Chapter Twenty-Four #2
She couldn’t help the moan that escaped when she tasted the pizza. It was the perfect balance of thin, crispy and chewy, the flavours heady and fresh. His mini pizzas on the night of mistletoe decorating had been delicious, but this was even better.
‘Told you,’ Lucy said gleefully. ‘Dad’s pizza is the best.’
‘I can’t see it ever being beaten,’ Imogen agreed. ‘Just like his cakes and pastries.’
‘The chef at the hotel makes incredible desserts,’ Dexter said. ‘They’re more elaborate than anything I do.’
‘I got to try her turkey bonbons earlier, when I was at the hub,’ Imogen said. ‘But I honestly can’t imagine anyone doing Danishes better than you.’
‘They’re not as good as Dad’s.’ A neat frown appeared on Lucy’s smooth forehead. ‘I’ll fight anyone who says they are.’
‘Hang on, Lucy, who said that to you?’
‘What?’
‘I’ll fight anyone. Has someone said that to you? It’s not the sort of language you should be using.’
Lucy rolled her eyes. ‘Nobody’s said it to me, Dad. It’s just a saying, like, about something you really believe.’
‘I’m flattered you believe in my baking, but I still don’t think you should be using it.’
‘You could say, “that’s the hill I’ll die on” instead,’ Imogen suggested.
Lucy looked at her like she was mad. ‘That doesn’t make any sense.’
‘It does, sort of. It relates to war and battles – you know, you’d defend something to the death? Never mind.’ Lucy was still looking at her as if she was speaking a foreign language. ‘What do you want for Christmas?’
‘There’s this new Romantasy series,’ Lucy said, the previous conversation forgotten as her eyes lit up, and Imogen listened as she explained the complicated plot of a book she hadn’t read yet, that involved dragons and witches and was apparently more epic than any book series that had gone before.
Halfway through, Dexter nudged her leg with his foot.
He was only in his socks, and why did she find that completely endearing?
Maybe, if she was thinking about presents, she could get him a pair of slippers. Except, was that too intimate?
‘Imogen!’
‘Sorry!’ She started. ‘What was that?’
‘What do you want for Christmas?’ Lucy asked.
‘Oh. I don’t really know.’ Until her mum’s message, she had been trying to ignore the practicalities of Christmas, because it all seemed too complicated.
If she was staying here, would she need to send presents to London?
Would she still have to get Edmund something, even though they were no longer together – although apparently he hadn’t given up on her, so what did that mean for present-buying?
Surely she should leave him off her list to make a point.
She usually got his parents something, a few hamper items because she couldn’t afford a whole hamper, but she was pretty sure they hated her, and now there was Birdie, and Sophie, Harry and May, Dexter and Lucy, and …
‘Hey.’ Dexter squeezed her arm. ‘You look like there’s a storm raging inside your head.’
Imogen stared hard at her empty plate. ‘It’s all such a mess.’
‘What is?’ She heard the concern creep into his voice, and wondered if he was always on high alert, waiting for the next problem he had to solve.
‘Everything. But I …’ She didn’t want to ruin this dinner by inflicting her life woes on Dexter and Lucy.
‘No, go on,’ Dexter said. ‘We might be able to help.’
Imogen smiled. ‘That’s kind, but—’
‘A problem shared is a problem halved,’ Lucy said authoritatively.
‘That’s a much better saying,’ Dexter pointed out. ‘And I agree.’
‘Right.’ Imogen let out a long, slow breath. ‘Well. A few years ago, I sent out Christmas cards to all my friends and family – a cute cartoon design with a sprout hanging from a Christmas tree, and a caption that said, Check your baubles.’
Lucy let out a peal of laughter, and Dexter snorted.
‘They were charity cards, supporting breast cancer awareness, so I thought they would be well received.’
‘They weren’t, I take it?’ Dexter said.
‘My mum doesn’t appreciate humorous cards, even if they have a helpful message, and she was furious because I’d sent it to her and Dad and some of their friends.
After that, she said I had to get my cards from Liberty’s, and send her the confirmation email to prove it.
’ Shame washed over her, because saying it out loud, she wondered why on earth she’d capitulated.
‘I know what you’re thinking – that I should have said no.
But there is so much to navigate with my parents, especially as I work for Dad, and life is a whole lot easier if I say yes to things. ’
‘Yes to overpriced Christmas cards?’ Dexter asked softly, an eyebrow raised. It felt like permission, so Imogen let it all out.
‘Yes to Christmas cards that don’t reference boobs, and to buying a new dress, every year, for their Christmas Eve dinner, and to picking up the most elegant dessert and not the one you think looks tastiest – although actually it would be better if I made dessert, despite Dad always asking me to stay until close on the twenty-third because I’ve been there so long I know the solutions to all the problems.
‘And no to me and Edmund exchanging stockings because it’s childish, and to the glitter ball bauble I found in Camden market even though this one doesn’t have nipples on it, because it doesn’t fit in with the tasteful gold and black colour scheme he has decided on – even though he won’t, actually, raise a hand to help with the tree, apart from directing the delivery men when it turns up because he thinks that makes him manly.
’ She took a breath, but she wasn’t finished.
‘No to jogging bottoms on Christmas Day, even though I found sparkly ones and was going to consume more food than is sensible so I needed an elasticated waistband, because you have to look properly groomed on Christmas Day apparently, and it’s just …
expectation after rule after obligation.
Christmas is meant to be ice skating and spray-painted mistletoe and quirky homemade decorations, and secret book deliveries and hot chocolate with cream and …
’ she gestured at their empty plates, ‘pizza, and sneaking glasses of whisky and groaning loudly when you’ve eaten so much you’re basically spherical, and I just— I should have been given a copy of Great Expectations, not Northanger Abbey.
’ She flung her arms in the air, even as the blush heated her cheeks. ‘God, I’m so sorry.’
Lucy and Dexter were staring at her, stunned, and she wondered if she could make it to the front door and put her shoes on before they snapped out of it.
‘Don’t be sorry,’ Dexter said after a moment. ‘It doesn’t sound like your Christmases have been a whole lot of fun.’
‘No, they have,’ she said automatically, then swallowed. ‘Not always. There’s so much performance.’
‘I’d like some homemade decorations,’ Lucy piped up. ‘We could get some shells from the beach and some really nice twigs, and paint them so they’re sparkly.’
Imogen’s throat clogged up. ‘That’s so kind, but—’
‘A foraging expedition is a great idea,’ Dexter said.
‘Really?’ Imogen asked. ‘I’d love to explore Mistingham a bit more.’
‘Yay!’ Lucy clapped. ‘Can I go and get ready for Amber? She’s coming soon.’
Dexter glanced at the clock, his face sharp with alarm. ‘Of course – go.’
‘Thanks, Dad.’ She scraped her chair back and raced from the room.
‘I’m sorry,’ Imogen said. ‘I shouldn’t have gone on like that. I didn’t mean to force you into some random foraging trip, especially when it’s so cold.’
He shook his head. ‘It’ll be fun. And if it makes you feel better, then …’
‘It’s not your job to make me feel better. I shouldn’t have burdened you with all my family rubbish.’
‘Does it help, though? Having someone you can talk to who’s outside the family?’
‘It does. You’ve been so kind, so generous, and I’ve been … a mess.’
‘You think I’m doing it because I pity you?’
She forced herself to look at him, and saw a fierce glint in his eyes that contradicted his gentle smile. ‘I have been my own worst enemy.’
‘It sounds like you didn’t always have a choice. And Imogen?’
‘Yes?’
‘Pity is not something I feel for you. I feel a lot of things, when I look at you and when we talk, and when you’re not here but I can’t stop thinking about you; but none of them get anywhere close to pity.’
She nodded, but what could she say to that?
‘Hey.’ He slid his hand down her arm, until his fingers twined with hers, then he was tugging, and Imogen didn’t know exactly what he was doing, but then he pushed his chair back from the table, and his lap was just there so she got up and, still holding his hand, stepped around his legs and sat down.
Dexter brought his free hand around her waist, pulling her closer.
‘Hey.’ Their faces were only a few inches apart, and she leaned down, pressing her mouth to his.
The kiss started slow and soft, gently probing, and she brought her arms around his neck.
Dexter was a patient kisser and a confident one, and his certainty bled into her, until she was returning his touch with raw honesty, letting him know how much she wanted it, wanted him.
‘Imogen,’ he murmured against her lips, his fingers digging deliciously into her waist.
‘Dexter.’ She laughed a little, because she felt like a teenager.
‘How would you feel—’
The doorbell rang, and Imogen sprang away from him so quickly that she almost fell off his lap. Dexter tightened his hold on her, his eyes wide with surprise. ‘I’d better—’
‘That’s Amber and her mum,’ Lucy said loudly, and Imogen realized she was standing behind the sofa, and could have been watching them for any length of time. ‘I’ll go.’
‘I’ll … I’ll come and see you off,’ Dexter said, and Imogen climbed off his lap.
‘Bye Imogen,’ Lucy called. ‘I liked having pizza together.
I hope you have a good time with Dad.’
‘I will,’ she stuttered. ‘I mean, it was lovely to see you, too. Have a great time at football.’
Dexter went with Lucy to the door, and Imogen closed her eyes, listening to their cheery voices, Dexter recovering his composure and chatting with Amber’s mum, saying goodbye to Lucy, wishing her good luck and telling her he’d pick her up tomorrow.
Then the door closed, and she could hear Dexter’s socked feet padding towards her. She opened her eyes.
‘I am so sorry.’
‘What are you sorry for?’ Dexter asked. ‘She saw us the other day outside Birdie’s house. She saw us on the ice rink. I’ve already had a lecture from her about how I have to treat you properly.’
‘You have?’
He nodded. ‘And I know it’s not straightforward, that I will need to explain things and be careful with her emotions, and that she’ll likely get confused and angry at some point, when …
’ he paused, his Adam’s apple bobbing, ‘when you go back to London. But I don’t want to use that as a reason not to be with you.
’ He stroked her hair back from her forehead.
‘Me either. But I don’t want to be selfish.’
‘Be selfish,’ Dexter said. ‘If it means kissing me again, spending time with me, spending the night here with me, then do it – let yourself have it, if you want to. That’s me being selfish, and right now I am completely fine with that.’
‘OK, I …’ There were so many things she could say, was already thinking, to contradict his statement, but then she thought of Catherine Morland, the way she made mistakes and then let herself move on – after some internal handwringing and a promise to herself to do better:
Her mind made up on these several points, and her resolution formed, of always judging and acting in future with the greatest good sense, she had nothing to do but to forgive herself and be happier than ever.
Dexter misread her hesitation. ‘But if you don’t want any of that, then of course that’s fine too. Whatever you want, Imogen. You get to choose.’
She looked at him, those last four words so simple and profound, they unlocked something inside her.
She launched herself forward, wrapping her arms around his neck as she pressed her lips to his, with none of the care or finesse of a few minutes ago.
Dexter kissed her back, his warm hands bracketing her lower back, his thumbs sliding up and down her waist in a way that made her spark to life, a live-wire, breathless and erratic.
‘I choose you,’ she said, between kisses. ‘It’s you, Dexter. I want to have you.’
He pulled back, his gaze so intense she thought they might both catch fire. ‘Good,’ he panted. ‘I choose you, too, and it already feels like the best – or at least the most honest – decision I have made in a long time.’
Imogen wanted to say something else, but then Dexter’s lips were on hers again and it felt so good, so right, that she let herself give into it, pressing against him as he slid his hands over her hips, down to her thighs. He lifted her up, so she had no option but to wrap her legs around him.
Then Dexter Rivera, village baker, single dad, pigeonwrangler and the kindest, gentlest, most generous man Imogen had ever met, was carrying her through his living room, past his cheery Christmas tree and sleeping puppy, towards the stairs, barely breaking their kiss as he did it, one arm tight around her waist and his other hand possessively on the back of her head.
Her limbs trembled in anticipation, and she realized there was a whole lot more to the mild-mannered man she was falling for, and that he was about to show her some of it.
In that moment, Imogen felt like all her Christmases had come at once, and this time, they were exactly how she wanted them to be.