Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Lincoln stood outside the door to Artisan Chocolates, wondering if he was being a complete idiot.
He knew it was the day of Imogen’s shoot for the magazine.
He didn’t want to distract her—he knew how important it was to her.
He knew how hard she’d been working on the sculpture, how much of a difference the feature could make for her business.
It was a huge opportunity, and he didn’t want to do anything that might hurt her chances of it being perfect.
But he also hadn’t slept at all the night before, and he couldn’t think of anything that morning other than getting to the bottom of why Imogen seemed to be pushing him away.
He’d hoped that he’d wake up to a text from her telling him that it was fine, that she was just really busy and she’d talk to him later.
There had been nothing, though. And on the way to the rink, he’d found himself driving in the direction of her shop instead, unable to stop himself from following through on what he knew was a bad idea.
Just go in and say hi, he told himself. Wish her luck on the shoot today. He’d leave after that, and her mood would at least give him some clarity on what was going on.
The bell over the door chimed as he entered, and Lincoln was immediately struck by how different the shop looked today.
Where normally the shop would be full of customers, today the space had been completely transformed.
There were displays of chocolates arranged on top of the counters, the hot chocolate station was pristine and had several mugs sitting out ready to be filled, topped, and photographed, and there was camera equipment everywhere.
In the center of it all was the sculpture that Imogen had been working on for so long, and the sight of it made Lincoln stare for several long moments.
It was an impressive recreation of Santa’s workshop, all in chocolate.
Everything from the workshop itself, to the presents in the waiting sleigh, the elves bringing them out, the reindeer harnessed and waiting to fly, the trees and snow and lights, even a train in the background…
it was all rendered in chocolate, so delicate and fine and highly detailed he couldn’t believe it was possible.
He’d always believed Imogen was talented, but this was something else. He’d never seen anything like it.
And then he saw Imogen step out of the back room, and his breath caught in his throat.
He’d never not thought she was beautiful, but she looked gorgeous dressed up for the shoot, he thought as he looked at her.
Her chestnut hair was out of its usual ponytail and curling around her shoulders, she’d done her makeup, and she was wearing dark jeans, a rust-colored sweater and a cranberry blazer that set off her hair and skin perfectly.
He’d thought he’d had some idea of what he was going to say, but everything fled as he looked at her, feeling completely dumbfounded.
She was still the girl he’d fallen for fifteen years ago, and someone else entirely, all at once.
He was frozen, everything sensible he could have said deserting him.
“Lincoln?” She sounded flustered, he realized, when she said his name. “Is something wrong? I didn’t expect to see you here.”
He felt his cheeks heat as he realized how he must look, showing up on the day of her shoot out of nowhere after she hadn’t responded to him.
“I…” he started, then cleared his throat and tried again. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to catch you off guard. You just… you look lovely. Really lovely.”
The compliment seemed to fluster Imogen even more, and Lincoln watched as her cheeks flushed, somehow making her seem even more beautiful. He wasn’t sure how that was possible.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice slightly strained. “I, um, I wanted to look professional for the photographs.”
“You look perfect,” Lincoln said, then felt the heat in his face extend to his ears as he realized how that sounded. “I—”
They stood looking at each other for several long seconds. Lincoln cleared his throat.
“I should probably…” Imogen gestured vaguely toward the workspace behind her, where one of the photographers was adjusting the lights.
“Yeah, of course.” Lincoln swallowed hard. “I just wanted to stop by and see… well, see how you were. I haven’t seen you for a while.”
Imogen’s eyebrows rose. “We saw each other a day ago,” she said with a small laugh. “It hasn’t been that long.”
“Right,” he said, feeling foolish. “One day. I guess it just feels longer because…” he trailed off, unsure how to finish that sentence without revealing how much their sleigh ride had affected him.
Imogen looked at him curiously, and he had a feeling he’d completely messed up the conversation before it had even really begun.
“You must have been busy, getting ready for the photoshoot,” he said quickly, feeling foolish and wanting to change the topic. “The sculpture is gorgeous. Really incredible… I can’t believe something like that was made out of chocolate.”
“Thanks,” Imogen said with a small, nervous smile.
“I have been really busy. I can’t believe I pulled it off, honestly, but it’s not over yet.
I need to get a few things done before the reporter gets here, actually—” She paused.
“Can you excuse me? It was nice of you to come by, but she’ll be here really soon, and… ”
Lincoln knew she was giving him the cue to leave. Everything about their conversation had felt different, nothing like the nostalgic camaraderie of their sleigh ride just a day ago. The laughter and easy-going feeling was gone, and now everything felt heavy and awkward.
“Yeah.” He cleared his throat again. “Good luck with the shoot and… everything. I’m sure it’s going to be perfect. You’ve done a really great job. You deserve all of this. It’s… it’s going to be wonderful.”
Imogen smiled. “Thanks,” she said, and it sounded genuine. But she didn’t say anything else, and he knew he needed to go.
He gave her another smile, and then headed toward the door, stepping back out into the cold December morning. The door closing behind him felt uncomfortably final, and Lincoln stood on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to process what had just happened.
Imogen hadn’t been upset or rude. He honestly wasn’t sure she was capable of being rude to anyone. But he’d felt the distance between them, the awkwardness. And she’d wanted him to leave, he felt sure of that.
Lincoln walked slowly back to his truck, his mind spinning as he tried to figure out what had gone wrong.
Had he misread the signals during their evening together?
Had he been too eager about the connection he’d felt between them?
Or had she just had time to think about their conversation and decided that she should never have let it get that far?
He couldn’t think of anything he might have done that would have been so terrible that it would upset her. Maybe the way the conversation had felt had just been because of her nerves over the photoshoot and the interview.
But he couldn’t help feeling, as he got into his truck and headed toward the rink, that it was more than that.
That whatever there had been in that moment between them, he’d lost the chance to find out if it could have been more.