“And just so you know,” she added, “I don’t normally sleep with it under my pillow.”
His lips turned up on one side. “No?”
“I had to hide it in one of the few places that escapes your incessant cleaning.”
He shook his head and laughed. “Whatever you say, Genie love. Now, come here.”
He lifted an arm in invitation, and she eagerly pressed into his side. The warmth of his skin seeped into hers and she cuddled closer, daring to lay her cheek in the crook of his neck. He began to read aloud, his resonant baritone and the soft rustle of turning pages as soothing as a hot cup of chocolate.
The afternoon crept on, yet neither moved except to occasionally add wood to the fire or adjust their position. As Imogen lay in Tommy’s arms, his fingers idly stroking the hair at her brow, she pondered the serenity in her heart.
She had arrived to a stark, cold cabin and done her best to make it a refuge. Yet something had always been missing. Now, she knew what it was. She tilted her face and watched the firelight play across Tommy’s strong jaw, highlighting his thick, auburn eyelashes and the crinkles at the corner of his eyes.
And fell for him all over again.
Chapter 8
Tommy sat frozen in the rocking chair and stared unseeing at the open book in his hand. Normally, he could read at any time, any place. Dostoevsky in a park surrounded by noisy schoolchildren? Not an inconvenience. Wilde on a bouncing tram or Wells by the stub of candlelight? Easily achieved. Apparently, that talent fled when it came to posing for a very demanding—dare he say temperamental?—photographer.
“Still not right. Move six inches to your left.”
He obliged, all the while biting the inside of his cheek to prevent a smile. If he did, Imogen would moan about him ruining her vision.
“There! Now let’s work on your expression. Give me ferocity but also whimsy. And toss in a hint of suspicious serenity.”
He snorted. “Do you hear yourself?”
She peered around her camera with a quizzical smile. “Yes, why?”
She was as adorable as she was bizarre. He didn’t have the heart to tell her how strange he found her creative process. It took courage to share her craft with him, and he would remain supportive. “Nothing. I’ll do my best.”
She blew him a kiss, and Tommy was infused with a sense of contentment. It had been three days since she gifted him the faded handkerchief. The cheap bit of cloth touched him more deeply than he could have thought possible. Until that night, he hadn’t realized how badly he needed to know that his past actions hadn’t ruined everything between them. The handkerchief hadn’t left his pocket since.
Each day with Imogen was nothing short of exhilarating. When a second snowstorm swept through the area, pinning them in place again, he wondered whether he would begin to feel trapped. Miraculously, his worry and restlessness were gone. Hell, he didn’t even care that his purple hair was an abomination. It made Imogen giggle, and that was enough. The desire to run was replaced with a willingness to simply…be.
The days were filled with endless conversation. It was like a dam burst inside Tommy, and all the stories he’d bottled up came pouring forth. Imogen listened like every word out of his mouth was endlessly fascinating, like he was as talented a storyteller as the authors he read every day. Imogen responded in kind, and soon their words tumbled over each other. They rehashed old memories, adding in missing details that made the other snort with laughter. Amusing events from recent years were woven in, which lead to animated debates over Seattle’s tastiest desserts or the best name for a racehorse.
Then there were the nights. Their shared passion was revelatory. He’d fulfilled his wish to Imogen a dozen times over. She was still a virgin, but he’d taught her how to suck his cock, how to enjoy a man licking her sweet pussy. For hours upon hours, it was nothing but trembling limbs, gasping breaths, and shuddering climaxes.
He hadn’t been this happy in a long time. Not only did he have his best friend back, but there was something growing between them. It was undeniable. Exciting. Natural. Every evening was spent with a very nude, very endearing Imogen nestled against his chest while he read aloud. He couldn’t imagine the same scenario with anyone else.
“Perfect,” Imogen announced. “Whatever you were thinking about really hit the mark.”
There was no way he could tell her what he’d actually been thinking. He couldn’t risk disrupting the magic between them. So he said with an exaggerated leer, “Come closer and I’ll show you.”
The flush that rose to Imogen’s cheeks told him she bought his prevarication. “Oh, you.”
He set the book down. “What’s next?”
“Hmm.” She tapped her chin and paced across the floor. She would pause occasionally to pick up an object—a dish holding used tea leaves, a half-finished paper snowflake, a discarded pillowcase—and squint at it like it could tell her whether it was the correct prop or not. He surreptitiously followed behind her, adjusting objects as she laid them down. She whirled to glare at him. “I see you.”
“I haven’t the faintest idea of what you’re talking about.”
She rolled her eyes. “For a thief, your capacity for lying is sorely lacking. Speaking of thieves…” She dashed to the cabinet and removed the stashed oilcloth. “This is what we need.”
“Wonderful.”
She plunked his hat on his head and directed him to a frost-lined window. “Crouch down and peer through. Make sure the oilcloth is clearly visible. Like so.” She adjusted his grip around the oilcloth until she was satisfied.
