Tom's POV
I stayed rooted at the top of the stairwell, fear creeping in as I contemplated just fucking leaving. What the hell did you get yourself into, Tom? My stomach was doing flips, every nerve screaming I didn't belong here.
Minutes crawled by, each one heavier than the last, until I finally heard it—his deep, booming laugh. And then hers. Imogen giggling.
Wait… they're laughing?
Whew. I let out a breath I didn't realize I was holding. Jesus fuck, Tom, relax.
They came back into view a moment later, her father still smiling, his voice lighter now. "I'll be down soon, sweetheart. Just gonna change and shower. Your mom had to leave on a trip to Portugal for another wellness campaign." He kissed her forehead like it was the most natural thing in the world.
"Dad…" she pouted, drawing out the word, playful.
"Oh, so when your friend's here, you're too cool for old dad, huh? I see how it is," he said, raising his hands in surrender with a grin.
I just stood there like an idiot, staring, watching a side of Imogen I'd never seen before—carefree, light, like the weight she carried earlier was gone.
Then he started up the staircase, his steps confident, his presence fucking huge even when he was smiling. When he passed me, he slowed just a bit, his eyes flicking my way.
"Loosen up, kid. You look like you just saw a mob boss." He chuckled and kept going, leaving me frozen there, my face still betraying the fear that hadn't let go.
Fuck me… he noticed.
I walked down the stairs slowly, clutching the railing tighter than I should've. Imogen was waiting for me at the bottom, and when she looked up, she giggled softly. "Relax, you look terrified. My dad has no problem with you being here."
Easy for her to say. My chest still felt heavy, like I'd just been interrogated by some FBI agent or, hell, a mob boss. "You sure?" I muttered, my voice lower than I intended. "He looked fucking pissed when he came in earlier."
She shook her head quickly, brushing it off with a wave of her hand. "No, no, that wasn't anger. It was just something else. Trust me, if he was angry, you'd know." The way she said it made me gulp, but I nodded anyway, pretending to buy it.
I bent down, scooping up the giant teddy bear I'd won earlier, holding it awkwardly in front of me like a shield. "I think I should get going," I said, my voice a little too sharp, like I needed to cut myself free from the tension before it swallowed me whole.
Her smile faltered, and she stepped closer, her voice soft but insistent. "Please, stay for dinner. I'm sure my dad wouldn't mind."
"I don't know…" My words trailed, my gut screaming that I was in over my head, but then she gave me that look—her pleading gaze, eyes wide and fucking impossible to resist.
"Please," she said again, almost whispering this time. "We'll have the driver take you home afterward. No problem."
And just like that, I caved. Of course I caved. I always do with her. "Fine," I muttered, sighing like it was the hardest decision of my life. "Let me just call my mom."
I stepped to the side, pulling out my phone, trying to calm the hammering in my chest as I dialed. When she picked up, her voice was warm, grounding. "Hey, Mom. I'm gonna be home late tonight," I said, keeping my tone casual, like this wasn't a big fucking deal. "I'm having dinner with a friend."
There was a pause, and then she replied, soft but firm, "Alright, honey. Be home soon, okay? Love you."
"Love you too," I said, hanging up, sliding my phone back into my pocket. My throat felt tight as I turned back to Imogen, her smile bright and genuine, and I realized—fuck—there was no backing out now.
Dinner with the Storms. What the hell was I getting myself into?
We settled into the living room, the silence pressing down like a heavy blanket. I sat stiff on the edge of the couch, the oversized teddy bear resting awkwardly beside me, while Imogen scrolled aimlessly on her phone, sneaking glances at me every now and then. The air was thick with unspoken words, every tick of the clock making the silence feel longer, sharper.
Then the sound of footsteps on the staircase broke through, slow and casual. I looked up, and there he was—her father—descending the stairs. But this time, he wasn't the stern, intimidating figure from earlier. No tailored suit, no hard politician's mask. Just a pair of black sweatpants and a fitted shirt, his hair slightly ruffled as if he'd run a hand through it a dozen times. He looked… human. Stress-free. Relaxed. Almost approachable.