Page 61 of Just a Taste
I dismiss the idea as soon as it pops into my mind. After everything that’s happened today, seeking refuge there of all places feels like tiptoeing through a minefield.
But, after ten minutes of teeth-chattering contemplation, I finally cave. I’ve joked about it several times over the last three days, but I genuinely think if I spent the night in this room Iwillfreeze to death. I push off the covers, stand up and make the possibly regretful decision to brave thepotential awkwardness between me and Hoxton all for the sake of some warmth.
And, you know, not dying.
I slip out of the guest room and pause in the doorway. The hallway is shrouded in darkness, and the only pinprick of light is coming from the crack beneath Hoxton’s door. I heave a quiet sigh of relief. At least he’s not sleeping yet.
I knock lightly and wait. I can hear the sound of bedsheets ruffling and then—
‘Come in,’ he murmurs, and he doesn’t sound at all surprised that I’m here at his door.
I take a deep breath and then tiptoe into the room. ‘Sorry,’ I say brusquely. ‘I really didn’t want to bother you again, but…’
I cut myself off, mouth agape. Hoxton is lying in bed, still as a statue, his duvet pulled up to his chin, and beside him—
‘What the hell is that?’ Any hope of not starting another argument with Hoxton and just hunkering down to get some sleep evaporates in an instance. I point an accusing finger at what I can only describe as ‘The Great Wall of Pillow’ set up down the centre of the bed. Hoxton has used his surprising collection of decorative pillows to create a neat line going down the middle of the bed, effectively dividing the king-sized mattress into two.
It’s absurdly meticulous, and each pillow is fluffed and positioned with the precision of someone who spends all day dealing in algorithms and code.
I stifle a laugh becausereally? This is the kind of ridiculousness that could only make sense to someone like Alexander Hoxton.
He cracks open an eye. ‘I wasn’t sure if you were coming in and I thought if you did, this set-up would be preferable. Given…’ He trails off and I arch a brow.
‘Given the fact that we’re currently stepping on eggshells around each other?’
Hoxton’s jaw tightens and he gives me a stiff little nod. ‘I wouldn’t put it that way.’
‘How would you put it?’ I ask as I shuffle across the room and settle down onmyside of the bed. Hoxton doesn’t respond. When I glance over at him, both eyes are closed again.
I sigh.
I guess this is all the conversation I’m going to get out of him.
I slip under the covers on my designated side of the bed, careful not to disturb the pillow wall. Despite the ridiculous makeshift border, the bed is a vast improvement over the arctic zone of the guest room. The warmth envelops me like a cocoon, and I let out a contented sigh, feeling the tension in my shoulders slowly unwind.
Even Hoxton’s presence beside me is oddly reassuring in the quiet darkness of the room. I steal another glance at him over the pillows. His side profile is sharp againstthe dim light of his bedside lamp, his jawline chiselled and defined.
That tight feeling in the pit of my stomach is back. I remember just how good the stubble on his jawline felt scraping against my skin as he pressed me up against the countertop and devoured my mouth like a man starved.
God, what I wouldn’t give to feel like that again.
Every single inch of me that his hands touched felt as if they’d been touched by a loose wire buzzing with electricity. It was like the world outside had gone completely silent, like the storm didn’t exist, and there was nothing left but the hum of our connection.
On second thoughts, given the events of today, maybe sharing a bed with Hoxton isn’t the smartest idea I’ve ever had.
I shift on the bed until I’m facing the wall, trying to keep my distance both physically and emotionally. It’s easier this way. The pillow wall is a ridiculous buffer, but it’s enough to keep me from second-guessing everything. Because, honestly, if I let myself think too hard about what’s been happening between us, about the way we’ve both been circling around each other, my brain will explode.
Time drags on, but sleep refuses to come. I can barely feel the cold that was gnawing at me in the guest room; instead the only thing I can focus on is the growing tension I can feel tightening in my chest. Hoxton’s presence is like a quietstorm in the room, and I can feel the pull of it in the pit of my stomach, like I’m tethered to him in some way I can’t untangle.
The silence is thick, and it’s suffocating. Something needs to give.
Finally, I can’t take it anymore.
I push myself up onto my elbows and peer over the makeshift wall.
‘Thanks, again,’ I whisper tentatively, testing the waters. He doesn’t respond, but I don’t miss the way he tenses ever so slightly. I don’t know whether to feel encouraged by this small reaction or worried, but I press on. ‘For letting me crash in here again tonight. And I’m sorry if I overstepped earlier. I didn’t mean to pry or make you uncomfortable. I promise I’ll be out of your hair as soon as I can. Hopefully tomorrow.’
There’s a pause before he finally speaks, his voice low and rough. ‘You didn’t overstep, Noelle. You just… hit a nerve.’ Another pause. ‘And you don’t have to thank me or rush to get away.’ Another pause. ‘Don’t put yourself in danger just to get away from me.’
