by Jax Garren
It was hard to paint toenails when experimental lox and all that went with it distracted her brain in increasingly tempting and erotic ways.
“The dress.” Editor Hard-ass 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 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 follow-able. 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 a half-zipped garment bag with something white and gauzy inside.
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 what was best 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 night 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.
Chapter 6
The double mahogany doors, thick and chiseled with Celtic knot work, probably looked more impressive to people who hadn’t helped 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, 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 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 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 tribute to Southern Living, the banister was wrapped in juniper berries with pinecones 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. She pushed back the hood. Her curls were gathered into a loose bun, a few tendrils tumbling out to frame her face. When she’d lived here before, she’d kept it straight. It felt nice to rock a more natural look.
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 at them in consternation. A wash of embarrassment threatened her joy. Maybe the shoes were 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.
He was coming to her. Were people watching? Probably. She didn’t care. “Winter Wonderland” started on the stereo, a waiter put a drink in her hand, and there was nothing wrong with being at some old house belonging to Lincoln Bryant.
“What are you doing here?”
The voice brought her happy moment to an abrupt halt.
Her heart lurched as her mouth went dry. Slowly she turned, watching carefully for a reaction. “Nice to see you too, Lincoln.” She smiled in satisfaction when her ex couldn’t help looking her over with his jaw unhinged. The right dress was worth its weight in platinum. A gulp of champagne. She could handle this. Not just because Brett was on his way, although that did help, but because she was strong enough.
Or that was the plan, anyway.
“I...” He shook his head, his manners returning. “Welcome to the house. No, welcome back to the house. I’m glad you could make it.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and rocked back and forth, like he always had when thrown for a loop. She’d found that particular move endearing when they were together. Judging by the softness in her heart the motion inspired, she still did. Finally he smiled up at her with a warm, if tired smile. “Wanted to see the old place, huh? You know you could’ve just called. Saved the ticket price.”
Carrie frowned. Same old Lincoln, circling around her lack of money. “I didn’t come here to see the house.” Her cheeks warmed, and she took a sip of her drink to hide her discomfort.
He looked confused. “Really? Because you didn’t go last year, so I assumed you came because it was here and you wanted to see...” He stammered to a halt.
She sighed. “Do you see Eva here covering it?”
Lincoln looked around. “No. Oh! You’re here on assignment. For the magazine.” He sighed in relief. “Well, have a good time! If there’s anything we can get you or...” He waved a hand in a meaningless gesture.
“No, it’s okay, I don’t need anything from you.” Not anymore, she thought with a pang. A delicate blush crossed his tan cheeks as he shoved a lock of his hair back into place. At least she wasn’t the only one having a hard time with their reunion.
His earring caught the light, a silver stud that set him apart from the traditional set. He also had a tattoo of a dragon on his right shoulder and kanji on his left wrist, hidden by his watch. She’d always loved that little wild streak in him. It was what had first attracted her, the way he braved and bluffed his way through life, this rich kid who could pay for anything he wanted, but liked fighting for things anyway.
He shuffled back and forth a few more times before blowing out a soft sigh and smiling wistfully at her. “You look amazing, Carrie. Really, you do. Welcome home.”
She ducked her head. Insults and witty banter she could handle from him. Honest niceness? She needed to walk away or damage the best eye makeup she’d ever applied. “It’s been a long time since this has been home, Lincoln.”
“Yeah, well, if you want to walk around later, I can show you the whole place again. If you want to see what we—what’s changed.” He sounded earnest, even excited about the idea as the momentum in his voice escalated. “A little memory lane for old time’s sake. Some of the colors you and I painted are still here.” The old heart-melting grin surprised her with the power it still held.
No. She was supposed to be immune. After what he’d done, she should be immune.
“God, that was fun. Painting with you. I’ve got a lot of good memories of us, Carrie. I know things ended... well...” Was that regret in his eyes? She’d spent two years thinking he’d never looked back. “I’m glad you came.” He held up his elbow. “Tour the house?”
She was tempted. She loved the house, and maybe Erica hadn’t messed it up too much. And this Lincoln? This friendly person with hope in his eyes and a spry step? This wasn’t the man who’d walked out. This was the guy she’d fallen for. It was who he’d been for most of their time together. They’d had a lot of fun. Dinners and trips and quiet evenings at home. They’d been amazing until... until they’d tried to get pregnant, and her body had betrayed them both.
For the past two years, the memory of how it’d ended had overshadowed those joyful years, but seeing him again brought all of it back, the good as well as the bad. She reined in tears that gathered in the corners of her eyes. “A tour sounds nice.” It did, didn’t it? She’d decided to face this place again and let go. A house tour would be good for that. They could be adult about their past, let go of the anger, and be civil with each other. A couple more glasses of champagne, and she thought she could do that. Holding onto her anger wouldn’t help her move on. She took another sip. “I’d better let you circulate now, though. I don’t want to take up too much of the host’s time as everyone’s arriving.”
Lincoln smiled happily. “Then stay late! We’ll wander. Oh, and you should try the little fish thingies, they’re right up your alley.” He leaned over and, to Carrie’s horror, planted a kiss on her cheek before striding off to slap an old fraternity brother on the shoulder.
She backed into the dim light of the hallway. Her cheek felt cold where he’d touched, and her lungs ached like an asthma attack. That was not what she wanted, that familiarity between them. He’d lost the right.
Her wine glass slipped from her fingers. She grabbed for it and missed, then shut her eyes for the embarrassing crash.
But none sounded. Instead, an arm encircled her, a hand put the glass back into her fingers, and a kind voice whispered in her ear, “You look magical.”
The smell of pine soothed her. Brett. Opening her eyes, she found herself inches from his smile. His shoulder was firm and comforting, so she leaned against him as she retaught herself to breathe. He must have seen the whole thing. How embarrassing. Was he angry? “Brett ...”
“Your ex?” His voice was light, but it sounded intentional. For once he was trying to hide his feelings, and it worried her.
“Yeah. I used to live here. First time back in almost two years, since we separated and I moved out.” It felt like cutting into herself to talk about it. But tonight wasn’t going to be easy. If her behavior was erratic, Brett needed to know it wasn’t about him.
“You okay?” He squeezed her tightly to him for a wonderful moment.
Finally she managed, “I’m fine,” with a voice that barely shook. She set her empty glass on a side table and took his hands. Brett kept a neutral face as she tried to find the words to explain what happened. “It’s not that I want Lincoln back after what he did.” She licked her lips and squeezed Brett’s hands for strength. He squeezed back, and the gentle pressure helped her go on. “But part of me wants him to never have left—cheated, I mean. And then we’d still be together. I felt so broken.”
And now Brett would leave, too, because she was an emotional mess, and he was finally figuring that out. He transferred both her hands to one of his and his palm cupped her jaw. She darted her gaze up to his face. A confusion of emotions so varied she couldn’t guess at them struggled for dominance in his face.
Her breath came out loud and shuddering. Whatever he was going to say, she wished he’d get it out.
“Thank you for telling me.”
She looked up at him and frowned. “Why?” Why would anyone want to listen to her whine about the past?
He tried again. “Thank you for trusting me that much. I won’t let you down.”
A weight she hadn’t even realized she carried lifted from her back. Not only had he listened, but he wasn’t going to judge her for it. He was staying. Her heart pounded as a feeling more powerful than she’d thought herself capable of sparked inside. It wasn’t a full-blown fire yet, but with time and the right fuel she thought it might become one. “You’re amazing, you know that?”
His eyes gleamed. “Yeah, I know.”
She laughed. “And arrogant.”
He kissed her hair, and the casual affection from him felt good. “Everyone’s amazing in their own way.” He frowned. “Scratch that. Everyone has amazing in them. Some people don’t live up to it.” His sourness sounded like jealousy, and she thought he might be referring specifically to Lincoln.
How human of him. She ran her hand down his shoulder, as if smoothing ruffled feathers. “Well then, you have extra amazing in you.”
His
good humor came back. He took criticism well, but it seemed he didn’t mind an ego stroke, either. Was it possible he was nervous about tonight, too?
She took his arm and turned toward the party. They should get into the thick of it. She had an article to write and he had... whatever it was he was doing here. What was he doing here?
As they started for the stairs, Brett spoke again. “I know you have work to do, but I can stay with you as much as you like. I wouldn’t mind in the least.”
“About that. You implied you had a job, too, but I don’t see you carrying trays. And what is this suit, silk?” Now that she had the wherewithal to study it, his suit was as soft and rich as it had looked from a distance. His green bow tie appeared to be silk, too, and was definitely not a clip-on. More than the suit, though, the way he carried himself down the crowded staircase had a confidence just shy of swagger, like he knew he belonged here.
“I do have a job. I’m just not working tonight.”
“Brett Vertanen! There you are!” shrieked a woman behind them.
He winced. “Or not working much, anyway.” He leaned in to whisper, “Once more unto the breach.” But when he turned them around, his demeanor had altered to pleasant and professional disinterest.
What the heck?
A woman drowning in chiffon minced over, two other biddies in tow.
Brett smiled graciously as they crowded his space, attempting to shuffle Carrie out of the conversation. But Brett held her firm, tucking her tighter to his side.
The leader’s sharp smile softened even as her eyes turned flinty. “Who’s your guest?” Carrie found herself critically and curiously surveyed until the woman stiffened in recognition. “Oh. Miss... Dear me, I don’t believe I know your name now.”
Carrie remembered the women by virtue, though she didn’t know their names, either. Charity mavens did a lot of good raising money for various causes. In person, some of them were less kind. “Carrie Martin.”
“That’s right. I apologize, I always thought of you as Mrs. Lincoln Bryant.”