Page 25 of Just a Taste
His face goes pale, and his voice comes out in a dry rasp. ‘Ask what?’
I shift awkwardly on the sofa. For some reason, I suddenly feel like a kid trying to figure out the best way to ask their parents for a ridiculously expensive gift for Christmas. ‘Could I… perhaps… if you wouldn’t mind… and I promise I’ll keep out of your way… but if you could find it in your heart…’
‘Noelle.’
I freeze. I think that’s the first time Hoxton has ever said my name. And he had to go ahead and say it like that.
Noelle.
It sounds like a plea. I try very, very hard not to think about other situations where my name might sound like that falling off his lips.
‘Could I please stay the night?’ I whisper. ‘And I’ll be gone as soon as the storm passes. First thing in the morning.’
I should email Roland and let him know that he had nothing to worry about on the aneurysm front. BecauseRoland’s tie wasn’t enough to send Hoxton over the edge, and neither was my apron. But this? Me asking if I could possibly stay overnight? This just might do it.
The colour, previously drained from Hoxton’s face, is back again. His cheeks are a dark red, bordering on purple, and his mouth opens and closes several times in quick succession before he manages to choke out, ‘Stay? You want to stay? Here?’
‘I don’t want to,’ I correct him, probably much quicker than I should. The way he said my name is still echoing in my mind. ‘I’d rather be in my own bed, thank you very much. But that’s not an option right now, is it? Unless you particularly want to be responsible for poor Roland stumbling on my frozen remains in your drive come January?’
‘No,’ he says gruffly. ‘Of course not.’
‘So… so can I can stay?’
He gives me a stiff nod. ‘Just one night.’
Relief floods through me. ‘That’s all I need.’
Hopefully.
CHAPTER SIXNoelle
It’s not like I’m expecting a full-blown tour of the mysterious upper level of Hoxton’s home, but he marches me through the upper corridors like we’re on a secret military base. If I so much as turn my head in another direction, Hoxton not-so-subtly redirects me back to where he’s pointing.
‘This is the guest room,’ Hoxton says bluntly, throwing open a door at the end of the corridor, past several firmly closed doors. ‘It’s an en-suite, so…’
He trails off, but the meaning is clear: don’t go wandering around his home under the guise of ‘just trying to find the bathroom’.
It’s not like he has anything to worry about there. Between working all evening and the stress of the last hour or so, there’s nothing I want more than to flop face downinto the bed and immediately render myself unconscious for no less than ten hours. Twelve, if I’m lucky.
‘The heater controls are on the wall over there,’ Hoxton says, nodding to a white control panel on the wall nearest the bed. ‘Feel free to change the temperature to your liking.’
That was already a given. As soon as he’s gone, I plan on cranking the temperature up as high as it can go because this room is freezing. It’s not untidy, not dirty or anything like that, but everything about the room feels stale. Unused. Untouched. Like someone – Roland maybe? – set it up months ago and nobody has stepped inside it since. There’s a bed against one wall, a chest of drawers against another, a built-in wardrobe to my left, and that’s about it. There are no photos on the wall, no pieces of art, no kitschy décor people typically use to decorate their guest rooms and give them a sense of personality and life. Even the sheets on the bed are bland. Just plain white without even a simple pattern on them.
I get the distinct feeling that Hoxton probably doesn’t get many guests.
I also get the feeling that this probably doesn’t bother him at all.
‘Thanks again,’ I say as I inch further into the room. ‘I know this isn’t an ideal situation, but I really appreciate it.’
‘It’s fine,’ Hoxton says in a tone that suggests it’s absolutely not fine, but he’s aware that he’s bound by socialconstructs to say that it is. ‘Sleep well and drive safely in the morning.’
Translation?
You’d better not be here when I wake up.
I’m getting pretty good at deciphering the hidden meaning in Hoxton’s words. Maybe I’ll put my findings into a book one day.
‘Thank you,’ I say again.
