The Elf and the Ice Princess

by Garren, Jax

  Brett frowned and scratched at his collarbone, once again thoughtful.

  She closed her eyes, frustrated with her mouth. She’d gotten too good at tanking any shot at a relationship. She was starting to think she might want to give this one a try, and yet all she did was shoot torpedoes at it. Like…like she expected it to end up like Lincoln.

  Lincoln had been her dream for so many years. There had been a time when she’d have said marrying him was worth any risk. She knew better now. No relationship was good enough to chance that she’d go through even a fraction of that ragged hell again.

  Even so, it wasn’t a fair question to ask Brett about his ears—that couldn’t be a happy story. He didn’t deserve her baggage heaped onto him like that.

  But before she could let him off the hook, he said, “I’m from Baffin Island, in Canada. I mentioned that at dinner.”

  Carrie nodded, now more curious than ever. “Yeah, with the story about the tonttu.” She smiled to try to lighten his mood. “It’s up near the North Pole, right? Appropriate for an elf.”

  He nodded, the shadow of a smile on his lips. “Closer than most people ever get. I’m from a small town there.” He shook his head, the smile turning self-conscious. “And when people in Texas say ‘small town,’ they seem to mean around five thousand inhabitants. But when someone in northern Canada says ‘small town?’ We mean more like fifty.”

  “Fifty people total? That’s it?”

  His expression grew to something resembling the normal teasing grin, though the light didn’t reach his eyes. “Total anything warm blooded. I’m pretty sure my neighbor included his six huskies in the population count.”

  Carrie chuckled at the idea of dogs included in the census.

  “It’s beautiful. Mountains and fjords, snow and sea, polar bears and harp seals. White wolves and arctic foxes and snowy owls. I saw the Northern Lights all the time. When I was a kid, I thought they were the holiday decorations of the gods. It’s really lonely, up there, too. And with the weather and the lack of sun in winter, spotty education and almost nobody new moving in, nobody old moving out…it can make things a little crazy.” He shook his head. “It can make the residents a little crazy.”

  His tone stayed so somber that Carrie reached for him, and he readily took her hand, enfolding it in his own. It felt nice, and that in and of itself was strange. The contemplative look came back, as if once again he was debating how much to say. She didn’t make a noise for fear he’d decide not to speak. When he started talking again, she released the breath she hadn’t realized she’d held. “When I was sixteen, I fell in love with a girl one town over.”

  When he didn’t continue, Carrie knew she should leave him alone, but this serious Brett fascinated her. She glanced back at his ear. The top didn’t curl over, showing a flat scar as if someone really had lopped the top off. “How does that get your ears sliced up?”

  “Her brother did it. He didn’t think I was good enough for his sister.”

  A chill ran through her. “Oh my God, he cut you on purpose?” Who did that? And why his ears?

  He shifted uncomfortably. “My family wasn’t exactly the most well respected.”

  “So? Who cares about your family? You’re pretty awesome.” Oh, crap, did she just say that? He lifted a dark eyebrow, warmth back in his eyes. She blushed and busied herself by examining the scar again. It did seem far too precise for anything but a purposeful cut. “What a violent nutball. That’s scary.”

  “Nyall was a scary guy.”

  “I guess that broke you up. But why your ears? That’s strange.”

  Brett doodled pictures on the couch with his fingers. “I applied for college in Toronto and asked Ryssa to come with me. She decided to stay behind. Didn’t want to be disloyal to her family like that.” He brushed the couch, as if erasing whatever he’d drawn, and captured Carrie’s gaze with his own. His blue eyes were as bright and sad as melting ice. “We were awfully young. And leaving is considered treasonous among my kind.”

  The story was crazy, nothing like the staid life she’d had, but those scars were too clean to be an accident. Then his last statement registered. “Your kind?”

  Brett blinked, shook off the maudlin with a friendly smile and stretched. “You know, crazy far-northern Canucks.” He shook her hand. “I like it better here, anyway.”

  She couldn’t help asking, “Is that all true?”

  His expression turned confused, as if the idea of lying hadn’t occurred to him, and he canted his head again in that way that always made his bells jingle. Without the cap, though, it looked more like he was listening to something, like faint music or unspoken words.

  He held a finger up and slid his wallet out of his back pocket. A moment of digging inside, and he produced a folded photograph. “That’s the house I grew up in.” A weathered wooden structure, small and none-too-sturdy but with brightly painted window shutters, took up a third of the frame. “My little sister.” He pointed to a fair-haired kid of maybe ten making snow angels on the lawn in a threadbare jacket. “And a moose. ’Cause they’re everywhere.” He pointed to the background where, sure enough, an enormous brown animal stared at the camera with angry eyes.

  “Wow.” The windswept desolation in the photo made it all real. He’d grown up in a totally different world than she had with her cheerful middle-class family. Talk about overcoming some odds. Shame pricked at her. How dare she or anyone else judge him or his job when he’d come from frozen poverty and creepy violence to become a friendly guy cheering up children at the mall?

  He folded the picture carefully along the same lines and replaced it, then spun the wallet so she could see his driver’s license through the clear plastic. “But I’m a US citizen now.”

  “Brett Vertanen,” she read. Apparently Elf-man had a last name, too. It made him more real. “That’s a cool name.”

  “Finnish.” He chuckled. “I’m the only one of my immediate kin to escape the cold.” He slapped the wallet closed and stuffed it back into his pocket. When he faced her again, his cheerful smile had returned. “So you liked my food, eh?”

  She nodded. He still had her hand, and he squeezed it.

  “Can I cook for you again?”

  Here it was, the decision to keep seeing him, to let him in, if only just a little. She couldn’t help hearing, “Give me a chance to hurt you?” But that wasn’t what he meant. She took a deep breath. “Yeah. I’d like that.” Even if it scared her, she meant it.

  The cheerful smile turned triumphant. What a goober he was. Furtively, he glanced around them.

  “What are you—”

  She stopped when he cupped her cheek with his free hand. His gaze found hers with the force of a storm. In his eyes again she glimpsed a core that was strong and a little wild, hidden—or maybe held in check—by his laughter and affable smile. The depth of space masked by the light of the stars.

  It struck her that Lincoln had been the other way around, a wild, rebellious exterior hiding a man who feared he wasn’t special. She’d always wanted to help Lincoln see that he had more inside him than he realized.

  And then, when it had mattered most, he’d gone and proved her wrong.

  Brett’s thumb stroked her cheek, bringing her back to the present and the man she was with. “I’m checking for eyes before I do this.” With a twinkle in his own eyes, he leaned in.

  Her heart pattered furiously, her skin tingling in anticipation as she realized what he was about to do. Since the divorce she’d told herself she didn’t need to be touched, but it was a lie—such a lie. Desire eclipsing fear, she closed her eyes and met his kiss with her own.

  Brett’s kiss was full of warmth and sweetness. The need it inspired went straight to her center and radiated out again with unexpected power. Her breath caught as the fingers of her free hand clenched at the air, longing for more. He started to pull back. Without thinking, she reached for his shoulder and wrapped questing fingers in the crisp fabric of his shirtfront. He
felt so good.

  A noise of surprise shook from him. Instead of pulling away, he deepened the kiss. The pressure of his fingers on her jaw increased, making her gasp as his tongue grazed her lips. She parted them, and the tip of his tongue circled hers. Her shuddering fingers splayed against his chest, no longer clutching but feeling him and the firmness of his chest muscles beneath her palm.

  He pulled away, decisively this time. His breath quivered as his temple rested against hers. “I’m going to back up before I forget I’m on someone else’s couch.”

  She laughed self-consciously and leaned back then pushed her hair behind her ear.

  “Are you…” His voice trailed off. She looked up to see emotions running across his face with no attempt to hide any of them. Eagerness, doubt, restraint. Desire.

  She’d made him feel those. She’d forgotten how good it felt to have that power, but it was strange to be with someone who didn’t hide anything. “Am I what?”

  “Are you staying here after I leave? Is that your plan?” The teasing grin was back, but the lightness was forced over him this time, like that story of the wolf wearing sheepskin. “Talk about me with your friends?”

  Of course she had been, and of course he knew that. But the look in his eyes said he wanted to take her to a different couch where he didn’t have to worry about privacy. No pressure, just an opening she could take if she wanted.

  She was tempted. Tempted and terrified. She made up a story in her head of what would happen. They’d go someplace, he’d get her out of his system and then she’d be rid of him. No complications. No risks. And it would be nice to be touched again. If his kisses were any indication, it would no doubt be very nice to be touched by him.

  And yet the thought of a relationship with Brett that was so cheap and held so little substance was a letdown when he felt so innocent.

  Innocent. What a silly word to describe a full-grown man, and she doubted he’d appreciate it. “I was planning to stay here for a while, yes.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Help them clean up.” Not that that was necessary after their bet.

  His knuckles brushed her chin, turning her face up to his. “Hey, I didn’t mean to make you think so hard.” His smile turned self-deprecating. “I see what I want, and I go marching that way. Tunnel vision.”

  She smirked. There he went again, laying it all out on the table. As someone who hid, well, practically everything from the world, it was unsettling. And yet beautiful. “And what is it you want, Brett?”

  The question seemed to confuse him. “Well, you. I haven’t made that obvious yet?”

  She chuckled. Brett wasn’t innocent; he was a human being. Didn’t make him a bad person. Just made him a person.

  He threw one hand in the air, and it dawned on her he was still holding the other. “No, no. Don’t take that the wrong way.” He huffed in irritation. “I swear I’m normally good with words, then I get around you and turn into an ass.” He took her other hand and held them both in his lap. His eyes widened slightly and he slid them down to his knee, as if to illustrate his point. “I’m not trying to get you into bed. Or not in the way you’re thinking, because it’s not like I’d tell you no. Uh, that’s outside of my point. My point being…” He looked down, lips pursed into a thin line as if he was trying to keep them shut long enough to think. “My point is, yes, of course I want you like that. You’re beautiful, and any man with eyes would be happy to take you to bed.

  “But that’s not my end plan. You’re honest, you take care of your family—I saw all those presents at the mall, despite you hating the holiday.” He grinned. “You have great taste in food.” He looked back down at their hands. “And despite me ruining your sweater, drunkenly babbling at you, dragging you all over Santaland like a crazy man and nearly making you cry—and I’m sorry about that. That was not my intention at all. Despite all that, you’ve not only not called the cops on me, but I’ve managed to get you to kiss me.” He flashed a grin again. “Twice. So either you’re incredibly forgiving or somewhere near as crazy as I am. Either way, I like you.”

  Her insides went soft, practically mushy. He was really getting to her. Damn it. “You are crazy,” she said, her voice embarrassingly breathy. “And I like you, too.” She’d never intended to like him.

  “Walk me to my car? I’d offer to walk you to yours, but you’re not leaving, so…”

  His eyes somehow lit up and darkened at the exact same time. He planned to kiss her again at the car, now did he? Well, then. She planned to let him.

  Brett took her hand again as they headed out the door of Tom’s garden home. He wasn’t tugging her somewhere this time. Or comforting her or helping her up or anything that resembled a reason for holding hands. She looked down at their interlaced fingers. How could such a chaste gesture feel so intimate? The contact of his long fingers and smooth palm pressed against hers was comfortable—nice, even—but she worried her acquiescence gave him the wrong idea.

  He noticed her attention and shook their joined hands. “Does this bother you? I like holding your hand, but I’ll stop if it bothers you.”

  It seemed to matter to him, so she shook her head. “No. It’s good.” That was mostly true.

  “Okay. Good.” He squeezed her hand gently. “I’ll keep doing it then.”

  His unvarnished honesty again threw her off balance. “Do you always go point a, point b, point c? Do you never, I don’t know, jump to d and sneak up on c from behind?”

  His expression turned quizzical. “I don’t understand the question.”

  “You’re really straightforward, and it’s not from lack of imagination.”

  He kissed her fingers, as if that pleased him. “Thank you. Although, I can’t take too much credit as that was expected where I grew up. I think my mother’s favorite admonition was”—his voice shifted to a light accent with fierce, choppy phrasing in what Carrie assumed was an imitation—“‘State your intentions and follow through. If you can’t get what you want that way, you didn’t earn it.’”

  She laughed at the impersonation. “She sounds intense.”

  His shoulders shook, his own laughter silent. “She was. And still is, I assume. She’s a good woman. I miss her.”

  “I guess you don’t get back home a lot, living so far away.”

  “I can’t go back. I left.” He said it plainly, as if it was a fact and not a decision. Hadn’t he said something before, in the story of his scarred ears, about leaving his home being treasonous? But that didn’t make sense. Before she could ask about it, though, he shot her a sidelong glance. “Answer a question straightforwardly for me?”

  Uh-oh. “What is it?”

  He stopped in front of a silver car that was meticulously clean and looked awfully nice for a mall actor. Not that she knew a thing about vehicles. It was probably just really clean. But still, in spite of his blunt honesty, the mystery of Brett seemed to grow and grow.

  “How’d you become a restaurant critic? You never mentioned it at dinner.”

  Okay, that question wasn’t too bad. She ignored the car to consider the easy half-truths she told everyone about her work. But Brett had asked for honesty and had already given her more than his fair share. She felt she owed him some of the same, even if it wasn’t the most flattering truth. “I mentioned my ex-husband?”

  He nodded. There didn’t seem to be any judgment in it. First hurdle over.

  “He, uh, had money. I didn’t really care too much about that one way or the other. It’s just stuff, right?” She felt a flush creeping up her cheeks. She meant it—the money hadn’t mattered to her. But most people couldn’t believe that. After the divorce, she’d overheard someone congratulating Lincoln on successfully extricating himself from undue financial burdens—as if she’d tried to money-grab and failed, when the exact opposite had happened.

  But that wasn’t the story Brett had asked about. Thank God. “But I missed the food. Eating at restaurants where chefs cared about the cuisine, where culinary skil
ls were taken to an art. Wine pairings that highlight the subtleties. Unexpected textures. The smells. I know it sounds stuck up, but caviar and good vodka is my favorite indulgence. I can do without a fancy house, a nice car, designer clothes—all of those things can be fun, but I’m fine with my Rack Room shoes and my used car. But I don’t want to imagine life without delicious food.” Like the kind he made. It was downright sensual what Brett could do in a kitchen.

  She wondered what it would take to get the recipe for his rice pudding. A too-obvious idea popped into her head, making her body tighten and her breath catch.

  He grinned as he leaned against the car, arms folded. He looked appealing—no, not just appealing—sexy covered in streetlight and shadow with that confident arc to his lips. She contemplated his expression, worried he somehow knew what she was thinking. As soon as her gaze reached his, he said, “I knew I liked you for a reason.”

  Her neck grew hot. “Why? Because I want your rice pudding?” Did that sound dirty? No, that was only in her mind. But just in case, she added, “The recipe, I mean.”

  He leaned closer as his eyes darkened. “When you come over, we can make it together.” Longing for more than a cooking lesson filled his voice.

  His unhidden need turned her on and made her feel safe, like she didn’t have to hide or minimize her own feelings for fear of judgment. With that thought he went from interesting to irresistible. She traced a finger down his shirtfront. His arms released so she could skim from collar to belly. “You want to make it with me, huh? A big batch of rice pudding?”

  His gaze followed her finger as he took a deep breath. “That and every other recipe we can invent.”

  Her back hit the car, and Brett was in front of her. Carrie practically moaned as she threw her arms around his neck and pulled him into a kiss. He responded immediately, dragging her against his firm chest eagerly. He smelled fresh and cool, but his body surrounded her with heat as he kissed her harder.