The Elf and the Ice Princess (9 page)

C
arrie 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 tribute 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.

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?”

Lincoln
looked around. “No. Oh! You’re here on assignment. For the paper.” 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.”
Not anymore
, she thought with a pang. A delicate
blush crossed his tan cheeks as he shoved his hair back into place. At least
she wasn’t the only one having a hard time with their reunion.