Page 21 of Just a Taste
I would love to drive at all, actually.
But I can’t.
Because my car splutters to life, the engine roaring, heat blasting at maximum to try to inject some warmth into my rapidly freezing bones, and then just as I’m about to pull away and leave Hoxton’s miserable home in the dust, my car goes ahead and dies.
Dies.
The pathetic sound it makes as it shuts down is drowned out by my shriek of frustration.
This cannot be happening.
I try again, praying to any deity that so happens to be listening – even Santa gets a shoutout – but to no avail. My car gives me one last feeble groan and then shuts down completely. I stare, unblinking, out the window as the snow quickly piles up on my windscreen. Within a few minutes, I’m left shivering as I stare out at a white expanse. The air in my car is icy, so cold I can see my breath frosting out in front of me with each frustrated whimper.
I can’t stay in here, that much is clear. I’ll freeze to death within the hour and my hands, stuffed deep into the pockets of my jacket, are already well on their way to becoming numb. Just the thought of freeing them from the relative warmth inside my pockets to grab my phone and book an Uber is enough to make me want to weep.
The solution is obvious. If I’m being honest, it’s been obvious for the last five minutes but I’ve been stubbornly avoiding that particular reality, hoping that perhaps myincessant pleading will somehow cajole my car into pulling itself together.
No such luck.
‘This,’ I grit out as I slide out of my car, slam the door, and start stomping back across Hoxton’s drive, ‘is the worst Christmas ever.’
In the back of my mind, I hear Eve’s smug cackle.You said it was December 21st.
In the five minutes I’ve been sat in my car, desperately willing it to gain sentience and a sense of empathy, the snow has picked up more than I could have imagined. It flurries around me in mini cyclones, the icy wind whipping against my cheeks painfully as I make my way back up the snow-covered pathway to Hoxton’s dark home.
I peer around as I trudge through the blizzard. Hoxton’s neighbours, the homes I’d admired as I crawled up the street hours ago, somehow seem much further away than before. They’re nothing more than tiny blips on the horizon, houses covered in a sheet of untouched white snow. Apparently, I’m the only one stupid enough to be out in the blizzard right now and I can just about make out tiny white and gold lights twinkling in the distance, the only sign that there is in fact any life beyond Hoxton’s iron gates.
I ring the bell and then pound three times, as hard as I can, against his door. To his credit, Hoxton doesn’t make me wait long and I have to wonder if he’s been peering outof a window watching and snickering because this is exactly what he was warning me against.
Hoxton opens the door a few seconds after my last knock, a quizzical, almost wary, look on his face.
‘My car won’t start,’ I manage to get out, teeth chattering. ‘Can I—’
He doesn’t wait for me to finish my sentence. Just steps aside and quickly ushers me in, taking care to close the door firmly behind me once my feet are planted on his mat. A rare feeling of gratitude towards him washes over me.
‘I see the Christmas magic is working,’ Hoxton says, with what I’m pretty sure is a hint of amusement.
Any sense of gratitude melts along with the snow I’m currently stomping off my shoes.
Asshole.
I glare up at him. ‘If the whole tech giant thing doesn’t work out, I don’t think I’d recommend a career in comedy for you.’
His eyes widen and –shit. Probably not the smartest choice of words. I’m usually good at holding my tongue around Hoxton, but the combination of being freezing cold and desperate for my warm bed to drop into isn’t a good one and I can’t bring myself to care that I’ve just insulted my best paying client.
I’m not entirely sure he cares either. He doesn’t look angry or like he’s two seconds away from opening the doorand flinging me out into the cold again. He looks almost chagrined.
‘Sorry.’ The word comes out gruffly, almost too quiet for me to hear, and he dips his gaze. ‘I wasn’t trying to make a joke.’
‘Could’ve fooled me.’
He opens his mouth like he wants to respond but then snaps it shut again, and I can literally see his jaw working overtime as he grits his teeth.
I swear, this man is one more jaw tick away from a mouth ulcer.
‘Look,’ I sigh and run a stressed hand through my braids. They’re cold to the touch and slightly damp with melted snow. ‘Just give me ten minutes to order an Uber and then I’ll be out of your hair.’
Hoxton nods stiffly. ‘Take all the time you need.’
