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.”
He leaned back against the foot of the bed and cracked open the book. He devoured the first short story, relieved to focus on something other than Imogen. The whiskey, far finer than his usual fare, worked its slow magic. The oaky sweetness was undercut by a subtle bitterness, an intriguing interplay that mimicked his inner thoughts.
He glanced up and was arrested by the sight of Imogen reading her book. She wasn’t a noisy reader—which he detested more than warmed milk—but she was performative. Her lips moved in a wordless dance, as if she conversed with the characters themselves. Her wide, alert eyes flew across the page, and her expressive eyebrows told a story of their own.
He raised his mug and was surprised to find it empty. He wasn’t usually a heavy drinker, but it seemed the best way to survive the temptation before him. He poured himself another, but when he moved to set the bottle down, Imogen held out her mug with an expectant smile. It still held at least a finger-full.
“You don’t have to keep up with me.”
“Pour.”
Shrugging, he gave her a small splash. She glared at him until he added a second splash, then a third. They resumed reading. Tommy eased onto his back, his head propped against two pillows, the book resting on his chest. Normally, there was no finer way to pass an evening than with a crackling fire, a warm buzz in his head, and a good book. But as his gaze returned to Imogen, who now lay with her limbs propped up by various pillows, he knew what had been missing.
A woman who smelled of cinnamon and vanilla.
The pins holding her hair were gone, and the silken, blonde waves were draped over a green pillowcase. What he would give to lie beneath a canopy of that hair, a safe place to whisper all the words trapped inside him. An intense longing tightened his chest.
It was heaven.
It was hell.
Imogen sighed and lowered her book. “I have a confession.”
Tommy swallowed over the lump in his throat. “What’s that?”
“As much as I wanted you to leave, I’m glad you’re here.” Two bright spots highlighted her cheeks. “Nights are the loneliest.”
“I hate hearing you’ve been lonely.”
“Part of me has been lonely ever since I was eighteen. Ever since…you know.”
His stomach clenched at the mention of that night outside his shabby apartment. It was two years after Imogen was sent to boarding school, and at least a year since his family left the Radford’s employ. The sight of the gorgeous woman she’d become took his breath away, and he’d listened in a daze as she listed all the reasons they could finally be together. But he was so angry back then, entirely convinced the world was against him. The thought of dragging Imogen down with him had been inconceivable. He’d turned cruel and sent her away in tears.
“I’m so sorry I hurt you, Genie. I wish I had done it all differently.”
“I know.” One corner of her mouth lifted, and she laid a hand on his ankle. “And I forgive you. I really do.”
Imogen’s forgiveness was a gentle rain that brought life to the parched recesses of his heart. Unable to speak, he laid his hand on top of hers and squeezed.
“It’s hard to believe it took five years to find you again,” she added after a moment.
He shifted in his seat. “As long as we’re confessing…”
“Wait.” She gulped down her remaining whiskey and held out her mug for more. He obliged in silence, though he was far less generous this time. Her eyes had already taken on a glassy sheen. “Now, I’m ready.”
“It only took a few hours for me to regret what I’d done. It took almost two years for me to go looking for you.”
“What? But we never…”
“I saw you on the university campus. You were surrounded by classmates, and you looked so damned happy.”
“I wasn’t.”
He shrugged. “I watched you for a while, and as much as I wanted to speak to you, I knew I’d made the right choice. You were succeeding in ways I never would. You had friends. There was even a man hovering over you. So, I walked away.”
She jolted upright, her whiskey sloshing over one side of her mug. “Was he medium height with brown hair?”
“I don’t quite recall. What stood out to me was his enormous gold fob watch.”
She groaned. “If you hadn’t fled, you might have saved me from the man who would eventually jilt me in front of half of Seattle.”
“Perhaps I should have,” he replied. “I would have savored stuffing his timepiece down his throat.”
“I hated that watch. He loved it more than me.” She scooted closer to tap her mug to his. “Want to know the worst part?”
“What?”
“He kissed like a toad.”
“Genie, I do not want to hear about you kissing him.”
“Maybe all men kiss like toads,” she mused, a slight slur to her words.
Tommy squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. She’d never been properly kissed?
“Do you kiss like a toad?”
His poor mug was in danger of being crushed between his hands, so he set it carefully aside. “Genie, that’s enough…”
“Think you could do better?”
“I know I could.” He cracked an eye open. “But we’ve had a lot to drink—oomph.”
He caught Imogen against his chest. She encircled his neck with her arms, leaned back, and gifted him a smile so adorably eager that his toes curled. His hands slid down to her slender waist, at last discernible through the layers of heavy clothing. She was so warm, so pliant, and a hiss of wanting escaped his lips.
“Genie,” he said in a strangled voice. “We’re friends, remember?”
“Friends kiss.”
“They most certainly do not.”
“Fine. We’re not friends.”
“Hmm, I see.” He shifted her fully onto his lap, his arms closing around her so naturally it was if they’d done it a hundred times before. “And that means I can kiss you?”
“Exactly. A loophole.”
“I’m starting to think you’re the scoundrel.”
“Perhaps so. And perhaps…” She leaned forward to nip lightly at the end of his nose. “You like it.”
To hell with it. She wanted it. He wanted it. One kiss and her curiosity would be sated. One kiss and he’d be able to get her out of his mind.
There was no gentle preamble. Their lips met in a kiss of unbridled longing, of hunger that had smoldered beneath the surface for too long. He stroked her tongue with his, sucked on her lower lip. Her fingers wound through his hair and pulled him closer. She gave a throaty moan, and his cock hardened beneath her hips. His hands were moving, caressing her sides, her back, pulling her as close as possible. She was everything he’d never stopped needing. Everything he could never live without. He wanted to show her how good a kiss could be, how the right man could make her sing with pleasure. How they were meant to be together—
He ripped his lips from hers. Inhaled ragged breaths of air and stared down at her with alarm. At what point had she gained the upper hand? How had she pulled such need from him? Need he hadn’t even been aware existed until that moment?
And why did it feel…right?
Imogen touched her swollen lips with a shaking hand. “You’re no toad.”
“Told you,” he said gruffly. “Now lay your head on my shoulder.”
She shifted in his lap to do as told, her plump bottom sliding over his rigid cock. He gritted his teeth against the heady pleasure and tightened both arms around her. At last, she was still. He dipped his nose to nestle in her hair, and her intoxicating scent calmed his stampeding heart. They sat in silence, lulled by the soft crackle of firewood. Imogen’s breathing turned heavy and rhythmic.
Ever so slowly, Tommy raised a finger and stroked her silken cheek. The simple touch, forbidden from him all those years ago, was both soothing and disquieting. He would never be the man she needed. The man she deserved. But there was one thing he could give her now, in this cabin, in this wintry dreamworld deep within the Cascade Mountains. Something he would never regret.
All-consuming pleasure.
What if, for a little while, they indulged themselves and explored the intense desire between them? Found a little happiness together? Imogen murmured in her sleep and burrowed closer, as if she’d heard his thoughts. He rested his head against hers and allowed himself the joy of looking forward to tomorrow.