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

Sweet and Sour

Imogen's eyes flew open. Oh fiddlesticks. That certainly answered her question, didn't it?

"Andrew, I think... it might not be such a good idea," she muttered, and he looked at her, taken aback. "As wonderful as this feels," she said and patted his chest in an awkward gesture. "And as much as I fancy you, I don't think I would be able to... fully commit to it. And I think you deserve someone who would."

"Is it Oakby then?" Andrew asked quickly; and Imogen gave him a frowned look. 

Apparently, men required a reason for being refused, and a simple 'I don't feel like it' just didn't work. That certainly made Imogen appreciate Andrew just a tad less. She didn't grant him an answer, but Andrew seemed to require none.

"Mops, it'll never happen." Andrew's voice was irritated, but he took it under control. "Not that you're in any way below him." 

Imogen felt that there was a definite 'but' hovering somewhere there at the end of that sentence. 

"You really should give up this ridiculous fantasy," he said softly.

Imogen was starting to wonder if it was polite to remind Andrew where the exit door was in her cottage.

"Andrew, I think it doesn't quite concern you. I gave you the answer regarding you. Whatever it is between the Mayor and me—"

"There is nothing between the Mayor and you, Mops." 

What irked Imogen most was that Andrew still sounded patient and cordial. Were he jealous or angry, she'd understand - though probably wouldn't condone. But this condescending, caretaker tone was humiliating. 

"Sometimes you just have to accept reality and scale down your expectations," he added.

Imogen pressed her lips but didn't let the words, 'Do you truly want to be someone's second choice?' escape her. There was of course a certain degree of cruel truth in what he was saying. They lived in a small town, and neither of them was planning to leave, and Andrew was so much more than just a 'scaled down realist expectation.' And 97.5% of the appropriate town population would consider themselves most lucky to end up in a relationship with him. But there was a reason why a certain governess had always been Imogen's favourite character - Imogen truly preferred to think of herself as 'a free human being' with heart, and soul, and spirit - given sometimes it would take her a while to find the aforementioned 'independent will.'

"I think this is the end of this conversation, Andrew," she muttered, and picked up the towel that had fallen on the floor when they'd been snogging.

"I'm sorry that it is," he answered, turned around, and walked out of the kitchen. 

Imogen heard the front door bang. She sighed and started making her tea. Altogether the evening could be assessed as half successful, half a complete disaster.

***

The next morning Imogen was meeting the Americans in the entrance hall of the Mayor's House. There were three of them, and they reminded Imogen of the 'Archeology Today' Monty Python sketch. One never stopped talking, and never about what mattered. The second one seemed neurotic and dischuffed about quite anything really. And then third one was tall and full of himself. In her mind Imogen called them Chatterbox, Testy, and Surly respectively.

"Well, sweetheart," Chatterbox started loudly as soon as they stepped in. Imogen decided she didn't quite like him already. "Your hotels are something," he drew out. "And of course we almost got run over. What do you transport in all those white minivans whizzing about?"

Imogen's eyebrows jumped up. "I suppose, it could've been Mr. Buck, the butcher. He makes his deliveries around this hour, but I believe it's just one white van."

The Americans stomped by her, Chatterbox still talking about walking on the wrong side of the street, Testy typing something in his phone with a miserable expression on his face, and Surly looked down at Imogen. His face was scrunched as if he'd been snacking on lemon all morning.

"The pillows in my room are crap," he announced to her. 

Imogen took a discreet calming breath and gave him a polite smile.

"I'm sorry to hear it, sir. Have you let the pub owner know that you're—" She didn't get to finish.

"Sweetheart, sweetheart!" Chatterbox hollered into her ear - and then had the nerve to snap his fingers in front of her face! 

Imogen froze in astonishment. 

"We need some coffee, hon. No one can work and think at this time of day without some joe," he said. 

It was half past nine! Imogen was choosing between a properly veiled but firm and incisive retort, and a simple polite statement that she didn't appreciate being treated like the Tardis door, when the office door opened and the Mayor came out.

"Gentlemen," he greeted them, and his eyes quickly scanned Imogen's face. "Morning, Imogen."

She gave him a polite smile as well. "Would you like some coffee, sir?" she asked, and heard Testy scoff in the background.

"That would be lovely," he answered. "We'll wait for you to order, to start the meeting."

Imogen who was heading to the phone to ring Ms. Flora to ask for her best pastries threw him a confused look over the shoulder.

"We can start right away, Oakby." Chatterbox grinned and smacked his square hand into the Mayor's back. The Mayor didn't flinch, but Imogen felt an odd protective urge. "We don't need coffee to start talking."

"But we do need Ms. Fox," the Mayor deadpanned, and stepped aside, inviting the Americans into his office with a wide wave.

The Americans went in, and the door closed. Imogen gave it an adoring look and proceeded with her order.