Page 67 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
‘Cheers. Thank you for having me.’ They smiled at each other, and Imogen almost forgot about the tantalizing smells of tomato and basil filling the kitchen.
‘Is the pizza ready?’ Lucy yelled, her footsteps thundering on the stairs. ‘Hey, Imogen. I told Dad to do his homemade pizza because he’s really good at it, and I figured you’d like it because you love Dad’s cakes so much.’
‘Hi Lucy. You’re right, I love pizza, and I bet your dad’s is the best.’
‘It’s not bad.’ Dexter ruffled Lucy’s hair as she tore off squares of kitchen towel. ‘How’s that homework going?’
‘Done, mostly. And I’ve packed for Amber’s. I’m staying over,’ she told Imogen. ‘If you don’t want to go home, you can sleep in my bed, if you like? I have a teddy called Satan; he’ll look after you if it’s too dark.’
‘Thank you,’ Imogen stuttered.
Dexter, curse him, grinned at her and pulled Lucy into a hug. ‘It’s kind of you to offer up your room, Luce. We’ll see how things go. Fifteen minutes until pizza.’
‘I’ll get the salad.’ She got rocket, tomato and avocado out of the fridge, busying herself at the counter. Dexter checked the sauce bubbling on the stove, then took a bowl of dough out of a part of the oven that Imogen realized must be a proving drawer.
‘Take a pew.’ He pointed to the stools next to the island.
‘Can I help?’
‘We have it under control, but we can talk while we work.’
So Imogen sipped her wine, watching father and daughter move around each other in a practised dance. She asked about Dexter’s pizza recipe, Lucy’s football team, the school’s festive plans in the run-up to Christmas. It felt light, easy, like there were no expectations hanging over them. Just three people enjoying each other’s company. They moved to the table and Dexter slid a perfectly crafted pizza onto her plate, with a rich tomato sauce, gooey mozzarella, slices of pepperoni and black olives. Her mouth was watering as she added salad, drizzling on the lemon dressing Lucy had made.
She couldn’t help the moan that escaped when she tasted the pizza. It was the perfect balance of thin, crispy and chewy, the flavours heady and fresh. His mini pizzas on thenight of mistletoe decorating had been delicious, but this was even better.
‘Told you,’ Lucy said gleefully. ‘Dad’s pizza is the best.’
‘I can’t see it ever being beaten,’ Imogen agreed. ‘Just like his cakes and pastries.’
‘The chef at the hotel makes incredible desserts,’ Dexter said. ‘They’re more elaborate than anything I do.’
‘I got to try her turkey bonbons earlier, when I was at the hub,’ Imogen said. ‘But I honestly can’t imagine anyone doing Danishes better than you.’
‘They’renotas good as Dad’s.’ A neat frown appeared on Lucy’s smooth forehead. ‘I’ll fight anyone who says they are.’
‘Hang on, Lucy, who said that to you?’
‘What?’
‘I’ll fight anyone. Has someone said that to you? It’s not the sort of language you should be using.’
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Nobody’s said it to me, Dad. It’s just a saying, like, about something you really believe.’
‘I’m flattered you believe in my baking, but I still don’t think you should be using it.’
‘You could say, “that’s the hill I’ll die on” instead,’ Imogen suggested.
Lucy looked at her like she was mad. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It does, sort of. It relates to war and battles – you know, you’d defend something to the death? Never mind.’ Lucy was still looking at her as if she was speaking a foreign language. ‘What do you want for Christmas?’
‘There’s this new Romantasy series,’ Lucy said, the previous conversation forgotten as her eyes lit up, and Imogen listened as she explained the complicated plot ofa book she hadn’t read yet, that involved dragons and witches and was apparently more epic than any book series that had gone before. Halfway through, Dexter nudged her leg with his foot. He was only in his socks, and why did she find that completely endearing? Maybe, if she was thinking about presents, she could get him a pair of slippers. Except, was that too intimate?
‘Imogen!’
‘Sorry!’ She started. ‘What was that?’
‘What do you want for Christmas?’ Lucy asked.
