by Garren, Jax
Christmas Eve, the bleeding had started. By Christmas, they knew they’d lost the baby. By New Year’s Day, Lincoln was gone, too, broken down by this final defeat after three years of unfulfilled expectation.
Carrie slapped the frame shut and tossed it roughly back into the desk. A shaky breath escaped as the silver thudded dully against her files.
Well then, Lincoln Bryant, one tough-ass reporter was coming home.
The mall was packed with zombie shoppers humming to holiday music as they elbowed their way through last-minute gift-hunting. No matter what the song proclaimed, this was the most horrible time of the year in any commercial center. Carrie had been to five stores already in her quest for an affordable dress that would make Erica look like the unimaginative, status-grubbing whore that she was.
She’d met Erica before the divorce; that was not pettiness speaking.
But she hadn’t found it yet. At least not one she could pay for without going into debt for the sake of her pride. A rare buzz of regret that she hadn’t accepted any of Lincoln’s fortune dashed through her.
It had been hard to turn down, her logic circuits pushing for her to take as much as she could get. He’d been the one to walk, after all. But it was his money, from family and from his software empire. Her freelance writing career, while personally fulfilling, had brought in an income they’d made much good-natured hilarity over. After the split, Lincoln had begged her to take a cushy settlement, which, of course, had only made her dig in her heels. The ability to throw cash at every problem had made Lincoln the way he was. Carrie had been independent before him and had known she could be again without him. There was no way she’d soothe his conscience by taking his money.
Of course, having a few hundred extra bucks lying around did have its perks. Like now, when every dress that came near the mark was well out of reach.
Carrie sat on a bench near a plastic pine tree and slipped her feet out of winter-white boots with soles worn too thin for marathon shopping. Where to go next?
A wail pierced the air as a harried mother dragged her unwilling son toward the line creeping to Santa. Carrie huffed an angry breath. Some people might carry on like her holiday attitude was crazy, but it wasn’t just about her own bad memories. Here was another example of how awful it really was, with this woman manhandling her panicked child into a Santa extravaganza—“It’s all right. We can photoshop out the tears and redness later!”—as she tried to live up to everyone’s expectations of cookie-cutter seasonal bliss. Carrie would bet that woman didn’t feel any happier than the wailing kid. She felt frantic and stressed and secretly would be thrilled when the hullabaloo was over and life returned to normal. Carrie was just one of the few people willing to admit it out loud.
She regretfully began sticking her shoes back on—the dress quest must be vanquished, despite the awful crowd—and noticed the boy had quit crying. Looking up, she found the calm was due not to the usual candy or toy bribes but to an elf animatedly telling a story.
She froze, right foot only half in her boot. Not just any elf—the one who owed her a sweater. That peppermint stain was not coming out.
Even in the same goofy green and red getup, Brett looked more dignified than he had last night. Probably due to not being schnockered. His story made the child laugh. The mom tried to use the distraction to drag the kid into the queue, but he started screaming again. It was a different sound, though, like he was in pain. How hard was she squeezing his arm?
Brett held a restraining hand out toward her without losing his merry grin. She ignored him, instead getting in the kid’s face with one hand gripping his arm and the other waving in harsh accusation. A little too harsh.
Discomfort squeezed Carrie’s gut. There was nothing she could do. If yelling at your kid in the mall was an offense, half the American population would be in prison, and she couldn’t call 911 on a bad feeling. Maybe she was overreacting, but reality showed time and again that people who didn’t want or didn’t deserve kids had no trouble whatsoever popping them out.
Unlike her. Reality was violently unfair—sometimes in all-too-literal ways.
The set of Brett’s jaw said he was getting a similar vibe from the situation. That must be awful to observe and be powerless. She wondered how often he had to see this kind of thing. Her elf-man seemed to give a damn about the kid’s welfare, but he was in the wrong line of work for someone with feelings.
The mother stood, and the child’s cries grew more frantic. Brett stepped into her path and caught her gaze. She stopped, looking irritated. Then stilled. Brett’s presence, the way he held himself upright and firm but still relaxed, radiated strength. His eyes hardened and shined, and though the smile never lessened, there was an authority to it that was less “slacker with a mall job” and more…President of the United States. It was incongruous with the setting and costume, almost Twilight Zone.
Though Carrie couldn’t hear what he was saying, she had a sense that she, like that mother, might agree to whatever was being demanded. Apparently Brett was a Christmas elf with chutzpah.
Sure enough, the woman kneeled down to eye level with her son and ran a shaking hand through his hair, like she was apologizing. The kid immediately calmed down. Even cracked a smile. When he pointed away from Santa, fear filling his eyes as he looked at his own mother, the woman nodded her head, took his hand and they started away.
Carrie gaped at them, wondering. The change was superficial—it had to be; a guy at the mall didn’t alter lives with a few words and a firm stare. But despite knowing that logically, the way the woman’s fingers entwined with her son’s and her stride slowed so his little legs could keep up felt like more.
Admiration warmed Carrie’s skin. Was she biting her lip? Embarrassed, she released her lower lip from between her teeth and buried the unwanted interest. She was not attracted to a friggin’ mall elf. Was she? Then why couldn’t she take her eyes off of him?
A blush still rode high on her cheeks when he looked up. Their eye contact was brief before Brett turned to watch the mother and son go, but the recognition was clear.
Crap. Carrie had to get out of there. She was, indeed, attracted to a mall elf, and that was not okay. Not because of his job, but because he was a man, and she was not doing this again. She didn’t do Christmas or any other winter holiday, and she didn’t do love or any other form of relationship. All of it was pointless hokum that got people’s hopes up for nothing. Or at least they were for her. Other people could do as they pleased.
She began gathering her packages. Despite the lack of a dress, Festivus shopping had been plentiful. A bag tipped, spilling the package of Legos she’d picked up for her nephew. She lunged forward to fix that, tripped on her shoe—which still wasn’t on right—and stepped on her purse.
Her phone!
She jerked her foot up to keep from breaking it and tumbled backward.
Solid arms caught her before she landed rump-first on the tile. “Huh,” Brett said. “I think I like catching you even better than being caught.”
Brett’s voice was bemused and friendly-like, all traces of his earlier alpha display gone. He cradled her easily, as if she didn’t weigh a thing. Amusement fit naturally on his face, as if joy was the default expression.
Carrie tensed, even as the kindness in his demeanor and confidence in his smile soothed her. It was an awfully nice smile. He smelled of winter, snow and pine, clean and distinct but not overpowering. She couldn’t remember a cologne like it.
“It’s okay,” he reassured. “I gotcha.” He steadied her on her feet and slowly, reluctantly it seemed, let her go.
Carrie forced a smile as unwelcome butterflies toured her insides. “Thanks. I appreciate the catch.”
“It was the least I could do.”
She shook her head, chagrinned. “After my friend and I were so rude yesterday? You could’ve laughed while I landed on my ass. That’s the least you could do.”
He grinned sheepishly and cocked his head
, the bells on his hat jingling with the motion. “If I remember correctly, I spilled a drink all over you and then fell into your lap. I don’t consider myself the offended party here.”
The sweater was disappointing, but his stumble into her lap had brightened up a bleak evening. If she said that, though, he might ask about her bad day, and that would lead to a personal conversation. Instead she waved the whole thing off. “Don’t worry about it. We’re even.”
Past Brett, the crowded North Pole display loomed large and bright. With overeager glee, several men and women dressed like him entertained parents and children queued up to enter a cave of Styrofoam snow, plastic trees and enough twinkle lights to power a small town. Animatronic reindeer lifted and lowered their heads to the beat of “Jingle Bell Rock,” and a toddler-sized red and green train blasted its mini-horn as it chugged into view, carrying the smaller set of Santa’s visitors.
“So…you really are an elf.” It was one thing to be in college making a paycheck, but Brett, whose nametag said “Toymaker General,” looked more like he was in his early thirties, just a few years older than her. Carrie tried not to let her face display any disdain; God knew she’d taken a few gigs well beneath her while getting back on her feet after the divorce.
Plus she was going to hell-house next weekend and hadn’t found a dress yet. All the good karma she could earn was desperately needed. This time she’d be nice to the elf-man, and Lora wasn’t there to stop her.
“Indeed I am. And I’m glad you’re here. This way.” He scooped up her packages in one arm, grabbed her hand and tugged her toward the snowy monstrosity, a frightening twinkle in his eye.
Nice had its limits. “Wait! I didn’t come to see—”
The mini-train blasted, cutting her off. Brett practically pranced back to the hill with her in tow, her packages held hostage for her compliance. Where was he taking her? She should dig her heels in and demand her stuff back, and yet her feet were following after him.
They hit the crowd of families, and he yelled, “Emergency elf business! Coming through!” The children squealed in delight as he danced her through a sea of them, saying, “’Scuse me! ’Scuse me!” and “’Scuse me, ma’am!” when he bumped into a family whose muscles bespoke extreme devotion to the CrossFit way.
The family laughed, and he jingled his cap bells at them.
Carrie tried to shrink to as small as her curvy 5’9” frame would allow, but she was being dragged by the tallest elf of the bunch, and he was making such a racket. Her bad karma hadn’t let up. Her cheeks burned as she prayed nobody she’d ever met in her entire life was anywhere near the mall.
The closest way out of the spotlight was into the hill, so she let him pull her inside. Instead of heading for Santa—thank God—he took her through a side door into a tiny break-room.
Carrie rounded on him as he set her packages down on the coffee stand. “What the hell are you doing?” She jerked her hand from his grip and looked around the unoccupied space. Even the employee area was not free of “the spirit,” with its bedecked pink tree and posters of Christmas movies.
He cocked his head yet again, pondering her as if her anger confounded him. “We were cutting. I didn’t want them to get upset.”
“We weren’t cutting. I’m not going to see Santa.”
“They don’t know that. Besides, it made the kids happy, so why not?” He dismissed her glare with another goofy grin and shrug of his shoulders. From under the break room tree, he retrieved a beautifully wrapped package. He shook it, listening, then thrust it at her.
“What’s that?”
“Open it.”
Her glare softened to a frown as she shook her hands at him. “It’s okay. You don’t have to…” do whatever it was he was doing. Had he gotten her a present? Why?
He continued holding the box at her. With a startled kick to the gut, she realized it was wrapped in the same dancing Christmas cats paper her mother had used for “Santa’s” presents when she was a kid. Where on earth had he found that?
Her mom had wrapped a few gifts that way every year, tagged from Santa, even after all the kids in the family knew the truth, even after Carrie was old enough and teenaged enough to tease her mother about being silly. The year they quit printing the pattern, Carrie’s sophomore year of high school, her mom had sighed with regret and given up the tradition, admitting there was no point anymore when nobody believed in Santa Claus. But despite pretending she was too cool for such things, Carrie had missed it. No more presents from Santa.
And somehow, here those silly cats were again, grinning maniacally at her as they cha-cha-ed across the box. It was absolutely ridiculous paper. Still, she couldn’t help running a finger along the package as nostalgia for a more innocent Christmas welled inside her.
A green bow took up almost a quarter of Brett’s package with gold netting and pine cones stuck into it, far more extravagant than her mother’s usual plain wrap. He couldn’t possibly know, but the coincidence was staggering.
She looked into his eyes, willing him to offer her a serious answer. “Why are you giving me a present?”
His eyes stayed wide, guileless, as his shoulders shrugged lightly. “Because I owe it to you.”
“Is this about the sweater? We were in a bar, and accidents happen. It’s okay. And why would you buy me something on the off-chance that I might happen to come to this particular shopping mall, and you might happen to see me?”
He smiled, a little of that smug confidence coming back into his nearly indigo eyes and the curl of his lips. Once again she felt it in her gut, a twist of gravitation toward his unexpected pull. “I had a feeling it would work out,” he said simply. He shook the gift at her. “Take it.”
Curiosity beat good sense. She sat in a metal folding chair and carefully pulled off the bow, trying to preserve it as best she could. Then she slit the tape on either side. She didn’t really want whatever was inside, but she wanted the paper. She’d wrap her mother’s present in it this year, which would mean far more to the woman than the jewelry set inside.
Carrie wasn’t sure exactly how she was going to do that, return the present to Brett yet keep the wrapping. But she’d figure it out. Maybe she should just ask where he found it.
Before she could, Brett snorted. “You’re one of those.”
“Huh?” She ran a hand under the tape on the back, carefully slitting that, too.
“Do you trash it after you neatly fold it? I always marvel at people who go through the trouble of carefully unwrapping so they can wad up and throw away the paper. Why not just rip it up? That’s part of the fun.”
“I…” She flushed. Even without the incentive of her mother’s delight, Carrie had always meticulously unwrapped her packages. “I’m going to reuse it.” She cleared her throat, unwilling to tell such a personal story to a stranger. “Better for the environment and all.” The box inside was unmarked.
“How conscientious of you.”
She couldn’t tell if his voice was mocking or not, but it didn’t matter. Smiling with an anticipation she couldn’t stop and hadn’t felt in years, she pulled the top off the box.
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—designer—while hers had been a knock-off she’d picked up for cheap. The blush turned to a burn. “I—I can’t accept this.”
“I ruined yours—”
“It’s really okay—”
“Take it.”
She thrust the garment at him. “This isn’t the same sweater.”
“It’s the closest I could find. I’m sorry.” He frowned, the first truly downtrodden look she’d seen on him, and it made her feel even worse.
“No, you don’t understand.” Carrie held up her other hand to stop his n
ext protest and reminded herself she’d earned her shame back when she’d let Lora imply the sweater was expensive. “My sweater was cheap. 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 I was rude, and you don’t owe me anything. I’m sorry.”
To her surprise, he chuckled. “I have a friend who gets me a heck of a discount. It’s okay. 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.”
Surprised, she stood up, trying to come up with a nice way to say no. He stood at the same time to hand her the wrapping, and they ended up too close, her nose almost brushing against his chest. That same interest wound through her, his proximity speeding her pulse and making the air feel thin.
“Sorry.” He backed up a step.
“Are we, uh, even attracted to each other?” That didn’t make sense as a protest. He wouldn’t ask if he wasn’t attracted to her. And, despite her attempts to think otherwise, his appeal bordered on electromagnetic.
“I think so. I don’t know about you.” He took the step back into her bubble, leaned down and Carrie found herself kissed by a six-some-odd-foot man in an elf suit.
Bordered on electromagnetic? Nuh-uh. Supercharged and sparking. 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.
