Page 46 of Imogen

“Okay, I hope it all goes well,” I voice.

“Same with you. I’m sorry I can’t be there,” he frets.

“I’ll be fine. It’s not like they’ll send me to prison there and then.”

“Let me know how it goes,” he responds.

“If I don’t, I’m sure my dad will,” I announce, then remember what I need to do. “Do you think it will be okay for me to go mid-morning? I promised Mrs Langley’s granddaughter, Layla, I would make her grandmother breakfast.”

“Yeah. Just don’t leave it any later,” he warns. “Thank you for the hot chocolate.”

A soft smile pulls at my lips. “You’re welcome,” I reply.

As we call our goodbyes, I watch him make his way down the path. It’s only when I see his car door open that I close the door, not wanting to be caught ogling him.

I rest my back against the cool wood and close my eyes.

He still has that hold over me. His eyes pull me in, his lips paralyse me, and his scent has my heart racing. I’ve always imagined what it would be like to be kissed by him. I’ve dreamt up so many scenarios. Would it heighten this spark I feel for him and set us alight?

Or would it burn out and disappear for good?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Imogen

Early the next morning, a fog blankets the street outside my home. The air has a sting of ice to it, and being wrapped up like a burrito does nothing to hold it at bay.

As I pass my car that my dad brought back last night, I rub my hands together. Fortunately, Mrs Langley’s home is always warm. She can be a grumpy old lady but only to those she dislikes. Other times, she says what she thinks. Or she says something without thinking first. The jury is still out. She reminds me a lot of my own grandmother. Sadly, she passed away a decade ago. It took all of us by surprise because to us, she had been fitter than a twenty-year-old. Mrs Langley gives me a piece of her back.

Unfortunately, she recently had a hip replacement and isn’t handling being immobile well.

Using my key, I let myself in. “It’s me, Imogen,” I call out. “Are you awake?”

“Of course, I’m bloody awake,” she snaps. “How could I not be with him snoring into that mask all night?”

Holding back a yawn, I enter her room. She’s sat on the edge of her bed, her floral, ankle-length nightgown keeping her modesty. She hates the thing, but it’s the warmest one she owns at the moment. “For the last time, the walls aren’t thin enough for you to hear Mr Crapman’s snoring. And for the love of God, have some respect for a dying man.”

“Can’t die quick enough if you ask me,” she remarks, scoffing. “And what kind of name is Crapman?”

“A crap one?” I tease.

She chuckles. “Why do you look tired?” she demands as I help her into her chair.

“I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“Anything to do with that hunk of a man sneaking out of your home last night?”

“He was not sneaking. He’s a friend. And why were you snooping out the window? Were you moving around again when they’ve told you not to?”

“I wasn’t snooping. I was merely glancing out of my window—there’s no crime in that. And before you yell, Penelope—my night aid—sat me in the chair and helped me into bed before she left.”

“Well then, that saves me giving you a lecture,” I jest. “Now, what do you fancy for breakfast?”

“A bowl of cereal will suffice.”

“On a cold day like this? Never! You want something to warm you up.”

“Coffee will do that,” she remarks as I push her to the table.

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