The next morning, Tommy stood on the doorstep and sipped a mug of coffee. Overnight, the storm clouds had been replaced by delicate wisps scattered across the pale blue sky. The emerging sun, a pale orb on the horizon, cast a glow upon the snow-laden peaks, and the once-muted whites and blues of the forest now sparkled. The air, frigid yet invigorating, carried the promise of new beginnings.
The mountains had gifted him an escape route.
If he departed soon, he could be in the next town within a few hours. From there, he’d sort out his passage back to Seattle. What a relief it would be to return to real life, where he slept in a bed instead of a make-shift pile of blankets on the floor. He’d have clean clothing that fit him, and he could have a steak for Christmas Eve dinner. His trials would recede to a distant memory, and life would go on.
Strange that he wasn’t jubilant. Stranger still that he wasn’t already preparing to leave.
The quiet sounds of Imogen waking up inside the cabin reached him, and when his heartbeat doubled, he was forced to admit she was the reason for his hesitation. Now that they were on good terms, it seemed a shame to walk away. Maybe…no, it couldn’t be helped; his plans depended on getting the book back to Seattle. It was the last sale, and then he could finally rest. Finally make a break away from the double life he’d grown weary of. Finally fulfill his destiny.
Besides, Imogen would be fine. She wanted to be alone. Surely, she would appreciate his departure, which would allow her to…well, to do whatever she’d been doing before he’d stumbled upon the cabin. He frowned. Why was she alone for Christmas?
It irked him that he didn’t know.
He could leave, or…he could delay his departure a few hours. Spend a bit more time with her. He still owed her a photograph, didn’t he? He could fulfill his promise and savor one last morning with her. Pleased with his decision, he opened the door to find Imogen just on the other side, a colorful patchwork quilt wrapped around her.
She looked past him and gasped in awe. “Will you look at that? It’s a winter wonderland.”
He was too busy drinking in her loveliness to reply.
“It’s so peaceful, so…” Her smile slipped and she cut him a glance. “So perfect for travel, isn’t it?”
He managed a nod.
“Well,” she said, straightening her shoulders. “We knew this day would come. Luckily for you, I woke up with a plan.”
“What’s that?”
“You need a disguise. I wouldn’t be surprised in the least if news of a redheaded scoundrel has traveled to other nearby towns. You’re too noticeable, so I’m going to dye your hair black. In exchange, you’ll pose for me. Deal?”
It sounded absurd, but so had many of Imogen’s schemes over the years. He’d always been a willing participant. Why not indulge in one more? Before he could change his mind, he held out his hand. “Let’s get started.”
* * *
It was hard to pose for a photograph with scalp that itched like the devil.
Tommy gritted his teeth and struggled to maintain the position Imogen had put him in—boots planted firmly on the open threshold facing the outdoors, one hand resting lightly on the rough-hewn door frame, face tilted toward the sky. She’d put him back in his union suit and mangled hat, but a heavy wool blanket was draped from his shoulders to his knees.
“This tincture smells as bad as a miner’s week-old socks.” He battled the urge to dig his fingers beneath the cloth covering his dye-slathered hair.
“I thought scoundrels were made of tougher stuff,” came a distracted reply.
He braved a quick glance behind him and his chest tightened at the sight of Imogen bent over her box camera, fiddling with some part or another. She straightened and he took in her appearance. Her outfit was built for warmth, not fashion. A plaid wool skirt was topped by a gray, knitted sweater so large it hid the shape of her body. Likely a castoff from her father. It tantalized him, made him want to slip his hands beneath and determine the exact shape of her waist. Find a ticklish spot on her side to make her gasp and shudder.
Ah, hell. He was a scoundrel.
They’d rebuilt their friendship a day before and he was already back to lusting after her. Desperate to interrupt his thoughts, he grumbled, “Strange way to take a man’s portrait. Can’t even see my full face.”
“Perhaps that isn’t the story I wish to tell.”
“Let me guess. Your story is called Man Itches to Death in Revenge Plot.”
There was a soft chuckle. “It only itches because you’re thinking about it. Why don’t you tell me how many books you’ve stolen?”
“And exactly how long has that question been on your mind?”
“Since the moment I discovered you are a book thief. So, please acknowledge my self-control.”
“A whole four days,” he drawled. “Impressive.”
“Well?”
He debated telling her this was the first time, but what was the point? It didn’t matter if her opinion of him changed when she learned he was an accomplished thief; he was leaving anyway.
“A dozen books over the years. As I said, I manage a bookshop, so I can’t take too many risks. I’m very selective about what I steal, and I make sure not to repeat the same tactics twice.”
“What do you do with them?”
“I sell them for as much money as possible, of course.” Technically, it was true. She didn’t need to know the reason why he was accruing funds.
“Is that why you become involved with the bookshop in the first place?”
“Actually, no. That came first. After I—” After I was ordered never to speak to you again, he almost said. “After we parted, I wanted to make something of myself. I begged my parents to let me return to school, and they agreed on two conditions. One, I had to sever ties with the other young men I’d recently taken up with—”
“They were ruffians,” she interjected. “Your mother and I hated them. They encouraged you to do all sorts of bad things.”
“Are you telling the story or am I?”
She groaned. “You are. I’ll be quiet.”
“And two, I had to get a respectable job for after school and weekends. I was a delivery boy for the first few months. Luckily, one of my new teachers, Miss Mullins, noticed my efforts at school and introduced me to her brother who owned a bookshop. I started out sweeping the floors, then moved to apprentice. When I graduated from high school, he gave me a job. I’ve worked there ever since.”
“I’m so happy to know you achieved your dream.”
“Thank you. But now it’s your turn to spill the truth.” He ignored her scoff. “What are you doing here by yourself? The Genie I knew would never have missed out on all the holiday fun Seattle has to offer.”
“Utter rejection.”
Her tone might be melodramatic, but Tommy didn’t miss the underlying sadness. His grip tightened on the door frame.
“Who rejected you?”
“My fiancé, for starters.”
His nails dug into the wood. “You’re engaged?”
“The more accurate phrase would be former fiancé.”
“Thank you for the clarification,” he managed, his stomach unsure whether to relax or not. “What happened?”
“He jilted me. Rather publicly,” she added. “I’m hiding out here until the hubbub dies down. Hopefully, there will be a few other scandals this holiday season and my sad story will soon be old news.”
“Why did he break the engagement?” He kept his voice as level as possible, but inside he was shaking. From rage, from impotence…from relief.
“We were a good match, at least on paper. But he never took the time to know me. He was positively flabbergasted at the Roberts’ winter gala when I corrected his assertion that I’d give up my hobby once children came along. I tried to keep the conversation private, but you should have seen how his lip curled with distaste. Then he said my artistic dreams were an embarrassment, and I’m afraid I quite lost my composure.” She heaved a sigh. “As soon as all eyes were on us, he broke the engagement. It was horrible.”
Tommy’s brows rose. Even as a girl, the quickest way to make Imogen do something was to tell her she shouldn’t. Or couldn’t. “What a blockhead. Sounds like you escaped a lifetime of misery.”
“I agree. Besides, now I have more time to focus on my profession. It’s going very well. In fact, hold still…” He froze and there was a faint click and whirr. “All done.”
He shut the door, removed his boots, and placed them against the wall where they belonged. He turned around. Imogen hadn’t emerged from behind her camera, but her stance surprised him. The successful professional she’d just claimed to be had already been replaced by a nail-chewing novice who stared down at her equipment like it was an unsolvable puzzle.
“Will you develop the image today?”
Imogen’s shoulders tensed and she jerked her hand from her mouth. She grimaced in what he gathered was supposed to be a smile. “The plate will keep. Let’s take care of that hair.”
Something was bothering her, but it was clear she had no interest in sharing. As someone with plenty of his own secrets, he could understand. Just because they’d become friends again didn’t mean they had to bare their souls to each other. Not like the old days, when he had to clamp a hand over her mouth and beg her to stop giving him a moment-by-moment narration of her morning. The difference sent a prickle of sadness through him, but he shrugged it off.
While Imogen moved to the hearth to collect water warming in a pan, he settled on a wooden chair at the small, square table in the center of the room. He removed his hat and the muslin cloth beneath, grimacing as his fingers touched the smelly goop smeared in his hair. “Yuck. How do you stand this?”
“I don’t. My mother does.” Imogen poured the water into a shallow, metal washbasin and lifted it carefully. “You’re lucky she left a bottle up here during her last visit. There.” She set the washbasin on the table and moved in front of him. A strange expression flitted over her face.
“What?”
“Nothing,” she said hastily. “Lean your head back.”
He squinted at her, but she nudged his shoulder until he did as ordered. A cupful of warm water sluiced down his head, and then her fingers were in his hair. The gentle sifting was exquisite. A shiver went down his spine and he closed his eyes, his rigid body softening in surrender. Her breath wafted over his forehead and he drew in her sweet and spicy scent with greedy inhales. The warm heat of her hip pressed into his shoulder, anchoring him to the earth while his mind floated on a cloud of tranquility. He never wanted to lose her soft touch. Never wanted to leave—
“Do you feel like you’re in danger?”
His eyes flew open. Yes, he wanted to say. Of wanting you too much. Again. “No, why?”
She gestured to his lap. “You’re…aroused.”
He let out a startled laugh. “The only danger is how good your hands feel in my hair. Are all your visitors charged a peep for such pampering?” She tugged sharply on his hair, but he only laughed again.
“Yes, I peeped. You would have, too. But no, I’m not pampering you.”
“Then why do you caress me so sweetly?” He gave her his most wicked grin. “Perhaps you’re imagining a different appendage of mine?”
More water splashed, sloppier this time. He gurgled on the stream that found his mouth and turned his head to spit it into the muddled washbasin. He gave Imogen a warning look, but she was unaffected. As per usual.
“Should you really be pretending that I’m the one affected by our close proximity?” she asked.
He shifted in his seat, suddenly overcome with the need to puff out his chest with masculine pride. He’d always enjoyed female attention, but the adrenaline coursing through him was new, different. Apparently, he preened under Imogen’s attention. “So you are looking.”
“Hmm,” she said, moving out of sight. He twisted his neck to follow her movement. Didn’t she have a wittier response to his taunt? Why was she smelling the bottled hair tincture?
“Is everything all right?”
She set the hair tincture down. “One more wash should do it. Lie back.”
She soaped up her hands and scrubbed his head so vigorously his neck rattled on the edge of the washbasin like a vaudeville tambourine. He braced both hands on the chair arms and shouted, “Enough, woman! I apologize already.”
“I hear you,” she said in a distracted voice. “We’re almost done.”
She rinsed his hair, pulled him to a seated position, and rubbed a towel over his head. “What in the…?” she mumbled, then scrubbed once more before taking a few steps backward.
“What in the what?”
She didn’t answer, just stared at his hair with a mixture of astonishment and barely suppressed amusement. His stomach sank even as his voice rose an octave. “What in the what, Genie?”
Both hands covered her mouth, but peals of laughter burst through.
“Mirror. Now.” A second later, he was staring into a pearl-encrusted hand mirror. “Dear God in heaven.”
His hair had not turned chestnut brown, as promised by the bottle. It was purple.
“The chemicals must have oxidized,” Imogen said between snorts.
“I look like an eggplant.” He lowered the mirror and gaped at her in disbelief. “Is this payback for the time I put a rubber snake in your wardrobe?”
“You swore that wasn’t you!”
“Of course it was me.”
She swatted his arm. “Then, yes, this is payback.”
He raised the mirror and took another look. One wet, purple lock of hair curled over his forehead. “Jesus, I’m hideous. How am I supposed to go into town looking like this? If you thought a redheaded scoundrel would be easy to spot, this is infinitely worse.”
She swiped a pair of scissors from the tabletop beside her. “I could cut it.”
“You stay away.” He held up a hand to ward her off. “Let me think.”
But instead of searching for a solution, he found himself marveling, again, at how enjoyable it was to be around Imogen—mishaps and all. What if this botched hair dyeing was an excuse to stay with her for a little while longer?
“I promise I didn’t do it on purpose. ”
He lifted his head at her tone, which had gone thin with worry. “I know. That’s not actually what I was thinking about.”
“Then what?”
“Truthfully, delaying my return a few days won’t ruin my sale, and it might give the dye a chance to fade. Besides, tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and it’s been a long time since we spent the holidays together.”
“You’re saying…”
“I would like to stay.” He watched her carefully, prepared to take back his words if she showed even the slightest hesitation.
The quick flash of joy before she managed, poorly, to wrestle her features under control was all the answer he needed.
“I wouldn’t mind,” she said with a shrug, and the exaggerated nonchalance made his lips twitch.
“Then it’s settled. I’ll stay.”
“Christmas together,” she agreed.
“Do I still have to sleep on the floor?”
Her smile was radiant. “I’ll give you an extra blanket.”