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.
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.
“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.”