by Jax Garren
Her sweater, or an identical copy, lay inside. A relieved smile found her lips. She could actually keep this, since he had ruined her other one. Which meant she could keep the paper.
She pulled it out of the package, felt the fabric and her joy burst. No, this wasn’t an identical copy. This was the real thing—expertly hand knit with exquisitely soft yarn—while hers had been a Target clearance find. Her blush turned to a burn. “I-I can’t accept this.”
“I ruined yours—”
“It’s really okay—”
“Take it. I owe you—”
She thrust the garment at him. “This isn’t the same sweater.”
He frowned, the first truly downtrodden look she’d seen on him, and it made her feel even worse. “It’s the closest I could acquire. I’m sorry.”
“No, you don’t understand.” Carrie held up her other hand to stop his next protest. “I loved that sweater, but it was cheap. This is… I mean, feel it. It’s like cashmere or something. You don’t owe me this.”
Brett slowly blinked, long eyelashes making a stark contrast to his pale cheeks as understanding dawned. But he didn’t say anything.
“So return it and get your money back. I appreciate the gesture, I really do, but you don’t owe me anything.”
To her surprise, he chuckled. “I have a friend who knits. Don’t worry about the money. It’s a gift.”
“No, really—”
“Yes, really. It matches your eyes.” He looked away from her, as if his confidence was suddenly shot, and bent down to gather the fallen paper. “And,” he finally mumbled, “my number’s in there if you ever want to call me, so please keep it.”
Surprised, she stood up, trying to come up with a nice way to say no. Even if she wanted to say yes. He stood at the same time to hand her the wrapping, and they ended up too close, her chest almost brushing against his. That same interest wound through her, his proximity speeding her pulse and making the air feel thin. Any man who managed to be lip-biting attractive in traffic-light striped polyester was handsome indeed.
“Sorry.” He backed up a step.
“Are we, uh, even attracted to each other?” Brilliant, Carrie. That didn’t make sense as a protest. He wouldn’t ask for her number if he wasn’t attracted to her. And despite her attempts to think otherwise, he appealed to her like a hot toddy on a cold night.
“I think so. I don’t know about you. Let’s test it out.” He took the step back into her bubble, leaned down, and, to her shock, Carrie found herself kissed by a six-some-odd-foot man in an elf suit.
His lips found hers with a surety that shocked her, gentling her mouth and making her lean in for more. A hot toddy? Nuh-uh. Straight liquor hitting her head with tipsy joy.
After a moment of shock, her body softened against his synthetic velvet britches as her fingers curled into his surprisingly soft hair. The heat of his kiss warmed her inside and out, bringing her up onto her toes to get closer. He straightened, and she stretched until he was carrying her weight, pressing her against a body that was firm and lithe and dangerously masculine beneath the innocent outfit.
When he pulled back from the kiss, he didn’t let her go, just kept her clutched against him. His eyes had darkened, and he trembled, as if he, too, had been blindsided. Clearing his throat, he shifted uncomfortably, his unsteady breath puffing gently against her hair as he laughed like he was embarrassed. “I thought that might help you decide if you were attracted to me, so, uh, will you go out with me now?”
“You taste like spearmint candy,” she said in awe. He was a Christmas elf. He would taste like mint candy. Like a big, lickable... dammit. Carrie forced the world to steady around her. Maybe she should follow Lora’s advice and start dating around again if kissing a polyester-costumed stranger in the break room of Santaland—even one as tall, dark, and handsome as Brett—had her in a near swoon. But hot, hot, hot damn ...
“Does that mean yes or no?”
Just say no. Or, or, or… dating casually could be a maybe. A brand new maybe. Anything resembling more than that was bad, and she was already starting to like this guy. “Uh...” She couldn’t seem to get any further than that.
“Huh. Okay.” Brett set her back on her feet and backed away, brushing his palms against his suit as he pursed his lips like his brain cogs had gone churning. She was a little afraid of what he would come up with next. Afraid and big time curious. And then he said something completely unexpected, of course. “We should go see Santa.”
That zapped off the lusty haze. “What? Santa?” Surely he was kidding.
No, he wasn’t. This was Brett who did nothing normal. “I told you we were cutting in line. Let’s go.” Once again he grabbed her stuff in one arm—including the sweater, box, and paper—and her hand with his other hand. Then somehow he opened the door, and an a cappella “O Come All Ye Faithful” blasted into the break room.
“Santa is for kids!” she squeaked, then dazedly waved at the multitude they met outside.
Brett dragged her through the line, past all the kids waiting to tell Santa what impossible crap they wanted this year. Most families seemed to consist of a harried mom and two sugared-up children.
But one family stopped her mid-stride. A tall man and an elegant woman with two festive but eclectically dressed youngsters ignored the chaos around them to engage in a cheerful debate over what reindeer ate. The elder daughter laughed, the sound of a blissful childhood clear and perfect in the lilting cadence. Carrie dug in her heels, yanking Brett to a halt as nostalgia assaulted her for her own childhood and all the happy Christmases she’d had with her family.
She hated Christmas, hated all the materialism and hypocrisy of it—and what her body had lost and what Lincoln had done—but suddenly she wanted to cry because she would never be there, like that beautiful family, with children of her own in red-and-green plaid, making up wild lies about elves and flying deer.
The doctors had given her a list of procedures, each more invasive and expensive than the last, that might determine what was wrong with her. That might fix it. But she’d seen the truth in their eyes. There wasn’t much hope, just a lot more money to be made off a couple who could afford it. She was never going to have a baby.
“I can’t—I can’t do—”
Brett stepped close to whisper, “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t—I don’t want to do this.” She snuffled and batted the tears back with fluttering eyelids. “Why would you take me to Santa? We’re adults.”
His smile stayed strong, but empathy replaced the silliness. He looked at the children around them, and she could see him thinking carefully over his word choices. “You looked like you needed cheering. Something fun and nostalgic. But I didn’t mean to make you sad.”
Of course he hadn’t. Why would taking her to Santa make her sad? Annoyed, maybe, but sad? That was just her history hanging on her. “You didn’t make me sad. It’s not Santa.”
Was nostalgic fun the reason he was here? Seeing him not drunk, he seemed quite intelligent, perfectly capable of other work. Yeah, the economy sucked, but surely he could get a job as a temp or at a grocery store or something. Yet here he was, entertaining kids at the mall for poverty-level wages.
That wrapping paper must be getting to her because a part of her wanted to visit Santa with Brett, maybe see the experience through his joyful eyes.
“Lichen, mostly,” Brett said, which confused the heck out of her, until she realized he wasn’t talking to her anymore. He had tucked her behind him, shielding her from stares, and was answering the family’s debate over what reindeer ate, giving her a chance to get herself back together in peace. “They also eat leaves and grass—and occasionally fish. But do you know what they like best?”
The kids shook their heads at his question, delivered with absolute sincerity.
“Sugar plums. If you feed a reindeer a sugar plum, it’ll be your friend for life. I had several reindeer friends before I moved to Texas, and that was my
trick.”
He winked at the kids, then pulled Carrie into a nook out of traffic, her hand tucked in his. “So… what do you want to do? Santa? Get out of here?”
“Santa.” She said the word without thinking, then frowned because, seriously, why had she said that? Stupid dancing Christmas cats!
He squeezed her hand as another smile like the sunrise rose across his face as he dropped to a squat because… why had he done that?
A tiny hand was inserted into hers. She looked down to find Brett eye-level with a gangly five-year-old girl in a Rudolph sweatshirt. His voice was low and serious, full of theatrical awe as he intoned, “Lady Britney, may I introduce Princess Carolina from the land of Yule.”
Carolina? He pronounced it funny, like car-oh-lean-uh. She supposed it sounded more princess-y. Just-plain-Carrie looked from the elf to the kid. He jerked his head like she should say something to play a part in his “Happy Yuletide” skit.
The kid looked up at her with wide eyes, full of faith that she would do something amazing. Carrie loved children, but she wasn’t like him, engaging and imaginative where she could just make stuff up on the fly—at least not now when she was an emotional wreck.
But she followed his example, squatting down to eye level. Did princesses squat? Probably not. She was already messing up. Whatever. She forced her mouth into a smile that she hoped matched the girl’s idea of a princess, all the while wondering what was going on in Brett’s head. “So very pleased to meet you, Lady Britney.” Better than nothing, she supposed.
The pig-tailed brunette bowed low over her hand and looked back up eagerly. “Are you a real princess?”
Carrie couldn’t stifle a sick-sounding laugh. But before she had to answer, Brett chimed in, thank God. “Of course she is! You must forgive Her Highness. She is shy. But I have a special favor to ask of you.”
As Carrie looked back up, she caught the gaze of the mother and shrugged, receiving a tired smile and a shrug in return. Britney nodded her head seriously.
“I must ask if I can take the princess in to see Santa next. She is being recalled to Yule but has a special message to impart before she returns. You’re next in line, though, and Princess Carolina won’t enter before you without your permission. Will you let her in?”
Carrie went wide-eyed to the mother. “I’m sorry, I—”
The door leading to Santa opened, and two kids tumbled out with their mother just behind. She looked frazzled, but the kids yammered about toys with delighted looks on their faces. That mom was even smiling, despite her obvious need for a stiff drink.
Unlike the mom Brett was cutting in front of, who looked about ready to strangle him with the Christmas lights. But Britney nodded vigorously. “Yes!”
Brett pushed Carrie into Santa’s lair, proclaiming a debonair, “Thank you, Lady Britney!” before the door shut behind them.
Inside, Carrie turned to him, unsure if she should laugh or yell at him. Still, she whispered in fear of her words carrying past the door to “Lady” Britney. “You just lied to a child, and that mom’s going to kill you!”
Undaunted by her logic, he propelled her toward Santa’s throne as he leaned in conspiratorially. “I overheard her mother lie to her that this was the real Santa for the sake of the child’s complacency. At least I gave Britney a good story to tell her friends.”
“Her friends will make fun of her because she was duped.”
“Her friends still believe in princesses.”
Carrie narrowed her eyes at him, “Princesses are real. Princesses from Yule who visit Santa with secret messages are not.”
He smirked back at her. “But fairy tales are fun.”
“I’m happier in reality.”
He tipped his head, his smile fading, and for a moment, his gaze seemed to stare right into her soul and all the bleakness it contained. “I don’t think you are.”
It took all her willpower to keep her face from crumbling. Why was everyone suddenly pointing out her sadness? It made her feel stripped bare of not just clothes but skin, her nerves raw and available for people to poke at.
It was so much harder to hide the pain with decorations everywhere she went. Each one reminded her of how perfect the extensive Christmas décor in her and Lincoln’s house had looked as she’d packed her things to leave.
Her body had ached almost as much as her heart; it had been stupid to do that kind of work so soon after the—after what had happened. But everyone she’d normally call had been out of town, and it wouldn’t have been right to take them away from their families during the holidays. She hadn’t been able to stand being in that big house after what Lincoln had done, so she’d packed alone and left the ornaments up for somebody else to handle. She hadn’t put a damn decoration up in her own place since.
But this stranger had no right to know how much she longed to have the magic back.
He glanced down, then back at her, his expression remorseful. Could he see how much he’d hurt her? “I apologize.” He pushed a lock of hair behind her ear, his fingers gentle. “The better to see your disdain for my lumbering doltishness.”
“Doltishness?” Somehow a smirk, small but genuine, flickered across her face. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard that used in a sentence.”
“I do things a little differently than most people.” He seemed proud of that.
“You don’t say?”
He squeezed her shoulder. “What is it you want for Christmas? You had an armful of presents for other people.” He motioned at Santa.
“What?” She glanced around, suddenly remembering she was standing in front of a grinning man drowning in fake beard. The red from his ruddy cheeks extended to his nose. Santa just might be drunk. “I’m not sitting in his lap.”
“Why not?”
She folded her arms. “You sit in his lap.”
With a challenging tilt to his chin, Brett plopped himself down on Santa’s right leg.
Carrie gaped. Seriously?
You know, why was she even surprised at this point?
Santa laughed a booming Kris Kringle chuckle and yanked Carrie onto his other leg. “And what do you want for Christmas, young lady?”
“Out of here.” Did she? She laughed nervously as she tried to glare at Santa and then Brett but couldn’t quite pull off the ire. The camera elf snapped a photo. Her Carrie could easily glare at, so she did. The elf smirked back.
Brett sent the camera a mock salute. “Thanks, Amy. I’m trying to cheer her up, not piss her off.”
Fine. He’d dragged her here; might as well tell Santa her Christmas list. Instead of flipping off the camera, she turned to face Saint Nick. “I want a fabulous dress for the Austin Arts fundraiser that will make my ex-husband’s jaw drop and his man parts strain at the mere sight of me. One that will make wife number two green with envy and show off what a basic brat she is compared to me.” She batted her eyes at Brett. “That good enough for you?”
Brett’s eyebrows shot up. “You’re going to the benefit at Lincoln Bryant’s?”
Carrie was so surprised she dropped her folded arms. “You know about that?”
“I’ll... be there.”
“Heh. What are you, a part-time bartender to boot?”
A slow grin spread across his face. “I do indeed work for the bar.”
Santa guffawed, peppermint schnapps breath tainting the air. Yup. Drunk. “Little elf, little elf, see what you can do for this girl.”
Brett, who was about as little as a giraffe, nodded solemnly. “Carrie, I would like to strike a deal. I can provide you with the perfect dress, and you will do two things for me.”
Carrie struggled out of Santa’s lap, slapping at his grasping hands until he let her go. “You are not buying me a dress.”
“I have a friend who sews. You’ll have an amazing one.”
Knitting, now sewing. Was he friends with all the crafters in Austin? Or only ones who made clothes? “By Friday? There’s no way.”
His eyes g
leamed, full of mischief. “Elves are fast.”
“Uh-huh.” Was he totally bullshitting her at this point, or could he actually get her a dress by Friday?
Wait, was he a thief? That would explain how he’d gotten such an expensive sweater, and it would be just like her to go from in love with a cheating creep to being attracted to a thieving creep. She should say no and walk away. “What do you want from me?” Good job walking away.
He pointed back to Santa’s leg and smirked. “First, you smile for a picture with me.”
“Seriously?”
His pointing became adamant.
“Fine.” She sat and simpered at him.
His cheeks inflated as he crossed his eyes and waggled his fingers from his nose in a ridiculous face.
Laughter burst from her. “What are you doing?” The camera flashed.
“Made you smile for real.” He finally stood, regathered her pile of crap, and offered her a hand.
This time she just took it because to resist was futile. “I can carry my stuff.”
“I know you can. I also know you want that photo, so don’t even bother trying to deny it.”
She rolled her eyes, but okay, she wanted the photo. “Condition two?”
He waved at Elf Amy. “I’m taking a break.”
Amy made kissy noises in return, which Brett ignored. Pointing to a hidden-ish door, he didn’t drop Carrie’s hand as they exited Santaland. Meanwhile, Amy gave her a giant thumbs up while fanning herself. Awesome. Elf Amy approved of her making out with Brett. They emerged in front of a Victoria’s Secret.
Who set up Santa next to underwear? Brett blinked at the display of red and green bras like he’d just noticed its existence, then turned back to her looking a little dazed.
She put her free hand on her hip and frowned. “I repeat, second thing you want from me?” And then, realizing what that sounded like while they stood next to larger-than-life photos of women in lacy lingerie, she strode several yards away to a collection of benches that were not under the heavy-lidded pouts of mortal angels, towing Brett along behind her.
