Page 101 of The Secret Mistletoe Promise
A phone alarm went off, and Sophie sprung up. ‘It’s time to take the turkey out of the oven.’
‘We all need to see that,’ Jazz said.
‘Or help?’ Sophie suggested. ‘Rather than watch me drop it on the floor and ruin Christmas lunch for all of us?’
Jazz laughed and slung an arm around Sophie’s shoulders, and they all trooped out of the lounge.
‘OK?’ Dexter squeezed Imogen’s waist and planted a swift kiss on her cheek, his stubble brushing deliciously against her skin.
She waited until everyone had left the room, so that they were alone. His eyes were warm with amusement, his curls starting to spring back into place after being flattened by his hat on the walk here. She almost couldn’t believe he was hers, that he felt the same way she did, and that their future was laid out ahead of them, full of promise in this beautiful village.
‘I’m good.’ She couldn’t keep the emotion out of her voice. ‘What about you?’
‘Still thinking about Christmas miracles,’ Dexter admitted. ‘I’m glad I didn’t dismiss Lucy when she told me there was an escaped bride who needed rescuing on the outskirts of Mistingham.’
Imogen laughed. She had come a long way that day – and she’d come a long way since that day, too. ‘I’mglad she found me, and that she decided you could be my hero.’ She swallowed. ‘And you are, Dexter. You’re my hero, and I love you.’
‘Talk like that will get you more than a daily sandwich and a kiss on the cheek.’
‘I’m counting on it, though I really do love your gift.’
‘I got you another one.’ He hurried back to the sofa, then returned with a strange-shaped present, wrapped in glittering gold paper and tied with a red bow. ‘Here. Something to remind you.’
Imogen squeezed it. It was soft, and she thought maybe it was another scarf. Depending on how long the snow lasted, she might need a selection. She unwrapped it, revealing soft grey fabric, and then … a claw, and a beak, and a beady little eye. She pulled it out. It was a cuddly pigeon.
She stared at Dexter. ‘To remind me?’
‘Of our first kiss.’
‘Our first kiss.’ The memory made Imogen laugh, then blush, because it had been one of the hottest moments of her life. She squeezed the pigeon’s soft body. ‘Thank you.’
‘I love you, Imogen.’ Dexter kissed her softly, slowly, and she was just about able to think how strange it was that a book and a pigeon, a sprig of mistletoe and a naughty goat, had led to them getting together. Then she scolded herself,because those objects – and animals – might have helped, but she and Dexter had played a large part, too. They had been masters of their own destiny.
‘Dad! Imogen!’ They broke apart to find Lucy in the doorway, her arms folded like a petulant teenager.‘You’re going to miss Christmas lunch,’ she said, and flounced out again.
Dexter laughed and took Imogen’s hand. ‘You’re not too sad it’s turkey and not pizza?’
‘Not too sad,’ Imogen said, which was the understatement of the century. ‘I’ve decided that some Christmas traditions are OK, and what really matters is the people you spend it with.’
‘Spending it with the right people makes all the difference,’ he agreed.
They followed Lucy into Mistingham Manor’s kitchen, where the windows were steamed up and there was an air of happy chaos, and Felix had somehow sneaked in, and Lucy was feeding him and Artichoke baby carrots, because Sophie had cooked far too many.
Dexter put his arms around Imogen’s waist and his chin on her shoulder, then brushed his lips against the delicate skin of her neck as they watched the scene unfold. Imogen sucked in a breath, overwhelmed by his touch, how light it was, and how much it affected her. Now she had to worry about her nerve endings along with her heart, because surely this Christmas Day was going to do her in with its perfection? The part with all these people, who she had come to care for and love, and then later, when it was just her and Dexter, making the most of her single bed, the mattress small but, in lots of ways, ideal, because she didn’t really wantanyspace between them, and she knew he feltthe same, even when he was grumbling about his aching joints.
In the tiny bedroom in the eaves that Imogen was thinking about at that very moment, the old skylight frame that needed replacing let in a blast of cold, snow-sweet air, ruffling the pages of the book on her bedside table. It landed open at a scene where a young woman caught sight of a young man for the first time, a meeting that would change the course of both their lives.
His address was good, and Catherine felt herself in high luck.
Catherine Morland might not have been wearing a wedding dress when she met Henry Tilney, but the scene held so much significance for Imogen, because the book had been an escape, and because she’d just met Dexter when she read it.
So, when she finally made it back to her bedroom, her heart fluttering in anticipation as Dexter followed her inside, both of them full of Christmas food and champagne, and with the impression of the fireworks still on the backs of their eyes, she would switch on her bedside light, see whereNorthanger Abbeyhad fallen open, and think of May’s words:
I trusted the magic of the book to work on you.
And Imogen would wonder, as Dexter unzipped her purple dress, exposing the skin at her neck so he could kiss it, and she slowly unbuttoned his shirt, and their wordless agreement to not break the silence of the soft, snow-covered night added to the intensity of every touch, every look between them, if there was something to what she had said, after all.
The End
