by Jax Garren
Carrie’s plaster smile turned brittle and threatened to crack. Brett stiffened.
The woman added insult to injury by rubbing her arm like they were friends. “How does it feel to be back around the old place?”
Carrie shrugged her shoulders, shooting for nonchalance. “Erica’s taste is interesting. That tree is right out of a catalog. Oops! I mean a magazine. Has she been photographed?”
The woman pursed her lips. “Have you seen her yet?”
“No.”
“You’ll have to find her before you leave. She’s looking positively radiant.”
All Carrie needed was to talk to a radiant Erica. “I’m sure she is.”
The woman turned back to Brett. “Brett, dear, I’ve been trying to get my daughter Lucy in to see you for weeks, but you’re impossible to locate around the holidays. She’s being taken for a fool by some musician and doesn’t see it. Of course, I’m sending her to you to fix it. Children. What can you do?”
Maybe Carrie didn’t remember this right, but she thought Wanda’s daughter was an adult by now, and the woman had no business interfering. And what was Brett supposed to do about it? She glanced at him, trying not to blink and betray her confusion. Maybe he was a hit man, and Wanda was sending him to off the déclassé boyfriend.
She almost giggled at the thought. Yeah, right.
He clucked his tongue and shook his head sympathetically. “So sorry, Wanda. You know how busy the season gets. And the Geirson estate has been taking up much of my time.”
Estate? No, really. What the heck?
“I forgot you’d been put on that kook’s caseload.”
“Handsome kook,” another woman pointed out.
Wanda harrumphed. “Well, do be a dear and find room for Lucy.”
Brett nodded indulgently. “Call up Cindy and have her make room on my schedule. Things should be clearing up within the next two weeks. I can’t guarantee anything until after I hear her complaint, but I’ll listen.”
“You are a dear!”
If Carrie heard the word “dear” one more time...
Brett turned his feet toward the bar. “I’ve promised to get Carrie a drink, so if you’ll excuse us?”
They nodded diamond smiles at him and venomous ones at Carrie as Brett escorted her away.
“Is Geirson here?” Carrie heard Wanda ask. “We should find him! That boy’s got a great ass.” The women giggled and then were out of earshot.
Carrie leaned up to whisper, “What was that about?”
Brett shrugged and continued toward the satin-coated drink table, his ears turning pink. “I told you I worked for the Bar.”
Carrie stopped, halting Brett with her. “You’re a lawyer?” A mighty successful one, too, it seemed.
Looking a little embarrassed, he nodded.
“I thought you were an elf.”
“Can’t I be both?”
“Not normally, no.”
“Well, pick the one you like best and think of me that way.” He tugged her toward the punch again as he added, “Though I’d rather you think of me as an elf.”
They reached the green-and-ivory draped table, and Brett poured her ruby punch from a bone china bowl to a crystal glass, rich to rich to rich. Just like he, apparently, was. She didn’t know how to feel about this turn of events. It was almost disappointing.
“What about being a caterer?”
Brett sighed and fixed himself a cup of herbal tea. “It’s hard, you know? I do want to be a caterer. And I think I’d be happier. But it’s hard to give up steady work and”—he motioned around the floor—“all this. I never had anything like it growing up.” He looked thoughtfully down at his tea. “My family’s income—or lack thereof—is really why Ryssa and I didn’t work out.” The quiet way he said it made her think Ryssa’s defection was far more compelling to him than the silk suits and parties. “And some of my clients really do need me. I draw a large enough clientele that I can pick to work with whom I choose and tell the rest to leave. I don’t know.” He looked deep into her eyes, as if her answer mattered. “Do you think I could make it as a caterer? I have enough saved to get started, but there’s no guaranteed income and that’s... terrifying.”
He meant it. On a gut level it scared him, and given the things he’d said about his past, his fear made sense. Still it floored her to hear that Brett had insecurities. He’d been a vault up until this point, unbreachable. Sympathy made her take his hand and squeeze. She hoped the pressure gave him the same peace it had given her when he’d taken her hand earlier.
He blew on his tea and serenely met her eyes, but his hand clutched hers back like he needed the comfort.
She didn’t know what to say to him, though. It was one thing to tell an out-of-work actor to go for it. It was another to tell a wealthy lawyer with financial insecurities to quit his day job. “I think you’re talented enough. But even with talent, it is a risky career.”
He nodded. “If I knew I could make a reasonable living...” He let her hand go to stir his tea, gaze flicking from her to the spoon as he spoke. “I just met this great girl, you see, and I’m not sure quitting a good job to chase a crazy idea is the best way to start things off with her. I told her I’d be a good boyfriend, and I keep my promises.”
Did he emphasize that last “I” just a little? Trying to prove he was different than Lincoln, maybe? He didn’t need to do that. She knew. She took his tea away and set both their drinks on the table so there was nothing between them.
He watched it go with a frown, but his attention came back to her when she put a hand on his shoulder.
“Brett, I think any person good enough to deserve you wouldn’t want you to be unhappy. She’d talk about it with you, help you weigh the pros and cons, and then support your decision either way. It’s not an easy one to make. But neither course is wrong.” She squeezed his shoulder and looked away, feeling shy. “Me? I’d stay with you if you quit. I went from this house to a studio apartment on the east side—and I’m not talking the trendy, gentrified part—because I’d rather be poor than take my ex’s pity money. There are a lot of things in life more important than ‘all this.’ Most things in life are more important.” She looked up at him under her lashes, wondering how he took her words, ready to turn away if she’d misread and her input was unwelcome.
His relieved gratitude sent a glow through her. Not only was her input welcome, but she’d made him happy, something he’d been doing for her since they’d met. It was nice to manage the reverse. “You are something else, you know that?” he asked.
He made her feel like she was.
He picked up his tea and took a drink. “I haven’t made a decision yet. And one of my clients might kill me if I quit, so...”
The glow shrunk. “Actually kill you?” He was teasing her again. Right?
Another one of his sly smiles. “Yeah. He’s a vampire. Got a little bit of a temper.”
She frowned, remembering the guy at the bar he’d called a vampire. “The got who got you drunk the night we first met?”
Bret nodded. “Cash Geirson’s older and more powerful than he looks and surprisingly hard to say no to. Even for an elf.” He ran a finger down her arm, and the warm touch made her skin prickle with awareness. “Don’t look so worried. I wouldn’t work for him if he was one of the bad guys.”
Brett had a smile on his face, but his tone wasn’t exactly kidding. She didn’t know if she should laugh or be afraid. “Elves and vampires. You live in a different world than I do.” She believed him when he said he wouldn’t work for a bad person, so whatever “vampire” meant to him couldn’t be that bad.
He brushed a lock of hair away from her face then tugged it gently, watching the curl bounce back into place. “Same world, we just see it differently. There’s a band in the next room. Would the prettiest girl at the party dance with me?”
The glow came roaring back. “Where is she? I’ll ask her for you.”
* * *
Two dances later and still reeling over the discovery that her crazy elf-man was a lawyer, Carrie left Brett’s side to start her rounds of the room and gather information for her article. The food was excellent. She reunited with some of the nicer people she’d been acquainted with while married to Lincoln and managed to avoid Erica. At eleven p.m., Carrie was surprised to find she was enjoying herself.
No question in her mind, that was because of Brett. Even when they weren’t together, she felt better knowing he was there, her personal cheerleader. She hadn’t decided yet if she would wake up with him tomorrow morning or not. It might still be too soon for that. But one day she would, and it would be a very good morning. No doubt preceded by a kickass night. The room temperature raised several degrees just thinking about it.
A representative from Ballet Austin gathered everyone into the main room for the requisite big speech with the check. Carrie settled into the rear of the crowd to take notes and lean her tired back against the wall.
After the usual rousing recitation about arts in Austin, a thank you for all the attendees, and a reminder that the silent auction lasted another thirty minutes, the representative announced a special present to the Bryants for hosting this year’s gala. “As many of you know, our artistic director is also a woodworker of some renown, and his gift is available for everyone to view in the little room off the library.”
Carrie felt her first pang in two hours. That room would’ve been their nursery. So many of her biggest dreams had been wrapped up in that space with its angled ceiling and windows that caught the morning sun. They’d turned the walls cheery yellow with a special paint she was allowed to use while pregnant. She’d put her grandmother’s rocking chair next to the bay windows, and a new bookcase right beside it. Just two days before the miscarriage, she’d sat in the rocker as the evening sun had lowered over the house and read the baby their first book.
As much as it hurt to remember that evening, she was glad she’d gotten one story with her. Or him. She’d never known for sure.
She wondered what Erica had in mind for the room, besides collecting thank-you gifts.
The announcer pointed into the crowd. “Erica, you look lovely.”
In disgust, Carrie headed to do more “research” on the catering, not interested in reporting what Erica, the radiantly lovely weasel-lemming, had to say. The caviar was real, and she thought partaking of more might cheer up her sudden mood swing. Her editor had demanded a top-notch segment on the food.
But at the dining room doorway, she overheard the biddies chattering. Curling her lip in disgust, she debated whether or not the caviar was worth facing them.
Then someone said her name. “Did you see Carrie Martin all over Brett Vertanen?”
Carrie froze.
“After things fizzled with Lincoln and she got nothing, you’d think she’d have the good graces to stay gone. What a gold digger.”
Carrie strode into the room, her heels clicking loudly on the marble. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Wanda.”
Wanda straightened and had the grace to blush. “Miss Martin.” She nodded.
Carrie knew she should drop it. She had no business caring what these cackling idiots thought, but she couldn’t help herself. “I had no idea Brett was a lawyer. I thought he was a mall elf.”
Wanda chortled, and her friends joined in the chicken cackle. “A mall elf? Carrie, if you’re going to lie, at least come up with something reasonable.”
“What? I’m not...” Carrie trailed off. It was useless. These women thought the worst of her, and she couldn’t change that. Might as well enjoy it. She grabbed two cracker-sized blini, topped them with dollops of crème fraiche, and scooped as much caviar as she could fit onto each. In gauche delight, she watched the women’s eyes grow while she stuffed one little pancake carrying several hundred dollars of salty fish eggs into her mouth.
The other overflowing blini she carried out, determined to enjoy her pricey indulgence in peace. And she’d once thought Brett might be a thief.
Whatever. Erica could afford it.
She paused in the hallway and looked down at her dress, the one Brett the lawyer had spent his own, hard-earned fortune on. She smoothed a crease, perfecting the lines. Brett... who’d been born in the middle of nowhere Canada then gotten an education and worked his way into privilege. Unlike Lincoln, it hadn’t been handed to him. Brett had earned it.
Had she ever underestimated anyone so badly before? He was right to be angry when she judged him for the actions of another man.
A crowd had formed in front of the library, and Brett was nowhere in it. So she ducked into a side hall before anyone noticed her. This area wasn’t part of the party, but her intimate knowledge of the house felt like justification. Right now, she needed time away from prying eyes to enjoy the consolation of piled-high caviar.
She didn’t turn on the lights, leaving Erica’s sweeping curtains and fleur-de-lis rods shadowed against the meager light seeping in from the gardens outside. Taking tiny bites this time, she savored the delicacy as it should be savored. Exhaustion, physical and emotional, weighed on her. She leaned against the wall and slid to the ground, letting the wide hem of her skirt drift into a silky pool around her.
“There you are.”
She froze with the blini an inch from her mouth as any good emotions remaining inside her deflated and vanished.
A laugh. “Don’t shoot the caviar like you do Dom. I know you, Carrie.”
Just what she needed. Alone time with her ex-husband.
Chapter 7
Lincoln leaned against his office doorjamb watching her, nostalgia softening his sharp features and piercing eyes. Carrie sent a guilty look to her caviar mini-mountain and refrained from stuffing it into her mouth. Instead she took another little bite, but the taste was gone. What a waste.
Lincoln stumbled a little on his exit from the doorframe and shot her a shameless grin. “Whoa. Long party. You having a good time? Gonna give us a good write-up?” He helped pull her to her feet, leaned forward, and ate the rest of the caviar out of her hand.
Carrie stiffened at the touch of his lips on her fingers, but he didn’t seem to register what he’d done, pulling away with a friendly smile.
“Ready for your tour?” His voice, though, was low and husky in a way she remembered too well. They’d had their problems, but at least one aspect of their relationship had stayed high quality until the devastating end. His sultry tone made her wary.
Surely, however, she was misinterpreting it. He was probably as confused as she was at seeing her again—and unlike her, he hadn’t had a week to prepare for it. She should have warned him. Surprising him like this had been uncool of her; she’d just been so stuck in her own head it hadn’t occurred to her how awkward this would be for him too.
Still, it probably wasn’t a good idea to tour the house alone with him after a long and emotionally draining evening when they’d both been drinking. “I don’t know, Lincoln...”
“Come on. I’m bored with the party.” He crooked his arm for her to take. He’d lost his jacket somewhere along the way, but his hair maintained its gelled perfection. He looked polished and handsome in the half-light, just like he had when they’d walked this hall together as man and wife. She didn’t feel the same pull toward him, but to see the memory returned to life unsettled her.
Oh, what the hell. She’d decided to be adult about this, to face her past and leave the house ready for the future. Might as well get it over with and be done for good. She took his arm, the feel of her fingers in the crook of his elbow both familiar and strange, and he tugged her into his office.
“You never cared for any of that society crap, did you?” he asked.
“No, not really.”
His personal space hadn’t changed a bit, still decked in brown leather with mahogany bookcases full of high-level science texts and the historical fiction he favored. The walls were still a greenish brown he’d picked to match her eyes. I
t surprised her that he hadn’t changed it—maybe to match Erica’s baby blue.
“I like that the arts are getting funding, though,” she finally answered, trying to keep her voice light. “That’s important.”
“Really? I think it’s stuffy.” He let her go and wobbled to a minibar for two tumblers. “I know you like this.” He held up a bottle of thirty-year Speyside single malt Scotch and smiled. “Join me? For old times? I bet you miss this. You always appreciated the good stuff when it came to your tongue.”
Was he making an inappropriate joke? No. She was reading more into it again. This was uncomfortable for both of them, but he was trying to be nice. The thought of her favorite Scotch did indeed make her mouth water. Smiling at her bottled Achilles heel—and at the man who shamelessly exploited it—she followed him farther into the room. “Sure.”
As she leaned a hip against his wraparound desk, memories, good ones, came pounding back in a strange assault. For so long she’d wanted to erase the last two years, blot them out like he’d never fallen into bed with Erica again, and they could figure out a plan together. Adopt maybe? They hadn’t even talked about that possibility.
Brett had mentioned it on their first date.
Regardless, she’d liked herself better back then, when it was still natural to believe in people, to forgive, and to have faith the future would work out somehow.
Pretending she was still that woman would be easy in here, his private room, where the passage of time and so many changes hadn’t left a visual mark. This exact scene, even, had played so many times before. They’d come back from an event, both in formal attire. He’d pour them each a Scotch, they’d talk over the evening, laugh over the silly things people had done, and then go back to their bedroom...
Her throat went dry. Maybe being here wasn’t such a good idea. This life wasn’t something she could go back to. It wasn’t something she even wanted anymore.
What a fascinating discovery.
He poured two oversized double shots. She took her glass and moved several steps away, trying to break the unexpected intimacy of the moment.
