Free The Elf and the Ice Princess by Jax Garren

on her lips and a nervous sinking in her gut. Brett
was insane. And she loved it.

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