The Elf and the Ice Princess (5 page)

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 cook 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.”

T
o 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.”

Carrie glanced
back at the kitchen. “I can’t believe he’s letting a kid help when he’s asked
for a review.” Though Brett was great with kids, little fingers tended to get
in the way more than help. Did he not take her seriously? She couldn’t give
compliments for the sake of being nice; it would damage her professional
reputation if he quoted her. Besides, as much as she wanted to give his
ambitions a thumbs-up, false praise did him no favors if he was serious about
finding the investment capital it took to start a catering service. The
competition was fierce, and all the hopeful enthusiasm in the world wouldn’t
earn him a paycheck if he couldn’t rock the menu.

“I can’t believe
an elf is making us dinner.” Lora said with a giggle. “You know, I don’t think
he’s merely trying to impress the food critic in you.”

Carrie
unwrapped her scarf and hung it on the back of the couch, as uneasy about him
asking her on a real date as she was about reviewing his food. But she didn’t
tell Lora that. “Just say he’s not in his costume, and he’s already off on the
right foot.”

“Nope,
totally normal man attire.” Lora leaned in, her voice hushed. “He’s surprisingly
handsome. And TJ already adores him. Your elf’s got a way with kids.” She
smirked. “Must be all that hard work at Santaland.”

Just then
TJ entered, carrying a tray of mini-roast beef sandwiches garnished with au jus
and what Carrie guessed might be chive aioli.

Lora breathed
deeply. “Ah, to think of the swill I ate before you became a restaurant critic.
I love being your friend.” Brett followed with a tray of martinis, all with
red-sugared rims and candy cane swizzle sticks. “
Really
love it.”

Lora
might’ve only had eyes for the drinks, but Carrie took a good look at the man.
Black corduroy slacks and a fitted midnight-blue button-down highlighted his
lean figure much better than candy-cane striped tights. His hair was still in
casual disarray, but in this outfit it looked more rakish than playful. His
gaze found hers immediately, and he grinned. “Thought I heard you come in,
Princess. Martini?”

Carrie
frowned at the “Princess” and eyed the sandwiches. She’d give him one last
chance to make this a friendly meal and not a professional critique. In her
experience, many people who asked for comments were looking for praise, and a
balanced answer—even a generally positive one—didn’t go over well. “You really
want my honest, professional opinions?”

His lips quirked.
“I’m not sure you have the ability to lie. Not about food, anyway. I’ve been
reading your reviews.”

Lora snorted a
laugh and raised a martini. “She will rake you over the coals, man. Back out
now!”

Brett gave her a
friendly wink and returned to the kitchen, calling, “Dinner’s almost ready,”
over his shoulder.

Lora poked
her in the shoulder. “It’s like he already knows you.”

“Yeah, yeah.”
Carrie settled in, readying herself to be honest but not vicious. He needed the
truth if he wanted to be successful. Plus, doing her job would probably kill
his interest in her, which would keep her safe from a romantic entanglement.
She wanted to be safe, didn’t she? Honesty was the best thing for both of them.

The meal started
off on a decent foot. Nobody guessed that the mini-sandwiches were
seitan—turned out Brett was a pescetarian and preferred to cook that way—and
they had a sauerkraut dressing that gave them a unique punch. The dish was
creative and well balanced, and Carrie relaxed somewhat at the first bite. The
meal had promise.

She looked up to
find him watching her, his gaze focused on her lips. Well, of course he was
watching her. He wanted to know what she thought about the food she was
chewing.

When he realized
she’d noticed his attention, his smile turned chagrinned and his eyes left her,
as if to say, “Busted.” He glanced back, winked then passed the sandwiches to
Tom.

She swallowed,
her throat suddenly thick. He hadn’t been thinking about her opinion. He’d been
thinking about her mouth. Her skin warmed and she couldn’t help taking a glance
at his own lips, narrow and pale. Would he try to kiss her again tonight? Did
she want him to?

The question made
her nervous, and she reached for her drink. She hadn’t even tried it yet. Too
wound up she supposed.

Unlike the
sandwich, it wasn’t balanced quite right. She set it back down, relinquishing
the nervous woman for the professional critic. A much easier persona to take
on.

“Something’s
off.” Brett made it a statement, not a question. He must’ve seen her reaction.

His expression
was curious, not offended, which was some comfort. Usually she gave critiques
from the safety of her computer. It was harder than she’d expected to say
something to his face, but she managed it. “It’s a little sweet for my taste.”

“I think they’re
great,” Lora interjected.

“Thank you Lora,”
Brett acknowledged, but he kept his focus on Carrie. “I want to know what
you’re thinking. Drinks are not my strong suit, and I’d like to get better.”

Breathing a
little easier, she said, “I know you’ll probably have a bartender to handle
this part. I don’t expect a chef to be a mixologist, too, but if the drinks are
too sweet, they’ll be considered less refined. It’s easy to make a drink appeal
with sugar. But it tends to kill the other flavors.” There it was. She’d said
it as nicely as she could. Could he handle the criticism he’d asked for?