by Garren, Jax
When he pulled back, he didn’t let her go, just kept her clutched up to him. His eyes had darkened, and he trembled, as if he, too, had been blindsided by that kiss. Clearing his throat, he shifted uncomfortably, his unsteady breath puffing gently against her hair. “I thought that might help you decide, 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 as she focused on his teeth. Bright and perfectly straight, like a guy in a dentist’s advertisement. 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. Dating casually was 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 and his brain cogs went churning. She was a little afraid of what he would come up with next. Afraid and big time curious. “We have an appointment with 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. Your stuff will be safe here.” Once again he grabbed her hand and tugged. The opened door sent forth a blast of “Feliz Navidad.”
“Santa is for kids!” she squeaked then dazedly waved at the multitude they met outside.
Brett dragged her through the line, past all the children waiting to tell Santa what impossible crap they wanted this year. Most families seemed to consist of a mom and two sugared-up children, but one family stopped her mid-stride.
A blond man and an auburn-haired woman with two perfectly 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.
She hated Christmas, hated all the materialism and hypocrisy of it, 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 of 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 didn’t. Why would taking her to Santa make her sad? Annoyed, maybe, but sadness? 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.
That wrapping paper must be getting to her because a little part of her wanted to visit Santa with Brett, try to see the experience through his happy view.
A tiny hand was inserted into hers. She looked down to find Brett had squatted to get eye-level with a gangly five-year-old girl in a Rudolph sweatshirt. His voice was low and serious, mock full of awe as he intoned, “Lady Britney, may I introduce the Princess Carolina from the land of Yule.”
Carolina? 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.
She clenched her jaw. This was not her job, but the kid looked up at her with wide eyes, full of faith that she would do something amazing. Carrie liked children, but she wasn’t like him, engaging and imaginative where she could just make stuff up on the fly.
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. “So very pleased to meet you, Lady Britney.” Better than nothing, she supposed.
The pigtailed 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 stood 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 harried, 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.
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, incensed. 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 ire, 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 gritted her teeth and squeezed out, “Princesses are real. Princesses from Yule who visit fake Santas with secret messages are not.”
“You can be a real grinch, you know that?”
“It’s been pointed out to me. I’m happy this way.”
“Happy? Is that the right word?” For a moment, his gaze seemed to stare right into her soul and all the bleakness it contained.
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 had been so much harder to hide since the decorations came out. 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. Her body had ached almost as much as her heart; it was 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 wasn’t right to take them away from their families at Christmas. She couldn’t stand being in that big house with Lincoln gone. Couldn’t stand the thoug
ht of coming back to empty it out. So she’d packed alone and left every holiday decoration out for somebody else to handle. She hadn’t put a damn one up in her own place since.
But this insolent stranger had no right to know that.
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 smile, 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.
“I’m picking up on that.”
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? What was wrong with this guy?
Santa laughed a booming Kriss 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. The camera elf snapped a photo. Him she could easily glare at, so she did. He smirked back.
Brett sent the camera a mock salute. “Thanks, Andy. I’m trying to cheer her up, not piss her off.”
Fine. What the hell. 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.” 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?”
“Bar…” A slow grin spread across his face. “Yeah. I 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. “Sure. But on two conditions.”
Carrie struggled out of Santa’s lap, slapping at his grasping hands until he let her go. “You are not buying me a dress.”
He paused. “Okay…but I have a friend who sews. You’ll have an amazing one.”
“By Friday.”
“Yup. She, uh, just had a commission fall through.”
The amount of stumbling over his words made Carrie debate if he was lying. The thought crossed her mind that maybe he was a thief. That would explain how he got the sweater. She should say no and walk away. “What’s the first condition?” Good job walking away.
He pointed back to Santa’s leg and smirked. “You smile for a picture with me.”
“Seriously?”
His point 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 and offered her a hand. She took it. “And I know you want that photo, so don’t even bother trying to deny it.”
She rolled her eyes, but yeah, she wanted the photo. “Condition two?”
He waved at Elf Andy. “Be right back.”
He made kissy noises in return, which Brett ignored. Pointing to a different door, he didn’t drop Carrie’s hand as he walked her out of Santaland and into the mall. She breathed a little easier outside the holiday hell. Brett’s hand, however, felt nice enough that she was sorry when he dropped the connection. Not that she’d let him know that.
An empty bench was nearby, and Brett leaned against the back, bringing him closer to her height. “I’ll give you the photo so you can frame it or scrapbook it or whatever you do with treasured pictures, and you will let me cook you dinner.” Though his voice sounded teasing, his eyes were full of hope.
She had to hand it to him; the man didn’t give up easily. But his request was unintentionally funny. “You want to cook me dinner?” she deadpanned. Her. A restaurant critic. Her dearest friends refused to cook her dinner—not that she’d ever critiqued a meal cooked by a non-chef. The generosity of home cooks at friendly gatherings had a different purpose than haute cuisine at thirty-plus bucks a plate. A few scathing reviews of overpriced food, however, and now she never got home-cooked dinner invitations.
But Brett didn’t know that. She needed to warn him before she said yes.
Wait, that thought implied she intended to say yes. She’d worry about that in a minute. There was another problem. “Look, I’m pretty sure I’ve only been a crazy emo jerk around you, and I swear I’m not always like that. But I have no idea why you’d want to see more of me.”
This time Brett’s expression turned serious as he once again carefully chose his words. “You haven’t been crazy. Not in comparison to what I’ve been, anyway.” He shook his head, causing more bell-ringing. Despite his surprisingly self-aware statement, he didn’t seem to notice the jingle. “But I saw you at the bar and I heard you laugh, and I knew I wanted to get to know you. You have the most wonderful laugh.”
His gaze caught hers, sending another spiral of nervous energy through her. Her memory recalled the firm strength in his body as it had pressed against hers. Desire heated her again, but not the brainless, biological, do-me-now kind where nothing mattered but skin. Brett was more like a fire she wanted to warm up to.
Even her ill-fated relationship with Lincoln had started with fingers and tongues and not this curiosity to see what made him tick. Then again, she could honestly say she’d never met anyone like Brett. Of course she was curious.
Curiosity didn’t mean she had to like him, though. To her surprise, she realized that she did. She steeled herself against the feeling. Now was not the time for a crush. Nip it in the bud. A hand on her hip, a smirk on her lips, she said, “So the elf believes in love at first sight, huh?” But the words didn’t come out as harsh as she’d intended. More like an honest question.
He smiled, a slow turn of his lips that had her watching them and squirming. He knew she was interested. Crap.
Instead of answering the question, he said, “The food will be good, I swear. I’ve been training as a chef. I want to start a catering company. It’s been my dream for a while now.”
Oh. That explained a lot, and not just his job. Relief flooded her as his interest in her fell into place, logical and orderly. He wanted one of Austin’s most popular food critics in his pocket. “You know who I am. That’s why you’re doing this.” Of course. What was she thinking? Magical elves and fairy-tale love at first kiss? Good grief.
“Who you are? You’re…Carrie?” He looked honestly confused. Maybe he didn’t know who she was.
“Carrie Martin? Restaurant critic for Austin Life? That’s me.”
Judging by his ecstatic expression, he’d had no clue. Back to elves and fairy-tale kisses it was, then. “That’s awesome! You can try my food and tell me if it’s good! Please come over and try my food.” Full of eager anticipation, he stood up and took her hands. “My Christmas list now consists of one thing, that Carrie Martin, esteemed restaurant critic for Austin Life magazine, will eat my food and love it. Let me c
ook you dinner?” Puppy-dog eyes held her gaze without blinking as he jiggled her hands and mouthed “please” over and over.
She couldn’t believe she was about to say this—she was so going to regret this—but his begging was too heart-meltingly cute to answer anything but “Yes.”
To avoid any address contamination—the kind where a crazy elf-man knows where you live and starts stalking you—they met at Lora’s brother’s house, with Lora and her brother, Tom, in attendance. Not that Carrie had been worried; off-kilter as Brett may be, she got zero creepy vibes off him. But Lora had insisted and Tom had offered and plans had been set.
Carrie still couldn’t completely believe she’d agreed to this. It wasn’t about the dress. She’d repeatedly assured Brett that his friend didn’t have to sew anything—whatever that meant in reality—and had continued her unsuccessful hunt for the perfect gown. She’d agreed to dinner because Brett’s enthusiasm was every bit as compelling as it was strange. If anything, he made her feel safe, like she could say or do anything that struck her fancy and he’d just grin and laugh and, hell, maybe break out a pom-pom routine.
And no matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t shunt the memory of that kiss.
When Carrie arrived at Tom’s, the man was sorting a tangle of video game cords. With a resigned sigh, he shoved the lot of them into a cabinet underneath a television the size of a baby rhinoceros. “Delia dropped Thomas Jr. off a couple days early. Sorry about that. It’s my turn for Christmas. I didn’t have plans for him for tonight though, and…”
Carrie smiled a reassurance. “You can’t turn your son away. Don’t worry on my account. Where is TJ?”
A crash in the kitchen. Tom hustled toward the noise, calling as he left, “Acting sous-chef. Your friend was kind enough to let him.”
“Actually,” Lora said as the kitchen door swung shut, “it was more like Brett somehow talked TJ into putting the game controller down and helping. Tom kept thinking he’d come back out to play or get sent back out to play, but so far there’s been no peep. Just, you know, a crash or two. I’m afraid dinner may suffer.”
