“My books,” she finished with a wide grin.
His heart flattened like a fly beneath the swatter, but somehow he managed a low chuckle. “How’d you know my motto?” Before she could answer, he lifted his mug and tossed back the entire contents.
“Oh, this is a sipping whiskey…never mind. I see that’s not important.” She followed suit, adding a dainty cough at the end.
He poured them another generous serving and leaned over the books. “I’ll take The Return of Sherlock Holmes.”
“That makes sense.”
“Why?”
“Because you’re a mystery.” She waggled a finger in his direction and added in a sing-song voice, “But I’ll figure you out.”
His lips quirked. “Drink went straight to your head, didn’t it?”
She shifted her skirts with a huff. “Not at all. Now read your book.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
He leaned back against the foot of the bed and cracked open the book. He devoured the first short story, relieved to focus on something other than Imogen. The whiskey, far finer than his usual fare, worked its slow magic. The oaky sweetness was undercut by a subtle bitterness, an intriguing interplay that mimicked his inner thoughts.
He glanced up and was arrested by the sight of Imogen reading her book. She wasn’t a noisy reader—which he detested more than warmed milk—but she was performative. Her lips moved in a wordless dance, as if she conversed with the characters themselves. Her wide, alert eyes flew across the page, and her expressive eyebrows told a story of their own.
He raised his mug and was surprised to find it empty. He wasn’t usually a heavy drinker, but it seemed the best way to survive the temptation before him. He poured himself another, but when he moved to set the bottle down, Imogen held out her mug with an expectant smile. It still held at least a finger-full.
“You don’t have to keep up with me.”
“Pour.”
Shrugging, he gave her a small splash. She glared at him until he added a second splash, then a third. They resumed reading. Tommy eased onto his back, his head propped against two pillows, the book resting on his chest. Normally, there was no finer way to pass an evening than with a crackling fire, a warm buzz in his head, and a good book. But as his gaze returned to Imogen, who now lay with her limbs propped up by various pillows, he knew what had been missing.
A woman who smelled of cinnamon and vanilla.
The pins holding her hair were gone, and the silken, blonde waves were draped over a green pillowcase. What he would give to lie beneath a canopy of that hair, a safe place to whisper all the words trapped inside him. An intense longing tightened his chest.
It was heaven.
It was hell.
Imogen sighed and lowered her book. “I have a confession.”
Tommy swallowed over the lump in his throat. “What’s that?”
“As much as I wanted you to leave, I’m glad you’re here.” Two bright spots highlighted her cheeks. “Nights are the loneliest.”
“I hate hearing you’ve been lonely.”
“Part of me has been lonely ever since I was eighteen. Ever since…you know.”
His stomach clenched at the mention of that night outside his shabby apartment. It was two years after Imogen was sent to boarding school, and at least a year since his family left the Radford’s employ. The sight of the gorgeous woman she’d become took his breath away, and he’d listened in a daze as she listed all the reasons they could finally be together. But he was so angry back then, entirely convinced the world was against him. The thought of dragging Imogen down with him had been inconceivable. He’d turned cruel and sent her away in tears.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Genie. I wish I had done it all differently.”
“I know.” One corner of her mouth lifted, and she laid a hand on his ankle. “And I forgive you. I really do.”
Imogen’s forgiveness was a gentle rain that brought life to the parched recesses of his heart. Unable to speak, he laid his hand on top of hers and squeezed.
“It’s hard to believe it took five years to find you again,” she added after a moment.
