Page 62 of Just a Taste
Is that what he thinks I’m doing?
‘It’s not you,’ I start. I can’t see him but I hear his disbelieving snort. ‘It’s notjustyou,’ I amend before reaching out tentatively, my fingers hovering over the barrier of pillows between us. The urge to bridge the divide, to offer somesemblance of comfort, is almost overwhelming. But I hesitate. I don’t know if he’d welcome the touch or use it as another reason to push me further away.
Instead, I settle for a soft smile in the darkness, hoping he can sense it. ‘Goodnight, Alex,’ I murmur.
For a moment, there’s nothing but silence – the kind that stretches taut between us. And then, just as I begin to think he won’t respond, his voice cuts through the darkness like a beacon. ‘Goodnight, Noelle.’
I close my eyes and try to find sleep, but it’s like trying to catch a snowflake on your tongue – seemingly simple, yet impossibly elusive. My mind races non-stop with thoughts of today, of Christmas, of Hoxton’s hidden wounds that I’d spent the evening unknowingly prodding at.
Hoxton, on the other side of his pillow barricade, seems perfectly at peace. Which is something, I guess. His breathing is even and deep, the rhythm of someone far away in dreamland. There’s something so disarming about seeing him this way – guard down, defences up only in the form of pillows. A tiny snore escapes him, and I bite my lip to keep from laughing out loud.
Ofcoursehe’s a snorer.
I can just about make out the steady rise and fall of his chest from over the pillow wall, and his breathing quickly becomes a lullaby that I’m all too willing to listen to. Maybe it’s the proximity, or maybe it’s the fact that, evendivided by a cushioned partition, Hoxton’s presence is oddly comforting.
Visions of our earlier kiss flood my mind again and heat crawls up my spine.No. No, no, no, I tell myself.Stop it, Noelle. I’m absolutely not going there. Not now. Not with Hoxton himself lying just a few inches away.
I’ll savethatfor later, when I’m alone in my own bed and unbearably horny.
I turn onto my back and stare up at the ceiling shrouded in shadows. The minutes stretch on endlessly. Every fibre of my being is attuned to the presence of the man beside me, the rise and fall of his chest, the soft staccato of his breathing.
Sleep just won’t come.
I roll onto my side again, tucking the blanket tighter around my shoulders. I curl into a ball, trying to trap any semblance of warmth beneath the covers. The mattress beside me dips slightly, and I freeze, listening. Hoxton’s breathing remains steady, but I can’t shake the feeling that he’s not in quite as deep a sleep as he seems. He’s not snoring anymore. Is he laying there, eyes open, staring at the ceiling just like me? Is he counting the cracks in the paint to pass the time, or has his brain managed to do what mine can’t, and shut down for the night?
Minutes drag by, each one colder than the last, and I feel a begrudging gratitude for even the small heat source on the other side of the pillow wall. But it’s getting ridiculous,really; this barrier between us is the kind of thing I would’ve put up when was a tween and forced to share a bed with Eve and my cousins every Christmas.
As if he’s just read my mind, a heavy sigh breaks the silence, and suddenly, the pillow wall comes toppling down. Hoxton’s arm emerges from the shadowy darkness, sweeping away the soft blockade. He doesn’t say a word, doesn’t look at me, but I smile anyway.
‘Thanks,’ I whisper, though I’m not sure if it’s for the dismantled pillows or the unspoken truce hanging in the air. For a moment, I consider the possibility of conversation, of delving into whatever thoughts are currently keeping him awake. But now isn’t the time. I’ve pushed enough for one day, and right now, the silent acknowledgment of our shared need for warmth is enough.
With the pillows gone, I allow myself to relax slightly and sink into the mattress. I’m sure that sleep is about to take hold of me any minute now.
But my limbs have a mind of their own. Despite the pep talk I give myself about personal space and boundaries and not pushing Hoxton any more than I have already today, my body ignores the memo. It’s like every cell in my body is conspiring against me, inching closer to the source of heat beside me. Hoxton is magnetic, an undeniable force pulling me towards him with the promise of warmth in this icebox he calls a bedroom.
‘Sorry,’ I mumble as my arm accidentally brushes against his. But instead of retreating, his body shifts ever so slightly like he’s welcoming the contact. The air between us is charged with something I can’t quite name, and it’s not just static from the duvet. There’s an invisible thread pulling us together, and we’re both fighting it and embracing it all at once.
‘Stop apologising,’ Hoxton’s voice rumbles in the darkness, a hint of amusement lacing his tone. ‘You’re cold, aren’t you?’
‘How are younot?’ I huff, wrapping my arms around myself – not that it does much to stop the shivers wracking through me. In a silent concession, I surrender to the cold, and to Hoxton. My body leans into his, and I feel the solid warmth of his chest against my back. His breath is steady, a calming rhythm in the otherwise quiet room. There’s no denying the comfort his closeness brings. It’s like snuggling up to a freshly baked loaf of bread – if that bread had biceps and was sporting day three of a five o’clock shadow.
‘Better?’ he asks, his voice barely above a whisper, as if speaking any louder might break the spell.
‘So much better,’ I admit, the last of my resistance melting away. I release a happy exhale, sinking into the hug. Our legs intertwine under the blankets, a playful game of knees and shins trying to get comfortable.
I shut my eyes, just enjoying the way his chest rises andfalls against mine, and how his arm is draped over me. I catch a whiff of that familiar vanilla scent again as Hoxton’s body envelops me. It’s like I can feel his heart thumping in rhythm with mine, even in the darkness.
I have one last coherent thought before sleep finally takes hold of me.If I’m not careful, I could get used to this.
CHAPTER SIXTEENAlex
December 24th
It’s strange how quickly you can become accustomed to the warmth of another person pressed up beside you.
I’ve never been particularly obsessed with the idea of companionship. I’ve had partners of course, fleeting romances that have always ultimately fizzled out under some complaint or other about my working hours or, more than once, my personality. But I’ve never minded waking up alone. Never minded a quiet home with nothing but my own thoughts to keep me company.
In fact, that’s what I’ve always strived for.
