Page 66 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘Jolly good! Soup for lunch?’
‘I’ll go and get some crusty bread!’ A spark of happiness lit up inside her, cutting through her outrage.
‘You’ve only just got home.’ Birdie popped her head around the door. ‘But I suppose soupwouldbenefit from a hunk of fresh, delicious bread slathered in butter.’
Imogen rolled her eyes. Her gran had been teasing her mercilessly since she and Lucy had spied on them through the window. But Imogen had reached the stage where any mention of Dexter perked her up, so she didn’t mind. She hadn’t even taken off her coat, so she just turned around and went back out into the cold.
‘Come to dinner,’ Dexter said, as he slid the sourdough rolls into a paper bag. ‘Tonight.’
There were four people behind her in the queue and Imogen couldfeelthem eavesdropping, but Dexter didn’t seem to care.
‘OK.’
‘Lucy’s probably going to hang out at Amber’s afterwards. The football team’s got a match tomorrow, and they need to strategize. Amber’s mum said she could stay overnight.’
‘Oh. OK.’ Imogen’s cheeks heated, and Dexter frowned.
‘You don’t have to—’
‘I would love to,’ she rushed out, then flicked her eyes to the engrossed onlookers. One of them was Annie from the arcade.
Dexter looked baffled for a second, then seemed to catch on. But instead of blushing like Imogen, he said, ‘I’m glad.
I’ve wanted to have you over for dinner for a while.’ He gave her the bag of rolls, and when Imogen handed over her money, he grasped her hand and held on, squeezing reassuringly before letting go. As she walked back to Birdie’s, she tried to remember when she’d last shaved her legs.
That afternoon, predictably, Imogen fell down a rabbit hole of Liberty Christmas cards and Fortnum & Mason crackers. ‘Two hundred and fifty pounds for six crackers?’ she said out loud. ‘You’recrackers!’ Surfing those familiar websites reminded her of Christmases past, when she’d been scurrying to get everything done for her parents’ party. She was relieved when the clock in Birdie’s hall chimed five, and she could get ready to go to Dexter’s.
She wanted a mixture of warm and attractive, so she wore her jeans and a new, chunky-knit cream cardigan open over a bright pink tank top that was in her honeymoon suitcase. She put on her green coat, said goodbye to Birdie and walked out into an evening already glittering with frost. The sun had mostly gone, though Imogen could see a slice of poppy red in the west, behind the silhouetted houses. Christmas lights twinkled happily, white, gold and multi-coloured fireflies lighting up the night, and doors were adorned with wreaths, or fresh bunches of mistletoe, in defiance of the vandals.
The five-minute walk was not enough time for her to prepare, but she sucked in a breath and knocked on the door, and when Dexter answered, looking stupidly handsome in jeans and a knitted navy jumper, she thrust a bottle of wine into his hands.
‘Here.’
‘Thanks.’ Dexter took it. ‘Also, hello.’
‘Fuck,’ Imogen said. ‘I mean, hello. Fuck because I should have said hello first, but—’
Laughing, Dexter grabbed her and pulled her inside, planting a kiss on her cheek that surrounded Imogen with his warm, spicy scent, and left her skin tingling from the brush of his stubble. ‘It’s OK,’ he said.
‘Dad, how come Imogen gets to swear but I can’t?’
‘Because you’re ten, Luce,’ he called up the stairs. ‘Come through.’
He waited while Imogen peeled off all her outer garments, his eyes widening when he saw the bright pink top beneath her open cardigan. But he wordlessly took her coat and scarf and hung them up, leaving her to look around. His hall was small and welcoming, the walls butterscotch yellow, adorned with an array of framed photos and drawings, obviously done by Lucy. The banister was polished wood, and three doors gave glimpses into other rooms that were painted in cheerful colours, everything bright and modern. He led her into a living room with two squashy blue sofas in front of a TV, bookcases against the wall cluttered with a mix of adult and children’s titles. A wide, arched doorway led into an open-plan kitchen and dining room; the kitchen had peacock blue cupboards and walls covered in white subway tiles above smooth pine work surfaces. There was a range cooker and a shiny coffee machine, a bright pink mixer that Imogen thought must be Lucy’s: the tools of a family who knew about food.
A Christmas tree in the corner of the living room stood at a slightly wonky angle, its baubles and decorations a mishmash of shapes and colours, a lot of them clearlyhomemade. Artichoke was curled up on a yellow cushion on the sofa, her cute puppy bed next to the TV left for half-chewed toys. It was a cheerful, chaotic home, and Imogen loved it immediately.
‘This is lovely,’ she said.
‘Thanks.’ Dexter glanced up from opening the wine. ‘It’s all Lucy and me. She’s involved in every decision, but I have the right to veto. The living room isn’t decorated in unicorn wallpaper mainly because it was too expensive, but she’s got a feature wall in her bedroom.’ He held out a glass to her. ‘Except now she wants to replace it with football wallpaper.’
‘The decor will be like her clothes, I guess.’ Imogen accepted her wine. ‘You have to upgrade as her tastes change.’
‘And I still haven’t learnt. I lull myself into a false sense of security, thinking I won’t have to get the ladder out for at least a year.’
‘You have something against ladders?’
‘I am against how high they let me go. Cheers.’ He clinked his glass against hers. ‘I’m so glad you could come.’
