Page 33 of Just a Taste
‘I made dinner,’ I say quickly, before he can put a voice to the clear apprehension that’s painted across his face.
He looks vaguely amused. ‘I thought you were off duty?’
I purse my lips and swallow down the snarky response that immediately comes to sit on my tongue.Peace offering, I remind myself, gritting my teeth and forcing a probably deranged smile.This is a peace offering.
‘I made too much,’ I say with an airy shrug, like a professional chef getting her portion-sizing wrong is a perfectly normal everyday occurrence.
It’s clear Hoxton doesn’t buy it and I expect him to pull me up on it. But he doesn’t. Instead, he mirrors my shrug and pushes himself away from his desk, shutting his laptop as he goes. ‘Thank you.’
I shrug again. ‘Like I said, I made too much. Don’t get used to it.’
He hums as he passes me, his chest brushing against mine in the kind of way that sends a deep warmth shooting through me. ‘Isn’t that lucky?’
‘Very.’
When we reach the living room, instead of making a beeline for the sofa and the bowls on the coffee table, Hoxton fumbles around in a drawer and plucks out a lighter. I sink into the sofa and watch as he switches off the overhead light and methodically lights several candles dotted around the room. The action blankets us in that same warm glow Hoxton had in his office and it’s cosy. Intimate even.
He doesn’t move to turn on the television and I don’t reach for the remote either. It’s just the two of us, our shadows flickering in the candlelight.
Hoxton settles down next to me on the sofa, close enough that his legs bump against mine. The borrowed sweats I’m wearing are soft and thick, but I still feel a lick of heat start to bloom where we touch.
We eat in silence, the only sounds filling the room thequiet clinking of our chopsticks against the bowls and occasional howl of the wind.
I use this as another opportunity to observe, stealing glances at Hoxton as he eats, noticing the way his brow is slightly furrowed in concentration, how he chews thoughtfully before swallowing. His usual demeanour seems softer somehow, more vulnerable in the flickering candlelight. His features are softened, the shadows playing on his face, making him look less guarded than usual. I study him and commit to memory the way his eyes crinkle slightly at the corners when he smiles after swallowing down a mouthful or how his long fingers wrap around the chopsticks with practised ease.
Hoxton, noticeably less distracted than I am, finishes the last bite in his bowl several minutes before me and sets it down, a satisfied look crossing his features.
‘Thank you,’ he says, his voice soft. ‘You really didn’t have to cook. And—’ He clears his throat before turning his body towards me, his gaze steady. ‘The food was delicious. As usual.’
I freeze, chopsticks still in hand, my heart pounding in my ears. For a moment, I can’t find my voice. I don’t think Hoxton has ever given me a compliment directly to my face before. Every bit of praise I’ve ever received from the man has come second-hand, mostly from Roland passing on a paraphrased message.
‘Uh… thank you,’ I manage to stammer out, feeling heat rush to my cheeks. I dip my head and focus on finishing the last few bites in my bowl, suddenly desperate to avoid his intense gaze. ‘Just think of it as a peace offering for the whole Grinch thing.’
Hoxton chuckles and I look up just in time to watch his eyes crinkle in the corners and a tiny dimple form just above his left cheek. I’m really starting to like that sound, as rare as it is. Every time it slips from his lips, I want to bury it deep in the recesses of my mind until I’ve committed it to memory and can play it on loop whenever I need to hear it.
‘The biscuit or earlier today?’
I feel my cheeks warm. ‘How about both?’
He laughs again and I can’t help but savour the sound.
‘Consider your offering accepted,’ Hoxton says. ‘Are we even now?’
I nod in agreement, silently grateful for the ease that has quickly settled between us again. The awkwardness is gone, and it’s like we’re two friends enjoying a meal together.
Almost.
The wind is still howling and I let my gaze linger on the winter wonderland outside the nearest window.
‘It really doesn’t feel like Christmas,’ I murmur, more to myself than anything.
‘That’s because it’s December 22nd.’
I laugh. ‘You know what I mean.’
He leans back into the sofa and shrugs. ‘I don’t think I do. Christmas has never been more than just another day to me.’
I can’t help but frown. ‘Even when you were a kid?’
