by Jax Garren
Her insides went soft, practically mushy. He was really getting to her. Damn it. “You are crazy,” she said, her voice embarrassingly breathy. “And I like you, too.” She’d never intended to like him.
“Walk me to my car? I’d offer to walk you to yours, but you’re not leaving, so...”
She nodded too quickly, head bobbing like a doll. “Let me tell Tom the elder where I’m going.”
His eyes somehow lit up and darkened at the exact same time. He planned to kiss her again at the car, now did he? Well, then. She planned to let him.
Chapter 4
Brett took her hand again as they headed out the door of Tom’s garden home. He wasn’t tugging her somewhere this time. Or comforting her or helping her up or anything that resembled a reason for holding hands. She looked down at their interlaced fingers. How could such a chaste gesture feel so intimate? The contact of his long fingers and smooth palm pressed against hers was comfortable—nice, even—but she worried her acquiescence gave him the wrong idea.
He noticed her attention and shook their joined hands. “Does this bother you? I like holding your hand, but I’ll stop if it bothers you.”
It seemed to matter to him, so she shook her head. “No. It’s good.” That was mostly true.
“Okay. Good.” He squeezed her hand gently. “I’ll keep doing it then.”
His unvarnished honesty again threw her off balance. “Do you always go point a, point b, point c? Do you never, I don’t know, go from a to b, then jump to d and sneak up on c from behind?”
His expression turned quizzical. “I don’t understand the question.”
“You’re really straightforward, and it’s not from lack of imagination.”
He kissed her fingers, as if that pleased him. “Thank you. Although, I can’t take too much credit as that was expected where I grew up. I think my mother’s favorite admonition was”—his voice shifted to a light accent with fierce, choppy phrasing in what Carrie assumed was an imitation —“‘State your intentions and follow through. If you can’t get what you want that way, you didn’t earn it.’”
She laughed at the impersonation. “She sounds intense.”
His shoulders shook, his own laughter silent. “She was. And still is, I assume. She’s a good woman. I miss her.”
“I guess you don’t get back home a lot, living so far away.”
“I can’t go back. I left.” He said it plainly, as if it was a fact and not a decision. Hadn’t he said something before, in the story of his scarred ears, about leaving his home being treasonous? But that didn’t make sense. Before she could ask about it, though, he shot her a sidelong glance. “Answer a question straightforwardly for me?”
Uh-oh. “What is it?”
He stopped in front of a silver car that was meticulously clean and looked awfully nice for a mall actor. Not that she knew a thing about vehicles. It probably just looked fancy because it was really clean. Still, in spite of his blunt honesty, the mystery of Brett seemed to grow and grow.
“How’d you become a restaurant critic? You never mentioned it at dinner.”
Okay, that question wasn’t too bad. She ignored the car to consider the easy half-truths she told everyone about her work. But Brett had asked for honesty and had already given her more than his fair share. She felt she owed him some of the same, even if it wasn’t the most flattering truth. “So, my ex-husband?”
He nodded. There didn’t seem to be any judgment or even weirdness in it about her being a divorcée. First hurdle over.
“He, uh, had money. I didn’t really care too much about that one way or the other. It’s just stuff, right?” She felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. She meant it—the money hadn’t mattered to her. But most people had never believed that while they were married. After the divorce, she’d overheard someone congratulating Lincoln on successfully extricating himself from undue financial burdens—as if she’d tried to money-grab and failed, when the exact opposite had happened.
But that wasn’t the story Brett had asked about. Thank God. “But I loved the food. Eating at restaurants where chefs care about the cuisine, where culinary skills are taken to an art. Wine pairings that highlight the subtleties. Unexpected textures. The smells. I know it sounds stuck up, but caviar and good vodka is my favorite indulgence. I can do without a fancy house, a nice car, designer clothes—all of those things can be fun, but I’m fine with my Rack Room shoes and my used car. But I don’t want to imagine life without delicious food.” Like the kind he made. It was downright sensual what Brett could do in a kitchen.
She wondered what it would take to get the recipe for his rice pudding. A too-obvious offer popped into her head, making her body tighten and her breath catch.
He grinned as he leaned against the car, arms folded. He looked appealing—no, not just appealing—sexy covered in streetlight and shadow with that confident arc to his lips. She contemplated his expression, worried he somehow knew what she was thinking. As soon as her gaze reached his, he said, “I knew I liked you for a reason.”
Her neck grew hot. “Why? Because I want your rice pudding?” Did that sound dirty? No, that was only in her mind. But just in case, she added, “The recipe, I mean.”
He leaned closer as his eyes darkened. “You should come over some time. We can make it together.” Longing for more than a cooking lesson filled his voice.
His unhidden need turned her on and made her feel safe, like she didn’t have to hide or minimize her own feelings for fear of judgment. With that thought he went from interesting to irresistible. She traced a finger down his shirtfront. His arms released so she could skim from collar to belly. “You want to make it with me, huh? A big batch of rice pudding?”
His gaze followed her finger as he took a deep breath. “That and every other recipe we can invent.”
Her back hit the car, and Brett was in front of her. Carrie practically moaned as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. He responded immediately, dragging her against his firm chest eagerly. He smelled fresh and cool, but his body surrounded her with heat as he kissed her harder.
For the moment, she let herself revel in that first tingle of a new relationship, the elation, the driving need. The way every nerve inside her fired simultaneously, and she couldn’t get enough. It made her giddy. And terrified. Building up hope and waiting for it to get shattered.
She pulled back so hard her shoulders hit the car window.
Brett’s hands steadied her balance then pulled away to hover near but not touching. “What’s wrong?”
“I can’t have children either.” She slapped a hand over her mouth, horrified. But the words were out, and it answered his question accurately. That was exactly what was wrong; she was empty inside, and Lincoln had found another woman because of it. But what an awful moment to blurt that out.
“Oh. Um, okay.”
She moved her hand from her mouth to her forehead, blocking her view of whatever Brett must be thinking of her and her awkward soul-baring. “I don’t know how much you remember about what I said when you were drunk, but I sort of, uh, told you all these things. I didn’t actually think I’d see you again.”
He made a rumbling sound, like a laugh but kind. One hand touched her waist and the other gently pulled her fingers away from her head. “It’s okay. Hey, look at me.”
How was he possibly smiling? If a moment ago every nerve in her body had been firing, at this moment they were screaming. She’d been playing with the idea that she could handle this. She was wrong. A relationship wasn’t worth the end result. And it was unfair to him to boot. Brett was a nice guy who should be with someone as openhearted and optimistic as he was.
She tried to back away, but the car was there, blocking her in. “I can’t do this.”
His fingers clenched into her side, then released stiffly, but his face and voice remained calm. “What do you mean?”
She slid sideways, away from the pressure of his hand, and he let her. Par
t of her wished he wouldn’t. And that, too, was unfair. “I’m not the right girl for you.”
His jaw clenched. “No offense, but I’m the one who gets to decide that. Not you.”
“Yeah. And then you get to walk away when you realize I’m right. Probably at the worst possible moment.”
“I’m not him.”
“But—”
“No. Do not judge me by the behavior of some other man.” This time he did stop her, firmly taking her elbow and turning her back to face him, but this time he was backed into the car, leaving her free to leave if she really wanted to. “Look at me.” His mesmerizing voice was back with all its dominance, and sure enough, she obeyed. Not because she had to, but she wanted to—he was that compelling. When he had her gaze locked back onto his, he gave her a look that was absolutely serious. “I am not him.”
Swallowed the lump that was forming in her throat, she nodded. He was right. She couldn’t help glancing back at his mouth—the one that made jokes as easily at it spoke with authority. The one that kissed her, leaving her hot and needy.
With a soft moan, he leaned back down.
She couldn’t move, caught somewhere between fear and desire. His mouth caressed hers, sweeter than she expected, and she relaxed into it. He pulled her against him again. His body felt strong and sure and smelled of crisp air and evergreen. It would be so easy to use it, to use him, to disappear into a haze of lust and comfort.
He pulled back without letting her go. “Tell me you’re not interested in me, and I’ll back off. I’ll think you’re lying. But I’ll back off.”
He was giving her an out, but she practically hung off of him. Though she lacked his level of honesty, she couldn’t bring herself to say words so completely out of line with her actions.
“Ah, Carrie.” His voice was practically a groan. “You want me, too.” Her back hit the car again with the force of his kiss. Desire raced through her as all hesitation left him. One hand tangled in her hair, and each tug of his fingers sent needy chills from her head to her toes. His other hand clutched her hip, anchoring her against him.
He tasted sweet, like the nougat candy. The thought of devouring him took hold, pushing out all fears for the future and other rational thoughts. Maybe she couldn’t handle dating, but she’d sure like to handle him in other ways. “Take me home.”
His breath hitched. He nipped her lower lip, and she groaned. “Your place?” His forehead pressed against hers, and hope infused his voice. “Or mine?”
Happiness, unaccustomed and freeing, fizzed inside her like champagne. “Doesn’t matter to me.”
His answer came out a possessive growl. “Mine.” Releasing her hair, he shoved a hand in his pocket. “Keys... somewhere...” What a beautiful grin he had. It beamed at her like he’d won a prize as his gaze traveled her up and down hungrily. His fingers reappeared, clanging metal dangling from them. “Keys.” The locks released with an electronic beep. “Want to swing by your place first to pick up anything?”
She slid to the side so he could open her door. “Pick up... Oh! I don’t have anything like that. We can hit the pharmacy.”
If possible, his smile increased. “No, no. I’ve got us—me, really—covered. I meant like a change of clothes for tomorrow. Toothbrush. Lotion? I don’t know what you use. I’m probably inadequate in the”—he waved a hand in front of his nose—“face stuff department.”
The chilly December night seemed to get colder around her. “Oh, I don’t need... I mean, I figured I’d go home after.”
He shut the door.
She stared at it. “Why did you do that?”
His fingers fidgeted on the roof of the car as his gaze swept the ground. “Maybe I misunderstood.” He caught her eyes again. “I thought we were talking about—and if we weren’t that’s okay. I’ll open the door and we’ll go watch a movie or whatever you were thinking. But I thought were talking about sex.”
There was that straightforward thing again. The hopeful confusion on his face pulled at her heart, even if the night continued to leave her colder and colder. “We were. I was, anyway.”
“Okay.” He took a deep breath as a hint of his smile reappeared. “That’s good. That’s—I’d like that.” His voice lost focus as his gazed drifted down her body. “I’d really like that.”
“So... let’s go.”
“Yeah.” He shook his head, as if to clear his thoughts. “Uh, no. I want you to stay the night. Have breakfast with me.”
“Breakfast?” Panic flared. This was moving too fast.
He straightened up, a little of his former goofiness returning, even if he had to work to muster it past the lust. “I make a good breakfast. Cinnamon bourbon pancakes. Vanilla blueberry waffles with mascarpone. I have experimental lox at the house, too. You could give me your opinion.”
“You want me to stay the night to critique your salmon?” She meant it to sound like a joke, but it came out more like an accusation.
“No! No. I’m trying to convince you to stay the night with breakfast incentives.” A little grin. “You already declared my cooking worthy of four and a half stars. Five with the last nougat.” His face lit up with eager hope. “I just mean I’d be highly motivated to make a special breakfast if you came over and stayed the night.”
Carrie shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “That all sounds very delicious, but I’m not sure I’m ready for that.”
Though his shoulders may have sagged a bit, Brett’s smile stayed intact and his voice light. “Okay. That’s fine. I understand. But it’s a package deal for me.” He wagged a finger at her. “I may be easy, but I’m not cheap. Or, something like that. Basically, I’ll wait.”
She narrowed her eyes. “I offered to get naked with you, and you’re turning me down?” She wasn’t sure if she was more insulted or impressed.
He shrugged. “I offered cuddling and pancakes, and you turned me down.” He snatched her hand and kissed it again. “I’m A-plus-plus boyfriend material, Carrie Martin. You’re going to figure that out—I hope—and then there will be nakedness and cuddling and pancakes. All of it. It will be epic. Until then...” He yanked on her hand, and she stumbled forward, landing against his chest. “Until then, I’ll just have to work on convincing you.” He leaned down.
“No. No...”
“Yes. Oh, yes.”
The moment the kiss landed, any fearful protest died in a wash of lust. She wanted him. Not as a boyfriend—that was too much—but as a man. She cupped his jaw and pulled him closer, her bitterness battling his sweetness in a body-thrumming clash of tongues.
When they broke apart, he looked as dazed as she felt. His finger waggled at her again. “And let that be a lesson to you.”
She laughed.
“You have the best laugh in the world, you know that? Please let me hear it more often.”
More of her insides went soft. Not good for team stand-your-ground. “You sound dangerously close to sincere, little elf.” She frowned. “Er, not-little-at-all elf.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “My response is inappropriate, so I’ll restrain myself.”
“Smartass.”
With nimble fingers he pickpocketed her phone, flashed it to her face to unlock it, and started typing on it.
“What are you doing?”
He put her phone back into her pocket. “You have my number. It’s under ‘E’ for Elf so you can’t forget where to find it. Call or text whenever you want.” He winked and headed for the driver’s side of his car. “I’ll see you at the party. Hide your dance card, or I’ll fill it up.”
“We’ll both be working.”
“We’ll find time for a dance.” He blew her a kiss. “Get inside so I know you’re safe before I leave.”
In a fit of crazy, she blew him a kiss back. He caught it and slapped it against his cheek before motioning her toward the house.
She strode to Tom’s doorway with a smile on her lips and a nervous sinking in her gut. Brett was insane. An
d she loved it.
Chapter 5
Carrie trudged to work on the day of the party, frustrated, exhausted and with untamed hair, i.e the lion’s mane. Even the pin curls she’d thrown in last night after eating something less tantalizing the rice pudding and before getting into a very cold bed hadn’t helped.
Usually avoiding a romantic entanglement was easy. And yet she had her phone in hand and was, once again, opening up the contacts to stare at Brett’s entry without doing anything about it. The screen was already on his information. He hadn’t needed to add “Elf” to ensure she could find him when she never changed the contact page to someone—anyone—else. But she would see him in person tonight. That had made it easy not to tap the call button.
Tonight she would visit her old house, chase old demons away and maybe find the strength to move forward. Then, after she’d had a chance to stare Lincoln down, she could make that call. But she had to get through tonight first.
Except for the massive problem that she still didn’t have a dress and probably didn’t have shoes or jewelry. And she now had two men to look positively ravishing for. At least her toes were painted.
Or they were, anyway, until ten feet from her desk, her editor practically teleported in front of her, and Carrie slammed her big toe into a cube wall.
“It’s amazing. Where did you get it?” Beth demanded.
“Get what?” Carrie slid her right foot out of her pump and checked it. No, her toes weren’t done anymore. So much for the three AM a.m. somnambulist paint job. At least it wasn’t bleeding. She took a closer look. She’d painted half her cuticles. The whole thing was a fail even before the toe-stubbing.
