“I wouldn’t mind,” she said with a shrug, and the exaggerated nonchalance made his lips twitch.
“Then it’s settled. I’ll stay.”
“Christmas together,” she agreed.
“Do I still have to sleep on the floor?”
Her smile was radiant. “I’ll give you an extra blanket.”
Chapter 6
Imogen leaned over the cast iron skillet and sniffed greedily. Fragrant cinnamon, cloves, and ginger flooded her senses and she closed her eyes in rapture.
This was Christmas.
The aromatic spices transported her back to the first time she’d made gingerbread cookies. She was ten years old, lolling about the nursery with her nanny while her parents were at yet another social event. The new cook, Mrs. Solberg, had invited them into the kitchen, where she and her mischievous son, Tommy, had begun baking pepperkaker from Norway. A timid, lonely girl at the time, she’d cautiously agreed. An hour later, she was stuffing her mouth and giggling nonstop as Tommy told joke after joke. By the time her nanny sent her upstairs to wash up, the kitchen had become a haven and the Christmas cookies an annual tradition.
“Stop sniffing like a bloodhound and check the cookies, Genie, or else we’ll have another burnt cookie debacle on our hands. Remember how irate my mother was?”
Imogen opened her eyes to find Tommy grinning at her as he wiped flour from the table, his shirtsleeves neatly rolled up to reveal his forearms. “That was your fault, if I recall. You convinced me you’d take care of everything so long as I read A Christmas Carol aloud.”
“What can I say? You were an excellent reader.”
She wrapped a cloth around the skillet handle and lifted it from the pile of hot embers. “Oh dear. I’m afraid I have bad news.”
The chair scraped against the floor in Tommy’s haste to peer over her shoulder. “You tease. They aren’t burnt.”
“No, but I’m afraid your reindeer looks rather like a corgi. Look how short the legs are.”
He nudged her with his elbow. “It looks no worse than your angel. I think it’s missing a wing.”
“Your snowman ate it,” she said sadly. “I suppose we were overly ambitious with our designs.”
“We’re just out of practice. Next year will be better.”
Next year.
Imogen’s heart swelled at his remark, so casually uttered as if it were a foregone conclusion that they would still be in each other’s lives. The turn of events over the last few days staggered her. She thought a strained truce was all she would ever have with Tommy again, but apparently all they’d needed to reverse the clock was a few booby traps and a bottle of botched hair dye.
When she’d realized Tommy would be leaving, she’d been taken aback by the despondency that washed over her. She’d comforted herself with the knowledge that their time together had healed their bond. Not only that, but Tommy had taken her mind off the pain of being jilted. He’d even sparked her absent creativity. She wasn’t sure if the photograph of him was any good, but it felt wonderful to be inspired again. Then he’d decided to stay and it had taken all her self-control not to clap her hands and squeal with joy.
It was, simply put, the best holiday in years.
Heart full, she grinned up at him. “You have a bit of flour on your cheek.”
“Where? Here?” He swiped at his face, smearing the flour further into his stubble that had grown over the past few days. “Or here?”
“You got it all.”
“Then why are you smirking?” He let out a huff and squatted beside her. “Come on, help me.”
She cradled his angular jaw in her palm and tilted his face toward the firelight. With her other hand, she carefully brushed her fingertips against his freckled cheekbone. The powdery flour fell to the stone hearth, but she found it impossible to let go. Her fingers, acting of their own volition, explored the rugged terrain of his cheek. She marveled at the difference between his soft, warm skin and the bristle of his short, reddish-brown beard. God, he fascinated her. If she had all the time in the world, she could work her way down his body, discover every dip and tendon?—
“Did you get it all?” Tommy’s voice, deep and gritty, brought her back to awareness.
What was she doing? They’d finally become friends again, and now she was caressing his face? If she didn’t get a grip on herself, Tommy might decide—rightfully—that he was safer back in Seattle. She let him go and tried not to flap her hands with embarrassment.
“I did,” she said, her voice a touch too high. “Why don’t you take the cookies out of the skillet and I’ll get the tea started?” Turning blindly back to the hearth, she reached for a nearby pot. She hissed in pain as her pointer finger grazed the hot handle. Without thinking, she stuck the smarting fingertip into her mouth.
