She looked up to find Tommy staring at her with a strange expression. Or, rather, he was staring at her mouth. Painfully conscious of how ridiculous she must look with her lips puckered around the digit, she withdrew it long enough to mumble, “I burned myself.”
Tommy’s body jerked, as if she’d woken him from a trance. “I’ll get you some snow,” he said in a strangled voice.
“No, that’s not necessary…”
She trailed off. Tommy was already at the cabin door. With quick, sure movements, he cracked it open, scooped up snow with both hands, shut the door with his hip, and returned to her side. “Quickly. Put your finger in.”
“At least put the snow on a plate,” she objected. “It’s much too cold for you to hold like that.”
“It’s nothing. Put it in.”
“Tommy…”
“In.”
She sighed and dipped her fingertip into the snow. The relief was immediate. After a few seconds, she lifted her finger. “Much better, thank you.”
“Let me see.”
“I’m all right, truly.”
She laid a hand on his chest, and his harsh indrawn breath matched her own. She was powerless against the current of heat that radiated through her body and set her core on fire. Her mouth went dry. Her knees trembled. She watched in fascination as goosebumps exploded across Tommy’s bare forearms. Goosebumps even the snow hadn’t produced. The muscles of his chest bunched and his pulse thundered beneath her touch. She risked a glance upward. He stared at her like she’d just claimed to know the location of Captain Kidd’s lost treasure.
She dropped her hand and the current dissolved. It should have been a relief, a breath of air after being submerged for too long. Instead, it was like a life-saving tether had been cut and she was now adrift in a choppy sea. As if that wasn’t bad enough, she was forced to admit a very disconcerting fact: it was no longer enough to simply be Tommy’s friend.
“I...you…” She cleared her throat. “Cookies?”
Tommy scrubbed the skillet like a man possessed. Something had to quash his incessant, burning desire to pull Imogen to the floor and cover her body with his. Stuffing pepperkaker into his mouth hadn’t done the trick, so he’d turned to his fail-safe coping strategy for a reprieve.
“I think it’s dead.”
Tommy lifted his head at Imogen’s droll tone and studied the pristine cast-iron. Hell, he might have removed the seasoning as well. He grimaced and put it down. “I suppose you’re right.”
“It’s Christmas Eve. It’s time to relax, not clean.”
He dried his hands with a cloth, then spread it neatly on the drying bar. “I’m afraid my usual way of relaxing isn’t possible here.”
“Why not?”
Because he couldn’t very well jerk his cock in front of her.
“Because,” he said slowly, searching for another, equally true statement that wouldn’t terrify her. “Because normally I pour myself a whiskey and read a few chapters before bed.”
Her eyes lit up. “I have whiskey. And books.”
“The books I believe.” He gave her a quick once-over. “But that the daughter of Seattle’s pioneer family grew into a whiskey enthusiast?”
“Oh, but good sir.” Her smile widened, as sly as a gambler holding the winning hand. “Not only do I partake, but I’ll show you how it’s done.”
“Then what are we waiting for?”
“You get the bottle. I’ll prepare our nest.” She hurried over to the bed, swept up an armful of blankets, and hurled them to the floor in front of the fireplace.
Shoulders shaking with laughter, Tommy followed her lead. Soon, they were seated cross-legged in a jumble of pillows and blankets. A cutting-board-turned-drink-tray held a full bottle of whiskey and two mismatched mugs. A handful of well-loved books lay face up between them for his perusal.
Imogen poured a generous serving in both their mugs then raised hers in salute. “To the only friend I’ll ever need.”
Tommy’s pulse pounded like a runaway stallion. His thoughts erupted like fireworks, each burst revealing a cherished memory. Genie, beaming at him with her gap-toothed smile when he figured out a new word. Genie, crowing in triumph when she beat him at dominoes. Genie, holding his hand when he was sick.
