Page 75 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
Imogen’s spoon slipped as she went for another scoop of cream. ‘That’s very true.’
‘And I’ve spoken to Lucy about us, and that’s all that matters.’
Imogen put her bowl down carefully. ‘What did you tell her?’
Dexter put his bowl down too, then reached across the island to take her hand. ‘I told her I liked you a lot, I was sure you liked me, and that we were enjoying spending time together. But I stressed to her that you don’t live here, that you’ll be going back to London sooner rather than later, and that there was no guarantee of any sort of future.’ He took a breath, his eyes staying on hers, and Imogen hoped he couldn’t see how his words were affecting her. ‘I said that you can enjoy something meaningful even if you know it’s not going to be for ever, and that we shouldn’t put pressure on you to change your plans. I asked her what she thought, what she wanted, and—’
‘What did she say?’ Imogen couldn’t help cutting in, even though that was what he was about to tell her.
‘Lucy said she loved hanging out with you; she was glad if you made me happy, but that sometimes thingscouldbe just for Christmas, if that was how they had to be. Although she reminded me that Artichoke was for life.’ He grinned, and Imogen forced herself to laugh.
‘That’s … great. The last thing I want to do is hurt her – or you.’
‘It’sOK. No pressure, remember? We’re having fun.’
‘We are.’ She should be relieved that Lucy cared more about the longevity of her relationship with her dog, than with her. And it made perfect sense. The first time they’dmet her, she was in a wedding dress, running away from her future. Of course they weren’t going to think that she wanted anything long term; of course they didn’t want something long term, either.
Dexter had been passionate in bed, attentive and thorough, with a lot of communication and a lot of laughter, and Imogen had tied herself up thinking that meant he really cared about her. But that was just who he was. He would be thoughtful and considerate with anyone he was intimate with. She shouldn’t have read so much into it, shouldn’t have got caught up in silly dreams. Sometimes, you had the very best sex of your life with someone you only spent a little bit of time with. She’d been too cautious up until now, so she hadn’t been aware of that.
No, this was for the best. She could enjoy her time with Dexter and Lucy, have a meaningful Christmas with her grandmother, then go back to London and start again; find a new, more inspiring job, and a new flat. She could work her way towards being the daughter her parents expected her to be. ‘Hey.’ Dexter tipped her chin up, forcing her to meet his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean to get so deep, but I wanted to reassure you – what we’re doing isn’t going to hurt Lucy, and it’s not going to end in heartbreak for either of us. We’re letting ourselves do whatwewant to do, being selfish, having a good time. And by good,’ he lowered his voice, ‘I mean pretty fucking amazing.’
All Imogen’s nerve endings fired to life, and she licked her lips. Dexter noticed, his gaze zeroing in on the movement. ‘Veryfucking amazing,’ she corrected, because it had been, and it was, and so what if he wanted her for an amazing time but not a long time? She could be selfish,just like he’d said, and then they could both move on.
She slipped off her stool and came around to his side of the island, and he spread his jean-clad legs so she could stand between them. ‘Dexter.’ She cupped his stubbled jaw and kissed him, her body as close to his as she could get it. ‘Yeah?’ His voice was ragged when they broke apart, and triumph surged through her, knowing that, even if it was temporary, she could affect him like this.
‘I would like you to take me upstairs now.’ She trailed her mouth along his jaw, down to his throat. Dexter tightened his hold on her, and she wondered if they would even make it upstairs.
‘Your wish is my command.’ He was breathing hard as he slid off the stool and grabbed her hand. He led her through the dark living room, past the soft twinkle of the Christmas tree, to the stairs.
He paused on the bottom step, let her go ahead of him and then caught her hips, turning her around. He lifted her jumper and his lips found the soft skin of her stomach. As Imogen tipped her head back and closed her eyes while Dexter gripped her waist, keeping her in place, she wondered if this was what people did with their lives, if this was another rule she had to follow: finding something that wassofucking amazing, a person who was life-alteringly wonderful, then letting them go simply because it wasn’t sensible, because you’d met them at the wrong time, in the wrong place, and they weren’t a part of the plan. Was this another expectation she was supposed to meet? Because if so, she wanted to take every single expectation everyone had ever had of her and throw them all into the North Sea, then watch them sink, thoroughly and irretrievably, to the bottom.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
‘An amazing time not a long time,’ Imogen chanted as she walked to the village hall for the last Story Time session before Christmas. It was a party, really, because while most of the villagers would be at the Snow Show, Jazz wanted to do something for their little group. ‘An amazing time andnota long time.’
Despite her reservations after Dexter’s honest talk a couple of nights ago, there had been no reservations physically, and Imogen was having to come to terms with extricating herself from the person who made her feel happier than she had done for years, who understood her more than anyone else did, with whom she was having the best sex of her life. It made no sense, when she thought of it like that. Then she thought of her mum’s message that morning, when Imogen had sent her another proof-of-life photo, and told her – again – that she wouldn’t be back for Christmas.
You’ve eked out this ridiculous quarter-life crisis for long enough, Imogen. It’s time to come home. Be sensible. We can talk about Edmund.
She had wanted to say there was nothing to talk about, that she and Edmund were over, and she’d found someone else and he was wonderful. But then another message had come through, and it had made her stomach twist unpleasantly.
Wherever you’ve gone, you went there after jilting your fiancé at the altar. Nobody is taking you seriously.
Was that true? Did they see her as some intriguing novelty, rather than a serious person? She pushed open the hall door, stepped into the warmth and chatter, inhaled the heady scent of mulled wine, and someone shouted, ‘Here’s our Christmas elf, in all her finery! What have you brought us today?’ Imogen returned the smile and wondered if her mum had been right all along.
‘Hey.’ Jazz wrapped her in a hug. ‘You OK? You look worried.’
‘I’m good. Just thinking about … things.’
Jazz laughed. ‘Enlightening. Come and get a drink. We’re all going to readThe Snowman, so you’re going to need it.’
‘Sounds excellent.’ She relaxed at Jazz’s friendly, nononsense attitude. She couldn’t imagine the young, confident woman tearing herself apart over men and mothers and life decisions. From what little she knew, Jazz had had a turbulent upbringing, had been homeless for a time, and Mistingham was the first place she’d felt at home. Imogen’sproblems were small, wincingly first world, in comparison. She accepted a cup of mulled wine and settled herself at the front of the room, where her beanbag was set out next to Jazz’s. She picked up a copy ofThe Snowman, and felt eyes on her. She looked up.
‘Hello, Imogen!’ Lucy grinned at her from the front row. ‘Oh! Hey … hello, Lucy. It’s lovely to see you.’ It was a faultless maiden aunt impression. Brilliant.
‘Dad’s working late on Christmas orders, and I could have helped him but then I remembered you were doing Story Time. Jazz says it’s OK.’
‘Of course it’s all right. It’s extra special having you here.’
