The Elf and the Ice Princess (12 page)

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 present 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.”

Her skin
felt brittle, like ancient glass that would break apart with the least
pressure, leaving her insides exposed and deeply vulnerable. Had she really
misjudged him so badly for all those years? Or had living with Erica changed
him, brought out the worst in him?

Did it matter?
Because the result was the same. “Life isn’t just about having fun.”

“Why not? What
else is there?” He smiled, and for the first time ever, it didn’t capture her,
not even a little bit.

She studied his
face as if she’d never seen it before, or at least never really seen the man
behind it. Sixty seconds ago, she’d been near breaking something sacred, and
for what? A spoiled boy who didn’t know what keeping faith meant.

Shrugging
him off roughly, she stepped away. “Goodbye, Lincoln. This party’s over for me.
I won’t be coming back.” She could feel the pressure of tears building behind
her eyes as she made it to the door.

“Wait,
Carrie! What about—”

She turned
back and held up a hand. “Unless you want something really embarrassing
published in a widely-read local paper, I recommend you stop talking now.” Tears
fell down her face, and she didn’t care. “And I also recommend you stay with
your wife and raise your baby and figure out that sometimes life isn’t ‘fun,’
but decent people deal with it anyway.”

The last
thing she saw before the door shut between them was her ex, crumpled in his
chair like a broken doll. Part of her felt sorry for him and his childish
outlook. Most of her hated him for not being the man she’d expected him to be.
But then, he never had been, had he? She’d seen what she wanted to see and
carried some fairy-tale version of him in her head.

How could
she have been so stupid and so blind for all those years? And what had she
nearly done? Fury and self-loathing filled her, pushing everything else aside.
She gathered up her skirt and hurried back to the main rooms—

—Where
Brett the practically perfect was waiting for her with two glasses and a smile
that quickly morphed into concern. “What’s wrong?”

“Don’t.
Don’t be nice to me. I don’t deserve it.” She hurried past him to the stairs,
tripping her way up toward the front door, nearly ripping the magnificent dress
in her haste.

“Wait!” He
was following her. Brett was so innocent. So good. She couldn’t tell him where
she’d been. He would be hurt and he would know what a fool she was and he would
leave. She couldn’t stand being left again, especially not now when she
deserved it.

Ignoring
the coat check—she’d buy Lora a new cloak—she rushed outside and into the
rapidly chilling night. On the circular drive she halted. She didn’t have a
taxi.

Brett came
out behind her, glasses gone. “What’re you doing? It’s freezing out here.” He
took his jacket off and tried to put it around her shoulders. She pushed him
away.

“No, Brett.
Just go back inside.”

“How are
you getting home? You’re in no state to drive. What happened?”

“You
wouldn’t understand. So just go.”

He stilled.
“Did he hit on you?”

Shocked,
she stopped, floundering. “How do you…Why do you think…” As her voice choked
off, his jaw clenched in anger, and his jovial eyes hardened like they had in
the mall with that mother. But this was much worse. So deeply much worse. She
shook her head, trying to play it off. “Why would anyone ‘hit on’ me? I’m just
the reporter.”

Though
Brett’s expression kept the furious edge, his voice was consoling. “Carrie, I
know Lincoln Bryant left his first wife after she had a miscarriage, making him
a cad of the highest degree. I wasn’t trying to pry into your personal
business, but word gets around.” His jaw set and his voice turned into a
jealous growl. “I also saw how he was looking at you all night.”

Telling him what
had happened was not going to go well. Her tears fell again, hard and fresh.
She deserved every bit of his fury, but she couldn’t take it.

His voice
softened again. “It’s going to be all right. Put on the jacket and let me take
you home.” He looked darkly back at the house, for once no joy or humanitarian
concern on his face. “I’ll come back later to get your coat and have a talk
with him.”

Lincoln
deserved whatever Brett had to say. But Brett couldn’t come back here not
knowing what had really happened. She wrapped her arms around herself, wishing
she could disappear. “No. It’s fine. He didn’t… Okay, he did, but it’s my
fault. I—I came here, and—”

He turned
to her, incredulous. “You came to the party? Yes, God forbid you show your face
in public. That could have dire consequences.” He huffed a disgusted breath and
gently took her arms, smoothing his warm palms up and down the chilled flesh.
“Don’t blame yourself for anything that idiot did.”

“You don’t
understand. I almost said yes.” Her voice was overloud, practically yelling it
at him.

He jerked back
like she’d hit him. His soothing grip on her shoulders turned stiff as his face
blanched. Once more she could read his emotions as they crossed his eyes—anger
and frustration. Disappointment. Rage.