Official Town Business (Fox & Oakby Murder Mysteries Book I)

Sweet and Sour

Andrew was, put simply, a better kisser than the Mayor. Imogen was uneducated in this area - couple snogs at school, one unsuccessful date with Pete Miller in college, the Mayor, and now Andrew's confident kiss - that was all she had to go by. And still she was certain that Andrew, as they say, knew what he was doing. Imogen would bet half of her Poirot collection they probably even looked good from outside - like in a film. There were no strange attempts to gobble her face, but also it didn't feel artful. Imogen momentarily felt regretful. She was just testing the waters here, to see if perhaps this could be her cup of tea - meanwhile, what if the man was actually in love? Because that's how it felt - as if he'd wanted it for a while and was now savouring their kiss.

"Mops..." he whispered. 

Imogen cringed. He surely could have dropped the annoying nickname at least now. He brushed the knuckles of his right hand to her cheek. When the Mayor had first kissed her, he'd had his palm under her jaw, his index finger on her cheekbone, the middle finger behind the ear. The man had exceptionally large, long fingered hands. Andrew, meanwhile, had his left hand on the side of her neck, and then stroked her jaw with his thumb. His hands were no smaller, just slightly more delicate. Was it awful of her to continue comparing?

Andrew leaned in again, this time watching her reaction, and she rose on her tiptoes and placed her hands on his shoulders. She actually wasn't sure where hands were supposed to go in this situation. Andrew was an inch taller than the Mayor, that much Imogen knew. But A. The Mayor during his 'turn' was sitting on the floor; and B. With the Mayor Imogen didn't think or analyze or question. She'd just internally squeed in triumph - and went for it.

"Mops, what are we going to do now?" Andrew murmured, and then twisted his neck and kissed the side of her throat. That tickled.

In all honesty, Imogen would like to vote for 'more of the same,' but he was right. They couldn't possibly go on with these... dalliances, in the middle of her kitchen, with kids sleeping two rooms away. And then, there was also the barney of Imogen being not quite certain what it was exactly that she was doing. Snogging her childhood friend would be something else rather than just 'snogging a bloke because he's fit,' wouldn't it?

"Um... you see, Andrew..." she started, but he interrupted her.

"Mops, I know you're scared. It's a big change, and you don't know much about dating." Well, that was certainly a tad patronising, Imogen thought. "And we can take it slow, but I'm sure we'd be grand together," he said and gave her a warm smile and brushed his knuckles to her cheek again.

Imogen's first impulse was to fully agree with him. Firstly, they did get along so very well. Secondly, he was so fit and chivalrous that of course most would immediately jump at the opportunity. And thirdly, Imogen was, sadly, a people pleaser by nature.

But then she asked herself whether being with Andrew - properly being with him - would actually be something she fancied. Say, they started dating, and he came to visit in the evening. Imogen squeezed her eyes and tried to imagine. She knew she probably looked bonkers, but he was the one propositioning 'Mops.' He knew what he was getting into. If he wanted 'Mops' to answer, he needed to give said 'Mops' a mo.

So, would it be something she'd like? To come home, shake off her shoes, and find him on the sofa. And she'd sit on his lap, and wrap her arms around his neck, and press her nose into his neck. Maybe people didn't actually do it in a relationship - how would Imogen know? - but she assumed that realistically being together wasn't just about the tingling she was feeling right now, and not about snogging in the kitchen - but hopefully, that would be included. It's about being stressed and tired, and then seeing that person, and feeling better, and wanting to spend time together, and supporting them if they needed to stick their nose into someone's neck. And just sometimes pressing her lips to that delicious looking cheekbone above the thick dark beard.