Page 67 of Just a Taste
‘Sorry for the madness that is my family,’ I say softly. ‘I didn’t mean to put you on the spot like that.’
He shrugs like it’s no big deal and he hasn’t just spent the last ten minutes frozen in place while my family hurled question after question at him. ‘It was…’ He pauses for a moment, a frown furrowing his brows. ‘It was nice seeing your family come together like that for you. You seem close. Especially with your sister.’
‘We are. Like I said, Christmas is really the only time we can all get together like that, but that doesn’t mean we don’t keep in touch the rest of the time.’ A wistful smile tugs at my lips. ‘Everyone is always in everyone’s business. That’s just how we are.’
He lets out a quiet laugh. ‘I can see that.’
‘Sometimes I think I was destined to love Christmas,’ I murmur, not really thinking about what I’m saying. ‘I mean, you can’t really name your kidsNoelleandEveand not expect them to be Christmas mad, can you?’
Hoxton laughs. ‘They are very fitting names for the two of you.’
‘You should meet my cousin Casper – guess what his favourite holiday is?’
Another laugh. I’m really starting to enjoy the sound.
Our conversation reaches a natural lull and, if this were anyone else, I’d take the opportunity to ask about his family. But I think I sense a tinge of bitterness in his words. Nothing overwhelming, but it’s definitely there. The fallout from our conversation last night rears its ugly head in my memories and I quickly banish the idea of broaching it again with him.
Instead, I decide to switch topics and lighten the mood. I clap my hands together and push myself off the bed. ‘So, what’s the plan for today? More spreadsheets?’
Hoxton chuckles good-naturedly, and any sign of the bitterness from yesterday is gone. ‘Not today. What do you want to do?’
The answer comes to me immediately. ‘I want to cook.’
CHAPTER EIGHTEENNoelle
To his credit, Hoxton doesn’t complain once when I insist he dons my Christmas apron for a second night in a row.
‘Come on, it’s Christmas,’ I plead with faux wide eyes as I hand him in the apron.
‘It’s December 24th,’ Hoxton deadpans even as he grabs the apron.
‘Otherwise known as Christmas Eve,’ I say brightly as he pulls the apron over his neck and smooths it out. ‘And it’s actually really starting to suit you,’ I tease as he pulls the apron over his neck and smooths it out.
‘Ha, ha,’ Hoxton says with an overexaggerated eye-roll. ‘Don’t make me regret this.’
The threat falls flat though, because he’s grinning as he ties the apron strings behind his back, the corners of his eyescrinkling in amusement. If you’d have told me three days ago that I’d be standing in Hoxton’s kitchen watching him put on a garish Christmas-themed apron without even a hint of protest, I would’ve laughed in your face.
But here we are. I suppose stranger things have happened. Not that any come to mind right now. But still – they must have.
‘Don’t you mean “Don’t make me regret this,Chef”?’ I say, wagging a spatula in his face to emphasise the last word.
Hoxton rolls his eyes, but there’s no irritation behind it. ‘Yes, Chef.’
I beam up at him and then turn to the kitchen counter where I’ve pulled out everything I could possibly find from the depths of his cupboards, fridge and freezer that could make a traditional Christmas dinner.
I may not be able to spend Christmas with my family this year, but Eve is right. That doesn’t mean I can’t enjoy it how I want to. And I want toeat.
I found a small whole chicken at the back of Hoxton’s freezer, so in lieu of a turkey, it’s been slowly defrosting in the sink for the last few hours. It should be done soon, if the timer I’ve set on my phone is anything to go by. I vaguely remember ordering it a month or two ago, but never ended up using it.
Thanks to Hoxton’s Christmas dinner with his Board, I’ve got plenty of leftover spices and seasonings, enough to make some delicious, homemade stuffing. We’re going to have to veer off course fromtraditionala little bit when it comes to the sides, but I’ve found enough to make a creamy mac and cheese, along with a small portion of crispy roast potatoes.
It’s not the Christmas meal I was expecting to be preparing today, but I can make it work.
I’mgoingto make it work.
I’m going to havemyChristmas.
‘Is there anything you want?’ I ask, glancing over my shoulder. It’s just hit me that I’ve been cobbling together this meal without any consideration towards Hoxton and what he might like. ‘Remember, we’re working with what we’ve got, but if it’s in here, I can add it to the menu.’
