Page 5 of Just a Taste
Executive Assistant
CHAPTER ONENoelle
December 21st, Two Years Later
‘But it’s Christmas!’ Eve’s whine comes through my phone speakers with perfect clarity. I don’t need to glance at the screen to know she’s giving me her best pout right now.
‘It’s December 21st,’ I deadpan.
‘You know what I mean.’
I let my concentration slide away from the road ahead just long enough to confirm that,yes,my twin sister is holding her phone camera to her face, batting her long lashes and giving me puppy dog eyes that would put a cocker spaniel to shame. It’s the kind of look that makes people melt like butter in the palm of her hand, and Eve has never had any trouble getting exactly what she wants.
From everyone except me.
‘I’ll be there tomorrow,’ I remind her. ‘Pretty sure you can survive without me for one day.’
Eve huffs out a frustrated breath. ‘Fine. But when you get here and Mum and Aunt Valerie are at each other’s throats, I will be accepting no blame whatsoever.’
‘You’re not completely alone,’ I point out. ‘Nathan can help.’
‘It’s not the same,’ Eve says with a dismissive eye-roll. ‘He’s still new to all of this, and he doesn’t get it the way we do.’
She’s got a point there. Our annual Christmas family reunion at my grandmother’s home is quite possibly my favourite time of the year, but even I don’t mind admitting that it can be a fraught affair. My family is full of big personalities and trying to keep the peace long enough for the Christmas spirit to settle in, and for everyone – namely, our mother and her older sister – to forget their many, many issues with each other is a tough job. Eve and I have been playing referee to their relationship each Christmas for as long as I can remember and that kind of dynamic just isn’t something you want to throw at a newcomer.
‘They never get really bad until day three, anyway,’ I say, trying to ease some of the guilt I’m suddenly feeling. ‘You’ll be fine.’
‘Or,’ Eve says with a pointed wiggle of her brows. ‘Youcould just ask your sexy boss to give you some time off. Appeal to his inner Christmas spirit or something.’
I bite back a snort of laughter and force a neutral facial expression. ‘He’s not my boss. He’s a client. And stop calling him that.’
‘That’s how you described him to me!’
That’s true.
Two years ago, when I first started working for Alexander Hoxton, his looks were just about the only thing I could think about and I’m woman enough to admit that I once allowed myself the occasional fleeting fantasy of something more.
Because Alexander Hoxton is the kind of man women daydream about. He’s the person you conjure up as the placeholder in your mind when you’re reading a romance novel or spending some quality time with your favourite toy late at night. The type of guy who looks like he’s just stepped right off the pages ofVogueand straight into your life.
Then he opens his mouth and the daydream is shattered.
To start with, he was late for our interview.10am sharp, his assistant had made sure to include at the bottom of my confirmation email.Hoxton values punctuality.
You’d think a person who values punctuality wouldn’t leave an interviewee sitting on one of the uncomfortable plastic seats in his grey and sterile office lobby for forty-five minutes.
And yet.
Instead of apologising when he finally deigned to saunterin and summon me into his office, looking like he’d just strolled off a runway, he simply dropped into his chair and fixed me with a distant and unimpressed look in lieu of a proper greeting.
The urge to remind him that he was one who was interested in my services, and I hadn’t come crawling to him, was overwhelming. It was like he’d forgotten all about his meal at The Avalon and thought I was some random person who’d managed to con her way into his office somehow. It was jarring to say the least.
But I smiled brightly, stuck my hand out to remind him that at least one of us was a professional, and tried to get us back on the right track. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you again, Mr Hoxton. I hope you had a lovely Christmas break.’
I still haven’t decided whether it was the manic smile on my face or the fact that I’d leaned over his desk, inching into his personal space to shove my hand out directly in front of him, but his façade cracked just a tiny bit then. He looked genuinely startled for a moment before his features smoothed out again into that mask of carefully constructed disinterest, and he gingerly shook my hand.
‘Ms Jones,’ he said with a sharp nod before he dropped my hand.
I remember waiting awkwardly to see if he’d elaborate – perhaps ask about how my Christmas was – but only silence followed.
