The Elf and the Ice Princess

by Garren, Jax

  The glow came roaring back. “Where is she? I’ll ask her for you.”

  Two dances later and still reeling over the discovery that her crazy elf-man was an upstanding citizen, Carrie left Brett’s side to start her rounds of the room and gather information for her article. The food was excellent. She reunited with some of the nicer people she’d been acquainted with while married to Lincoln and managed to avoid Erica. At eleven p.m., Carrie was surprised to find she was enjoying herself.

  No question in her mind, that was because of Brett. Even when they weren’t together, she felt better knowing he was there, her personal cheerleader. She hadn’t decided yet if she would wake up with him tomorrow morning or not. It might still be too soon for that. But one day she would, and it would be a very good morning. No doubt preceded by a kickass night. The room temperature raised several degrees just thinking about it.

  A representative from Ballet Austin gathered everyone into the main room for the requisite big speech with the check. Carrie settled into the rear of the crowd to take notes and lean her tired back against the wall.

  After the usual rousing recitation about arts in Austin, a thank-you for all the attendees and a reminder that the silent auction lasted another thirty minutes, the representative announced a special present to the Bryants for hosting this year’s gala. “As many of you know, our artistic director is also a woodworker of some renown, and his gift is available for everyone to view in the little room off the library.”

  Carrie felt her first pang in two hours. That room would’ve been their nursery. So many of her biggest dreams had been wrapped up in that space with its angled ceiling and windows that caught the morning sun. They’d turned the walls cheery yellow with a special paint she was allowed to work with while pregnant. She’d put her grandmother’s rocking chair next to the bay windows, and a new bookcase right beside it. Just two days before the miscarriage, she’d sat in the rocker as the evening sun had lowered over the house and read the baby their first book.

  As much as it hurt to remember that evening, she was glad she’d gotten one story with him. Or her. She’d never found out which.

  She wondered what Erica had in mind for the room, besides collecting thank-you gifts.

  The announcer pointed into the crowd. “Erica, you look lovely.”

  In disgust, Carrie headed to do more “research” on the catering, not interested in reporting what Erica-the-radiantly-lovely had to say. The caviar was real, and she thought partaking of more might cheer up her sudden mood swing. Her editor had demanded a top-notch segment on the food.

  But at the dining room doorway, she overheard the biddies chattering. Curling her lip in disgust, she debated whether or not the caviar was worth facing them.

  Then someone said her name. “Did you see Carrie Martin all over Brett Vertanen?”

  Carrie froze.

  “After things fizzled with Lincoln and she got nothing, you’d think she’d have the good graces to stay gone. What a gold digger.”

  Carrie strode into the room, her heels clicking loudly on the marble. “Why don’t you tell me how you really feel, Wanda.”

  Wanda straightened and had the grace to blush. “Miss Martin.” She nodded.

  Carrie knew she should drop it. She had no business caring what these cackling idiots thought, but she couldn’t help herself. “I had no idea Brett was a lawyer. I thought he was a Macy’s elf.”

  Wanda chortled, and her friends joined in the chicken cackle. “Macy’s elf? Carrie, if you’re going to lie, at least come up with something reasonable.”

  “What? I’m not…” Carrie trailed off. It was useless. These women thought the worst of her, and she couldn’t change that. Might as well enjoy it. She grabbed two cracker-sized blini, topped them with dollops of crème fraîche and scooped as much caviar as she could fit onto each. In gauche delight, she watched the women’s eyes grow while she stuffed one little pancake carrying several hundred dollars of salty fish eggs into her mouth.

  The other overflowing blini she carried out, determined to enjoy her pricey indulgence in peace. And she’d once thought Brett might be a thief.

  Whatever. Erica could afford it.

  She paused in the hallway and looked down at her dress, the one Brett the lawyer had spent his own, well-earned fortune on. She smoothed a crease, perfecting the lines. Brett… who’d been born in the middle of nowhere Canada then educated and worked his way into privilege. Unlike Lincoln, it hadn’t been handed to him. Brett had earned it.

  Had she ever underestimated anyone that badly before? He was right to be angry when she judged him for the actions of another man.

  A crowd had formed in front of the library, and Brett was nowhere in it. So she ducked into a side hall before anyone noticed her. This area wasn’t part of the party, but her intimate knowledge of the house felt like justification. Right now, she needed time away from prying eyes to enjoy the consolation of piled-high caviar.

  She didn’t turn on the lights, leaving Erica’s sweeping curtains and fleur-de-lis rods shadowed against the meager light seeping in from the gardens outside. Taking tiny bites this time, she savored the delicacy as it should be savored. Exhaustion, physical and emotional, weighed on her. She leaned against the wall and slid to the ground, letting the wide hem of her skirt drift into a silky pool around her.

  “There you are.”

  She froze with the blini an inch from her mouth as any good emotions left inside her deflated and vanished.

  A laugh. “Don’t shoot the caviar like you do Dom. I know you, Carrie.”

  Just what she needed. Alone time with her ex-husband.

  Carrie looked up guiltily to see Lincoln leaning against his office doorjamb and refrained from stuffing the rest of the blini into her mouth. Instead she took another little bite, but the taste was gone. What a waste.

  Lincoln stumbled a little on his exit from the doorframe and shot her a shameless grin. “Whoa. Long party. You having a good time? Gonna give us a good write-up?” He helped pull her to her feet, leaned forward and ate the rest of the caviar out of her hand.

  Carrie stiffened at the touch of his lips on her fingers.

  “Ready for your tour?” His voice was low and husky in a way she remembered too well. They’d had their problems, but at least one aspect of their relationship had stayed high quality until the devastating end. The sultry tone made her wary.

  Surely, however, she was misinterpreting it. Even in the unstable times, Lincoln had never cheated on her. Still didn’t mean it was a good idea to tour the house with him after a long and emotionally draining evening when they’d both been drinking. “I don’t know, Lincoln…”

  “Come on. I’m bored with the party.” He crooked his arm for her to take. He’d lost his jacket somewhere along the way, but his hair maintained its gelled perfection. He looked roguishly handsome in the half-light, just like he had when they’d walked this hall together as man and wife. She didn’t feel the same pull toward him, but to see the memory returned to life was nonetheless unsettling.

  Oh, what the hell. She’d decided to be adult about this, to face her past and leave the house ready for the future. Might as well get it over with. She took his arm, the feel of her fingers in the crook of his elbow both familiar and strange, and he tugged her into his office.

  “You never cared for any of that society crap, did you?” he asked.

  “No. Not really.”

  His personal space hadn’t changed a bit, still decked in brown leather with mahogany bookcases full of tomes he’d never read. The walls were still forest green. They’d painted that color together after he’d picked it in a missed attempt to match her eyes. It surprised her that he hadn’t changed it after the divorce. Maybe to a color that didn’t quite match Erica’s baby blues.

  “I like that the arts are getting funding, though,” she finally answered, trying to keep her voice light. “That’s important.”

  “Really? I think it’s stuffy.” He let her g
o and wobbled to a mini-bar for two tumblers. “I know you like this.” He held up a bottle of thirty-year Speyside single malt Scotch and smiled. “Join me? For old times? I bet you miss this. You always appreciated the good stuff when it came to your tongue.”

  Was he making an inappropriate joke? No. She was reading more into it again. This was awkward for both of them, but he was trying to be nice. The thought of her favorite Scotch did indeed make her mouth water. Smiling at her bottled Achilles heel—and at the man who shamelessly exploited it—she followed him further into the room. “Sure.”

  As she leaned a hip against his wraparound desk, memories, good ones, came pounding back in a strange assault. For so long she’d wanted to erase the last two years, blot them out like he’d never left, and they could figure out a plan together. Adopt maybe? They hadn’t even talked about that possibility. Brett had mentioned it on their first date.

  Regardless, she’d liked herself better back then, when it was still easy to believe in people and have faith the future would work out somehow.

  Pretending would be easy in here, his private room, where the passage of time and so many changes hadn’t left a visual mark. This exact scene, even, had played so many times before. They’d come back from an event, both in formal attire. He’d pour them each a Scotch, they’d talk over the evening, laugh over the silly things people did and then go back to their bedroom…

  Her throat went dry. Maybe being here wasn’t such a good idea.

  He poured oversized double shots for both of them. She took her glass and moved several steps away, trying to break the uncomfortable intimacy of the moment.

  Lincoln raised his glass in a toast. “To old times and good memories.”

  She mimicked his gesture and put the glass to her lips.

  But he wasn’t done talking. “And to new times when we’re not so distant.”

  He gulped down a mouthful, but Carrie stopped. “What?”

  Sticking his free hand in his pocket, he rolled back and forth on his feet again. Why did she still respond to his discomfort with sympathy? What was wrong with her that she still gave even a microscopic damn about him?

  His voice came out soft, almost pleading. “We don’t need to hate each other. I screwed up. Enormously.” He studied her, his eyes filled with regret. It physically hurt to see him like this. But that feeling was nothing compared to what came next. “I was a coward. I know that now.”

  She sucked a harsh breath in as her fingers dug into the wood behind her. It was the closest thing to an apology Lincoln had ever given her, and it felt so good for him to finally admit it. She put the glass to her lips and let a little liquid pour down, warm and soothing without the fiery aftertaste of the whiskeys she drank now.

  “Truth is, Carrie, I’m not happy.”

  She drank more. Of course he wasn’t. Who would be happy with Erica the weasel-lemming? Long before that woman had gotten her claws into Lincoln by way of her vagina—which Carrie was pretty sure started about a month after the split and well before the divorce was finalized—Carrie had seen through her saccharine smiles to the viper.

  She took another drink. Erica the weasel-lemming-viper.

  “I had more fun with you,” he added.

  Carrie licked her lips, pulling the oak-y vanilla and spice onto her tongue. Yes, he had. They’d had fantastic fun together. All the time. Until the end.

  “And I miss you.”

  Lincoln focused on her, watching her with the intensity he’d had when they’d first met. Here he was, saying all the things she’d waited two years to hear, and all she could do was stare at him silently as the Scotch heated its slow path down her throat and mixed emotions ran riot inside her.

  “Say something, please. Don’t just stare. It makes me feel crazy.” He gave her a lopsided smile and poured himself another drink. “I don’t know, maybe I am crazy.”

  “I missed you too, Lincoln, but that’s a moot point as you’re married to somebody else. I mean, if you want to play tennis or something I’ll…” She trailed off. What was she offering? Tennis? She had zero desire to play a very civil match of tennis with her ex-husband.

  He smirked. “You’ll finally learn how to play?” He’d taken her to the courts for one of their early dates, making her lack of ability with a tennis racket one of their oldest inside jokes. She couldn’t help a little laugh that he remembered. He scooted closer to her until they were almost hip to hip. The proximity set her on edge, but didn’t anger her like she’d thought it would.

  It was a pleasant surprise to be able to sit there and not hate him.

  She set the glass down and watched his strong chin and thick neck as he drained the last drops from his own glass. “I spent so long wishing you hadn’t left, Lincoln.” It felt good to finally tell him that.

  He put his hand on hers. “I wish I hadn’t left, too. Seeing you again, Carrie…God, you’re every bit as beautiful as when I first met you.”

  She stilled. His presence, the musky cologne he wore, the honey in his voice and strength in his manner, it stilled her heart and froze her in place with the memory of what once was. She’d wanted Lincoln from the day they’d met and he’d carried her over a puddle so she could get to her bus and save her new shoes. He’d been so impulsive and sure of himself.

  But that was gone. She couldn’t rewrite the past.

  Before she realized what was happening, he kissed her. Old muscle memory melted her against him as she had every time in their four years of marriage and two years of dating, even as some inner voice screamed a protest that this was wrong. That he had left.

  That he was married to someone else. A weasel-lemming-viper, yes, but somebody who was not her.

  His mouth moved to her cheek and trailed little kisses beneath her ear to a spot that had always sent her reeling. And with the warmth of his breath and pressure of his lips exactly where she liked them, she didn’t issue the protest that was building inside her head.

  Was it her fault it wasn’t still like this? Was it her fault he’d left? Lincoln had been hers long before he was Erica’s. What did she owe Erica? That harpy had coveted him their whole marriage. If the situation were reversed, Erica wouldn’t let her conscience interfere. The damn woman had taken him before the divorce was final, completely sealing shut the door to reconciliation. How was this any different?

  “You feel marvelous,” Lincoln whispered in her ear before trying to bend her back across the desk. She resisted, but it was hard.

  Of course it was hard. It was Lincoln. The first man she’d ever deeply loved.

  His breath was hot against her ear as he whispered, “Come back to me, Carrie. Forgive me. I want us back.”

  She put her trembling hands between them, unsure if she was going to hold him or push him away. An image of Brett whispered through her mind, slicing small cuts into the balloon of nostalgic lust that threatened to overtake her.

  Lincoln might be sorry for his actions, but some men didn’t need that kind of forgiveness.

  And like that, Lincoln’s spell was broken, replaced by a new standard: Brett.

  No matter how many times this scene of reconciliation had played in her head, she didn’t want it anymore. It had been a mistake to even come back to his office. What had she been thinking? She pushed away from Lincoln as guilt rose in her chest. Hopefully Brett could forgive her. God, what was she going to even tell him?

  “You are amazing.” Lincoln tried pulling her closer again.

  She resisted, nauseous disgust filling her gut.

  “After the baby, we’ll be like we were.”

  She untangled herself from his grip, needing to tell him her revelation, or some kinder version of it because vomiting on his lap was not appropriate. But the confusing words he’d just uttered distracted her. Was he talking about their baby? The one that didn’t live? She stiffened at the memory. “Baby?”

  “Yeah.”

  What the hell? Carrie blinked. Blinked again.

  The pres
ent in the room off the library.

  Erica the radiant.

  The look in the hens’ eyes as they said to make sure she saw the hostess.

  She was so stupid. And she really might throw up.

  Lincoln was still talking. “In two months, three tops, we can be together. I’ll leave her, and it’ll be just like old times.”

  Anger replaced any vestiges of nostalgia that had made her want to be nice. Carrie shoved him, hard, sending him bouncing against the other side of the desk. “You asshole!”

  “What?” He straightened up and rubbed the side he’d hit.

  “You left me because I couldn’t have your baby, and now you’re leaving her right when she is? What’s wrong with you?” Fury seethed inside her, at him and at herself for being here. No, for ever caring what he thought if he could do something like this.

  “You thought I left you because you lost the baby?”

  “Well, yeah. That’s exactly what happened.”

  He came at her slowly, hands out as if to soothe her, or maybe to ward off a blow. Which was smart, because her hands were clenching like she might punch him. “No. That’s not it at all. I never wanted kids, Carrie.”

  “But you agreed—”

  “Because it was so important to you.”

  “Then why did you leave me a week after the worst day of my life?”

  He got too close, and she raised her hands between them.

  He took her wrists cautiously, his gaze darting between her face and fists, and she held still for fear she might punch him if she moved.

  “I shouldn’t have done that. Like I just said, I really messed up, but you gotta understand, everything was so depressing. I mean you and me, we weren’t having fun anymore.” He puffed a hollow laugh. “God, we were having sex by a calendar and clock. Not that it wasn’t still good, but who wants that? But now we know we can’t have kids, so we don’t have to try. We can just have fun again. I’m sorry it took me so long to realize it, but I finally understand.”