by Garren, Jax
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 was terrifying. And giddy. 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 jerked away from her like she was hot. “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 left 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. “Time travel would be good about now.”
He made a rumbling sound, like a laugh but kind. One hand touched her waist and another 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 the 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. Part 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. “Look at me.” That mesmerizing voice was back with all its dominance, and sure enough, she listened. When he had her gaze locked back onto his, he leaned in slowly, giving her plenty of time to back away.
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 eyes 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. 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 hang out or whatever you were thinking. But I thought were talking about sex.”
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. “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. Pancakes. Waffles. I have experimental lox at the house. 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 gave me four and a half stars. Five with the last nougat. You can’t take them away.” His face lit up. “I will be highly motivated to make an amazing breakfast.”
Carrie shifted uncomfortably from one foot to the other. “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? I want to hear it more often.”
More of her insides went soft. Not g
ood 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 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 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. And she loved it.
Carrie trudged to work on the day of the party, frustrated, exhausted and with unruly hair. Weren’t bobs supposed to be ridiculously easy? That was why she’d gotten one.
Usually avoiding a romantic entanglement was easy, too. And yet she had her phone in hand and was, once again, opening up the contacts to stare at Brett’s name 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 and walk away, then 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 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.
It was hard to paint toenails when experimental lox and all that went with it distracted her brain in increasingly tempting and occasionally erotic ways.
“The dress.” Editor Hard-Ass gave her a once over, disapproving everything she saw with the cock of an eyebrow and thinning of her mouth.
“Ha ha. I still don’t have one.” Carrie smiled an over-bright grin, mimicking Santaland elves. “Can I have the afternoon off to look?”
“Ha ha. Go look in your cubical. You can have the afternoon to fix your nails and hair into something resembling human. However, you’ve got a review to turn in before then, and I have two pieces on your desk for rewrites. Chop chop.” She actually cracked a smile, her narrow lips twisting up like the Joker. “Princess.”
Carrie watched her go, wondering if a second cup of coffee would’ve made that exchange followable. Debating the merits of caffeine from the break room’s over-roasted and typically over-extracted brew—with powdered creamer, which, as far as she was concerned, was an insult even to crap coffee—she wandered into her cube and encountered an unzipped garment bag.
She set down her purse and pumped sanitizer into her hands, rubbing them carefully as anticipation filled her chest. Brett hadn’t. Had he? She’d told him not to. Repeatedly. She opened the bag and gasped.
Inside was an extravaganza in white shot through with silver and gold. The filmy Grecian top and dropped waist would glorify her curves, and the way it flared into a satin mermaid skirt was elegance incarnate. It looked somewhat like a bridal gown—maybe it was originally meant to be. Regardless, the shimmering winter white would look fantastic against her skin.
This was a gown to show off in. The gown.
She checked for a label and found none, so it was hand sewn, like he’d said. The card in the bottom of the bag read, “I’m glad you enjoyed the meal, Princess. From Santa’s not-little-at-all helper.”
Brett was trying to start a catering company; he couldn’t afford a gown this extraordinary. She should give it back and demand he return it. Temptation made her run her fingers over the soft, slick fabric. She’d look wicked amazing in this, a real princess for Brett and an ice princess for Lincoln. It would make Brett happy, too, even if it wasn’t in his best interest.
He’d told her not to decide that for him.
But what message was she sending by wearing his dress? She hadn’t told him who her ex was, but Brett knew he’d be there. That made wearing his dress more meaningful. Brett would know, without a word being said, that she was looking forward to the future and not on a date with her past.
She wasn’t ready to make that decision yet, not whole-heartedly. But she didn’t want to be stuck anymore. It wasn’t brave or strong. It was fearful and sad. She wanted to be the kind of woman who saw something wonderful and reached for it.
Maybe she’d go looking for glass slippers. The notion amused her.
But no, that was the animated version. In the Grimm, Cinderella wore gold shoes on the last night, the one where the prince spread tar on the staircase. She’d read the story the other night out of curiosity. Silver and gold thread drew primitive shapes across the waist and down the neckline of the dress. Gold accessories would work and no one would question them. But Brett would get it. He would smile and kiss her and that would be wonderful indeed.
She zipped the bag up, moved it out of the way and got to work. She had to finish quickly if she was going to find the right shoes in time for the ball.
The double mahogany doors, thick and chiseled with Celtic knot work, probably looked more impressive to people who hadn’t picked them out. The gray stone leading up to two towers, the circular drive, the tall arched windows showing a dining room with twelve-foot ceilings and a table that sat sixteen, all might be awe-inspiring to people who hadn’t owned them—and given them up as worthless, soulless, empty things.
Behind the house, the land rapidly fell away, offering a panoramic view of Austin’s skyline, illuminated in green and red for Christmas. The colorful front garden of winter flowers and spices was new. She and Lincoln hadn’t gotten around to gardening before the split, although she doubted Erica’s hands had so much as touched the dirt. The immaculate lines were the kind only a professional and pricey gardener achieved. How many of Carrie’s paint colors—she’d insisted on doing their own painting—had been done over by professionals in the latest colors and faux techniques?
It wasn’t that cold, Texas winters rarely were, but Carrie shivered as she clutched her invitation. It rankled that she needed it to get into this house. She looked at the rows of gleaming BMWs and then at her taxi, vanishing around a curve. This wasn’t her world anymore, if it ever had been.
After a deep breath of cedar-scented air, she marched to the doorway.
Indeed, the entryway had been redone in a creamy perfection that professed, “I have the money to keep white clean.” She showed her invitation to security with the best smile she could fake and turned the corner to the main living area. A wrought iron balcony overlooked a sunken room full of Austin’s richest and best connected. For four years, she’d attended these, smiling at each bright face, wondering what thoughts were hidden behind their polite words. Even when she’d had the money—or married it, anyway—she’d felt like an outsider.
Tonight, Erica’s people had done a tremendous job. The two-story tree looked like a gilt and red t
ribute to Southern Living, the banister was wrapped in juniper berries with pine cones and twinkle lights and every guest carried a gold-rimmed glass of Dom or Cristal or some other exclusively priced bubbly. Carrie couldn’t wait to down a few. Drinking expensive wines like shots had once been a wicked pleasure of hers, and as she had to attend this party, she would take full advantage of the catering and Erica’s need to show off.
Nervous, she gripped the cool metal railing, but her dress was amazing and made her feel beautiful. No, she didn’t feel beautiful. Tonight she was beautiful, whether or not anyone else saw it. She’d topped the gown off with Lora’s green velvet caroling cloak with gold silk lining. A bit over the top, maybe, but it brought out her eyes. When she pushed back the hood, her hair, or hair extensions, were piled on top of her head in a loose bun and fell around her face in spiraling curls. She hadn’t had long hair since before the pregnancy, and sometimes she missed its weight and the many ways she could style it.
Brett was already there in the gathering below, and her heart stuttered at the sight. His hair was tamed down into a conservative part, and his black tux appeared expensive. He sure didn’t look like a bartender, and the sight confused her.
But my, did he look dashing. Tonight they would dance, and it wouldn’t matter who else was in the room because she had him.
He looked up, as if he felt her eyes on him. His face went slack as he eyed her up and down. “Damn,” he mouthed.
His first cuss word. How sweet. Farewell innocence, and good riddance.
A butler came and took her cloak. She handed it off then did a turn for Brett so he could see the whole dress. When she faced the party again, she leaned over the railing and mouthed “Thank you.”
The affection and desire flowing from him to her could replace oxygen as far as she was concerned. He motioned for her to come down and pointed to his elbow, like she should take it. She nodded.
But first, she pointed to her feet. Lifting the skirt just a bit, she stuck a pointed gold shoe out from under the fabric.
He looked down in consternation. A wash of embarrassment threatened her joy. Maybe this was too silly, and he wouldn’t get it. But just before she gave up and stuck her foot back under her skirt where it belonged, understanding flashed across his face. He blew her a kiss and held up a finger for her to wait.
