle for a little longer. I realise the sweats are too big for her too, the waistband rolled several times around her waist. The grey fabric simultaneously swallows her up and accentuates her soft curves in a way I desperately, desperately, need to avoid dwelling on.
‘And this?’ I ask, gesturing vaguely in her direction. ‘You’re wearing—’
She glances down as if she’s forgotten what’s currently clinging to her skin. As if just the sight of her in my old clothes isn’t currently driving me mad. ‘Oh. Right. The heater in the guest room gave up on me halfway through the night. It was either this or freeze to death.’ She shrugs with a carefully feigned nonchalance, but I catch a fleeting glimpse of something that looks suspiciously like vulnerability before she busies herself with another spoonful of Cheerios.
‘You should’ve said something,’ I say, even as I know exactly why she wouldn’t. ‘I could’ve fixed it or found you some extra blankets.’
She sets her spoon down, her brows creasing as she chews on her bottom lip, like she can see through me perfectly. After a second or two, she mutters, ‘I still would’ve needed clothes.’
Still would’ve needed – what?
‘What I mean—’ My voice gets stuck in my throat, and I have to hastily clear it. ‘What happened to the clothes you were wearing last night?’
Noelle arches a brow. There’s a slight flush to her cheeks I can’t quite account for. ‘They got damp last night in the snow. I didn’t want to put them back on after I showered, so…’ She trails off and shrugs. ‘And I didn’t want to bother you, so…’
My chest almost tightens at her words.
Bother.
I study her for a long moment, watching the way her eyes dart away from me, the slight tension in her shoulders, the stiffness to her jaw.
Bother.
I’m suddenly struck by the inexplicable urge to assure her that she could never be any kind of inconvenience to me – the exact opposite is true when it comes to her, if we’re being honest – but the words lodge in my throat, leaving a silence that hangs awkwardly between us.
I take a step closer to the table and clear my throat. ‘I wanted to say…’ I start. My words hang, suspended in the chilly air. ‘You’re know you’re not… I mean, you couldn’t be…’
Her hazel eyes meet mine and I’m sure I spy a flicker of curiosity dancing across them. I feel the confession swelling in my chest, ready to finally bridge this forced gap between us. But then it sticks, stubborn in my throat, and all that escapes is, ‘What’s for breakfast?’
A sudden burst of laughter erupts from her and cuts through the tension. I’ve never heard her laugh like this before. I’m painfully familiar with the dry scoff, complete with an eye-roll, she’s thrown my way a few times, and even the nervous giggle she let out at dinner last night, but this? This feels different.
It resonates somewhere deep within me, warming me from the inside like a sip of aged whiskey.
‘Breakfast?’ she echoes, leaning back on her stool with a smirk. ‘I’m off duty. If you want something you’ll have to figure it out yourself. Or…’ She cocks her head to the side and shoots me a daring look. Like she’s begging me to challenge her. ‘You’ve got my bank details.’
It’s not a quite a laugh that splutters out of my throat, but it’s close. ‘Are you implying that I need to pay you to cook for me?’
