Page 32 of Just a Taste
Hoxton blinks several times, like he’s snapping himself out of a trance, and I realise, belatedly, that my lips have parted and my chest is heaving.
He takes another step backwards, clearing his throat as he goes. ‘I’ll come back and take a look at it later.’
‘Right. Yeah. Later.’
He looks at me one last time before turning on his heel. I expect him to disappear out into the dark corridor without a second glance, but he hesitates in the doorway and turns around. ‘The Grinch gets a bad rep.’
I look up so fast, I’m surprised I don’t get whiplash. Hoxton is standing in the doorway, one hand on the frame, glancing back at me with a look I can’t quite place. Any trace of heat or want from a few seconds ago is long gone, replaced by something that looks almost sad.
Ah, shit.‘You heard that?’
He nods.
Double shit.‘Listen, I didn’t—’
‘Have a nice day, Noelle,’ Hoxton says before he disappears out into the hall.
The idea of a misunderstood Grinch haunts me for the rest of the day. Along with the memory of Hoxton’s crestfallen face as he stood in the doorway.
‘I can’t be the first person to call him that,’ I mumble to myself as I deftly tilt the wok, watching as the chicken begins to sizzle and brown amongst the vegetables already cooking inside it. My stir-fry isn’t a particularly complex meal, but it’s delicious and has become a fast favourite amongst my friends over the years. ‘He has to know how he comes across.’
The Grinch gets a bad rep.
I groan as I start turning the noodles, making sure everything is mixed and cooked. I have no doubt in my mind that Hoxton knowsexactlyhow he comes across; I just think I might be the first person to say it to his face.
Well. Not to his face. Hewaseavesdropping after all. But still.
The Grinch gets a bad rep.
Iget a bad rep.
That’s what he wanted to say, I’m sure of it.
I take the wok off the stove and start separating the contents into two bowls. Hoxton’s face – that sad little grimace, the self-depreciating way he turned and disappeared – I can’t get it out of my mind.
He looked almosthurt. Like the idea of me comparing him to the Grinch of all things cut him to his core.
‘I’m a nice person,’ I reassure myself as I balance both bowls in my hands and make my way towards the living room. I’m wearing my Christmas-themed apron and my car boot is filled with presents for the family I should be with right now. I’m not the problem here. Hoxton is. And yet, I can’t help the guilt I’m currently feeling.
It’s empty in here, but I set both bowls on the coffee table and then stomp upstairs, making as much noise as physically possible so I can’t be accused of snooping around. I’ve not seen Hoxton since he left my room this afternoon, and the only proof I have that he hasn’t abandoned me and run off into the snowstorm has been the occasional cough or the sound of his footsteps creaking against the hardwood flooring throughout the day. I’ve alternated between darting from my bedroom to thekitchen, taking solace downstairs whenever the cold in my room got too much.
The upper-floor landing is dark, but there’s a light coming from a closed door several rooms away from me and I hover outside it for a few seconds. Something gnaws at my stomach and I recognise the feeling as guilt. I shake my head, lift my chin, and steel my shoulders.
Now it’s my turn for a peace offering.
I wrap my knuckles on the door three times and then listen out. I hear the sound of his chair creaking and then—
‘Come in?’
It sounds more like a question than anything else and, despite everything, I can’t help but huff out a quiet laugh. I doubt he’s ever had to utter those words in his own empty home before.
Hoxton’s office is just like his living room: dark and sleek with a large oak desk cutting across the middle of the room. He’s sat behind the desk in an impossibly expensive leather chair, an orange lamp beside him bathing him in a warm glow. Behind him, there’s a window, and the snow is falling into little tornado-like flurries.
I open my mouth to speak but then he leans backwards in his chair and I get a proper glimpse of him in the soft amber light. His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, revealing tanned muscular arms. I can see the subtle definition of his biceps and the veins that trace the length of his forearms.It’s not the first time I’ve noticed how strong Hoxton is, but there’s something about the low light, the way it wraps around him like it’s a part of him, which makes it impossible to look away.
For a moment, I’m just standing there, frozen in the doorway. His sharp jawline catches the light, and there’s something almost dangerous in the way he sits so still, his posture like a predator at rest. I should say something – anything – but my mind goes blank. All I can think about is how…attractivehe looks. It’s not just the way his body fills out his sweatshirt, or the way his strong hands rest on the arms of his chair, but the entire aura around him.
The light catches in his eyes as he glances up at me, and I snap out of my trance, blinking rapidly. He raises an eyebrow, and I’m painfully aware that I’ve been standing here like an idiot.
