Page 11 of Just a Taste
I try and tune out the rest of Noelle’s singing, but it’s like my ears have attuned to her voice with irritating clarity.
I knew I should’ve gone into the office today, but the closer we get to December 25th, the more unbearable my workplace has become. It seems like every other day another department is having their annual Christmas party, and the office halls are filled with my workers wearing hideous Christmas-themed clothing, or swapping gifts with one another. I just know the current weather we’re experiencing would only encourage their nonsense, and there’s only so much madness I can be expected to endure.
I let out a deep sigh and close my laptop. It’s time to face the music. I make my way back to the kitchen and find Noelle humming along to the Christmas music blaring from her speakers as she deftly chops some vegetables. Her hands are moving at lightning speed, with skill that must have taken years to develop. I’ve always been appreciative of people who dedicate the time to truly honing their craft, and Noelle is no exception. I feel a wave of admiration for her, but it quickly disappears as I hone in on her attire once again.
She’s still wearing the apron.
Bright red with flashing lights, a dancing Santa Claus and sparkling, galloping reindeers along the edge.
It’s an abomination.
It should be illegal.
Noelle glances up as I enter and gives me a smirk that tells me my current train of thought is pasted plainly across my face.
‘Mr Hoxton.’ She gives me a polite nod, the corners of her lips twitching slightly, before she turns her attention back to the chopping board in front of her.
She’s not looking at me, but I nod back anyway. Even with the garish apron, Noelle is the kind of woman you don’t want to take your eyes off. The kind of woman you can’t take your eyes off. Her hair falls just beyond her waist in thin, wispy braids, and her soft brown eyes catch the warm light in the room and almost sparkle as she works.
I stand there for a moment and watch Noelle in her element. I don’t often get to witness it, but it’s something to marvel at every time. Noelle moves with a gracefulness that’s almost hypnotic. She’s completely absorbed in what she’s doing, a concentrated expression twisting her plump brown lips as she slices some carrots into long, thin strips.
It’s almost a shame to interrupt, but I feel like I need to say something.
I clear my throat. ‘Ms Jones?’
She sets her knife down before cocking her head to the side in silent question.
After two years, I’m not entirely sure why we’re not on a first-name basis yet. Roland started calling me Alex during his first month, and I don’t think there’s anyone else I refer to by surname only. I’m suppose I’m taking my cues from her. She’s never once deviated from the polite ‘Mr Hoxton’ she uttered during our first disastrous meeting.
It’s a moment I replay in my head every so often and it always makes me cringe and one I’ve been meaning to apologise. But after two years I still haven’t quite figured out a way to say, ‘Sorry, you caught me at a bad time. One of our major investors had just pulled out and I was fighting bad press about the launch of one of our latest products,’ that doesn’t come across as a pathetic excuse for my poor attitude that day – or the countless days that have since followed it.
It always feels like there’s something going wrong.
Failed deals, underperforming products, client fatigue, bitter Board members, unhappy investors and the endless cycle of trying to keep afloat in an increasingly cut-throat market. Take tonight, for example, and this ridiculous Christmas farce. Any hope of a good mood went out the window as soon as Luca suggested the idea.
‘Did you need something?’ Noelle asks, snapping me out of the increasingly dour train of thought I’d been slipping into. She’s staring at me and her body language is perfectlyclear. Her brows are raised, her shoulders are stiff and her jaw is tight. This may be my home, but the kitchen belongs to her, and I’m nothing but an intruder right now.
I shake my head, not even sure what I wanted to say in the first place. ‘Just coming to get some water.’
‘Right.’ She shrugs and immediately gets back to work as if I’m not even there.
I grab a cool bottle from the fridge just as Noelle goes to inspect whatever is the cause of the delicious smell wafting from the oven.
Against my better judgment, I make one last attempt at conversation. ‘What’s on the menu tonight?’
Noelle glances over at me with a guarded look in her eye, and then she gives me a teasing smile, as if she’s been expecting this question all along. ‘Something Christmassy.’
The words feel like a slap to the face. Not overtly hostile or even unfriendly, but enough to signal that my presence isn’t wanted here at all.
I already knew that, of course, but it still stings just the same.
With nothing else to say, and Noelle showing no interest in elaborating, I nod and leave without another word.
CHAPTER THREENoelle
I’m putting the finishing touches on the appetiser – a sweet and indulgent cranberry honey baked brie – when I hear the sound of the gates bordering Hoxton’s home creaking open.
From the window, I watch as a sleek black car rolls into Hoxton’s driveway, disturbing the fluffy blanket of fresh white snow. The door opens and out steps an equally sleek and dashing-looking gentleman. Hoxton comes striding out of the front door with remarkable speed and an unexpected pang of irritation shoots through me.
