Page 72 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
Dexter glanced at Imogen and rolled his eyes. ‘I’ll message Fiona. See if we can pop in and see him on the way back, OK?’
Lucy reacted like he’d given her five hundred pounds to spend in the Romantasy section of Waterstones.
‘Right then,’ Dexter said. ‘Onwards.’
On the Mistingham Manor estate, their efforts were quickly rewarded. There were plump, tactile pine cones beneath the trees, and holly bushes that hadn’t yet been stripped of berries by the birds. Dexter had a pair of secateurs, and together they selected several bunches, picked up a host of pine cones, and Lucy found some fallen twigs in elaborate shapes that she wanted to paint gold.
Imogen had been embarrassed about her outburst, had thought Dexter and Lucy were only humouring her with this day of foraging, but they’d found some beautiful things that, with a bit of crafting ingenuity, could become genuine decorations. Would she take some back to London with her, or would she leave them here, on Dexter and Lucy’s tree? She liked the idea that they would stay here, act as a reminder of their day together once she’d gone.
‘Imogen.’ Dexter squeezed her arm. ‘I just need to check the manor, OK?’ They were standing outside the doors, and she had got lost in one of her daydreams.
‘Sure. I’ll stay with Lucy.’ Lucy was entertaining Artichoke with a game of fetch, being careful to use a stick that had no aesthetic charm. Dexter disappeared inside the house, and Imogen tried not to think about that first rehearsal, and everything that had happened since.
‘Are you pleased with your haul?’ she asked Lucy.
‘It’s brilliant!’ Lucy didn’t take her eyes off her puppy. ‘We’re going to make so many decorations, and they’ll be different to any other house in the wholeworld.’
‘They will.’
‘And my teacher, Mrs Hawkins, says that sometimes it’s about taking part, and not about the outcome, and today that’s right, isn’t it?’
‘It is?’ Imogen shivered and tightened her scarf around her neck.
‘Yes! Because it meant that you and Dad could spend time together, and it doesn’t really matter what we collected.’ Imogen was sucking in a surprised breath when Lucy gave her a look that was far more knowing than a ten-year-old should be capable of. ‘We got some great things though, so we won twice. You and Dad, and all our stuff.’
Imogen could barely speak. Had she and Dexter been manipulated by his daughter? And what did that mean for Lucy, when Imogen finally ran out of road and had to go home? ‘Win-win,’ she croaked out.
Lucy grinned. ‘Win-win.’
Dexter came out of the manor and locked the doors, and Imogen watched him, in his black jeans and his entirely unsuitable jacket, his scarf and gloves, a few of his curls escaping below his grey beanie. ‘All done,’ he said. ‘Who wants to find out if Jason’s hot chocolate is as good as he says it is?’
‘Me!’ Lucy shouted.
‘Me too,’ Imogen added.
‘Let’s go.’
Dexter took Lucy’s hand on one side, Imogen’s on the other, and with Lucy holding Artichoke’s lead, the four of them striding down Mistingham Manor’s driveway with the fairy lights twinkling in the trees on either side, Imogen thought they must look like one of those cute pencil illustrations of a family.
Inside, though, her mind was in a tangle. There was her past with Edmund in London, her present with Dexter and Lucy, being in Mistingham and getting the chance to know Birdie again. But when she tried to think of her future, she couldn’t settle on anything concrete. Her responsible, rule-following side told her that home was back at her stable job and, though not with Edmund, with something straight-forward and sensible. It wasn’t remote Norfolk villages and unruly goats and storytelling in a village hall, or a perfectly imperfect family she had grand designs of being a part of. It wasn’t the done thing, and she knew that.
Dexter turned to her, his breath warm on her earlobe, which was sticking out below her hat. ‘Are you all right?’ he whispered.
‘I’m … good.’ Her words came out strangled, inconveniently reminding her of a few nights before, when she’d been breathless rather than terrified, her gasped wordsso so goodinstead ofI’m good.
‘You need to talk to me, Imogen.’ He squeezed her hand. ‘This isn’t going to work if we’re not honest with each other.’
‘I know.’ She flashed him a smile, and his expression softened, as if he could tell from that one gesture how scared she was. ‘I will talk to you, I promise.’
‘Good,’ he said firmly.Good.It echoed in her mind, and she realized that she’d never been so affected by a man, so thoroughly captivated by every version of his smile, every shift in his tone. Not even Edmund, who she’d been on the verge ofmarrying, for fuck’s sake.
She had to stop thinking, had to save all this for later when she was in her bedroom in the eaves, and not waste the time she had with him and Lucy. ‘What toppings areyou getting on your hot chocolate, then?’ she asked them. She forced herself back to the present, to Lucy’s excited chatter and Dexter, solid and warm and understanding beside her, and his hand wrapped around hers, refusing to let go.
Chapter Twenty-Six
On Monday, Sophie was back in her stationery emporium, looking freckled and happy and unconcerned that the snow hadn’t yet fallen on Mistingham but the cloud was thicker than ever. Imogen hovered on the threshold, but Sophie saw her and waved her inside.
‘Imogen, how are you? I’m so glad you’re still here.’
