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

Daily Dozen

Friday started and ended, as if nothing had happened the night before. Then Saturday and Sunday came, and they were full of the normal errands, which Imogen had to admit she just couldn't perform quite normally. Her mind wandered, which wasn't news, of course, but mostly she'd freeze mid gesture reminded of that one thing he'd done, or that one tingling she'd felt, or something rather. And then she'd shake her head and go back to slicing cucumbers for the children's sarnies.

And then Monday came, and Imogen started wondering whether she'd simply imagined the night of Thursday. She had lost her virginity to the Mayor, hadn't she? And he had stated that he'd like the unmentionable activities they'd partaken to take place again, hadn't he?

Imogen finished her second cup of tea, and taking some papers to his office, she peered intently at the top of his lowered head. The Mayor was scribbling furiously. Imogen had a daft adoring thought that he looked like a diligent schoolboy, she swooned and then told herself to stop being an idiot.

"I've brought the draft of the arboretum project," she addressed the silky, coffee coloured crown of the Mayor's head.

He hummed and tapped his index finger to the already impressive pile of documents on the side of his desk. Imogen placed the documents where she'd been told, and realised she was holding her breath avoiding the danger of catching the delicious smell of his cologne and his skin. She'd had lungfuls three days ago, she didn't need a reminder.

When her hand lay on the handle of the door, his calm, nonchalant voice came from behind, "What are you doing tonight, Imogen?"

Imogen fixed her unseeing, widened eyes on the wood of the door. Her mind - so alike a hamster in a wheel - sped up, filling her thoughts with, firstly, decoding the question; then, questioning her deductions; and then a tinge of indignation; quickly replaced by the surprise at said indignation. He was surely asking about a potential continuation of Thursday night, wasn't he? Was he?! And if so, that was surely quite moronic of her to feel that he could've approached the topic differently. Why would he? This polite considerate question was exactly in the tone of their Friday morning conversation.

She turned and answered slowly, "I'm taking care of the children." 

He lifted his eyes, and that was when she realised that he hadn't been scribbling since she'd put the papers on his table. Had he been pondering how to ask?

"And before it?" he asked, confirming Imogen's suspicions regarding the underlying meaning of the question. He looked hopeful and somewhat uncertain - exactly like in his bed in the morning.

"And before it I work," Imogen answered, hiding a smile.

"Right. You work. Here," he mumbled - and she took pity of him.

"Was there something you needed outside my work responsibilities?" Imogen asked. 

She felt like waggling her eyebrows - but refrained. The man was already visibly uncomfortable.

"Yes?" he drew out and swallowed.

Imogen turned around and came up back to his table. The Mayor straightened in his chair and gave her an expectant look. Imogen weighed her options and decided that Charles-Guillaume Étienne in Bruis et Palaprat - according to her Nana's favourite quote - had been right.

She slowly walked around his cromwellian desk and stopped near him. He turned with his 1881 swivel chair to face her. It was quite a view, Imogen thought - the bright blue eyes, and his nose level to her clavicles.

"Before lunch, we have an hour with no meetings scheduled. We could—" 

She trailed away, chickening out at the last moment. There was still a chance she'd misunderstood.