Her Christmas Elf Read online

  Copyright © 2019 Jennifer Hinson

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Visit Jax’s website at www.jaxgarren.com

  Editing by Rhonda Helms

  Copyediting by Abby Webber

  Cover designed by Lily Dormishev

  Her Christmas Elf

  by Jax Garren

  Table of Contents

  Her Christmas Elf

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Like sexy, funny heroes? You’re going to love grownup Peter Pan…

  A fast-paced romp of action, mythology, and romance.

  Looking for a walk on the wild side?

  Books by Jax Garren

  Dedication

  To Betty, Carolyn, Laura, and Scout, four generations of awesome.

  Chapter 1

  “Lesson of the day. When someone wishes you a Merry Christmas, it will not go over well if you wish them Happy Saturnalia in return.” Carrie sipped Shawn’s latest craft cocktail and tried to keep a pleasant smile on her face, despite the gut-clench that had started around Thanksgiving and would last until the New Year.

  That and the freaking Santa’s gift bag of doom that had flattened her at work today. She took a larger sip, trying to focus on the complex layers of whiskey, apple, and cinnamon and not the simple grief of life.

  Her best friend Lora, sitting in the swank, faux-leather seat next to her at the bar, blew a hissing breath out her teeth and patted Carrie’s knee in that way she had when she wanted to be nice but thought Carrie had dropped off the deep end. “Is whipping grumpy old men into an angry froth part of the new holiday spirit?”

  “He wasn’t old. He was younger than me. But he was definitely grumpy. Most wonderful time of year my ass.” Carrie shifted in her seat, trying to find a more comfortable position, and took another drink. It no longer tasted quite right. Had the whiskey gone down smoother without the sour shot of misanthropy?

  Ugh. Three more weeks until peace and normalcy replaced explosions of tinsel and false cheer, and she couldn’t wait. She hadn’t dropped off anything. The rest of the world went crazy every December. “I wasn’t even being sarcastic. I really hoped he would be happy on Saturnalia—whenever that is. Then he got all uppity and yelled at me with the finger of death jabbing at my face.” She pointed at the air, her index finger mincing a rapid staccato just like his had an inch from her eye.

  Lora swished her lips without saying a word—at least out loud. But the way she sat and took another drink said volumes.

  Carrie took another disappointing sip. Shawn’s cocktails were usually en pointe. What was wrong with this?

  Aw, hell, it wasn’t Shawn. Or the angry guy.

  It was her.

  A sigh escaped her as she tapped her fingers on the table. “Fine. I know better.” She took another sip and sighed at the overt sour apple flavor.

  Lora nodded placidly. “So, what’s actually wrong?” Her gaze faltered as her hand spun in the air, as if indicating the whole holiday vibe of their favorite bar. “Or is it just…”

  Instead of sipping to savor, Carried slammed the rest of the cocktail while Lora watched her in confused wonder. “I got the Austin Arts benefit assignment.”

  Lora’s face lit up like… dammit, like the Zilker Park Christmas tree. “Congratulations! That’s… not amazing? You’ve wanted to cover that since you got started at the magazine.”

  Carrie had. It was one of the hottest high society events of the year, and landing the gig to cover it was a big step up from her restaurant review column. Except… “You’ll never guess who’s hosting this year.” She utterly failed to keep the bitterness out of her voice.

  The annual benefit was held in a different home—no, not home, mansion—the Friday before Christmas. The elite of central Texas came to drink Dom, eat canapés, show off their latest gowns, and feel proud of themselves for dropping an average person’s weekly wages to attend. And that didn’t include the silent auction. Usually the amazing food, luxurious setting, and voyeuristic glee of watching the glitterati get smashed was entertaining. Not this year.

  Lora looked at her with horror. “No. Freaking. Way.”

  “Lincoln and Erica.” Her ex-husband and his new wife. “At the house I formerly called mine.”

  In a different life so full of hopeful possibilities, she’d attended Austin Arts with Lincoln as his wife. She closed her eyes and pictured her ex with his platinum-blond hair, broad shoulders, and chocolate-brown eyes. He was a brilliant software designer, charming to a fault, and tragically weak-willed. Lincoln had swept her off her feet her senior year of college—a rich, gorgeous, romantic genius who’d zeroed in on her with an intensity that had taken her breath away. They’d been so good together, a fairy tale come true.

  For a few years anyway.

  She swallowed heavily, and Lora squeezed her. “Oh, sweetie, you tell anyone you want happy Saturnalia, okay? Meanwhile tell your editor there’s no way in hell you’re taking this assignment. Why did she even give it to you? Conflict of interest and all that…”

  Carrie shrugged, trying to release the tension that had moved from her shoulders up to her jaw and down to her toes. “She doesn’t know, and I didn’t tell her. It’s been two years. I should be over getting replaced.”

  “Honey, you weren’t replaced. What that asshole did was… I wanted to beat him to death with a shovel and probably would’ve gotten acquitted for extreme sanity. The Bryants are toads. No, that’s an insult to toads. They’re—”

  Carrie hugged her friend, stopping the tirade that always started whenever Lincoln or Erica Bryant came up. “You’re the best, and I love you.” She shook her head to clear it, and the motion caught her hair in a low-hanging pine swag. Grunting with frustration, she untangled herself from fake evergreen. “I hate this time of year.”

  “And you have every right to, honey.” Sympathy rolled through Lora’s voice, making it even harder not to tear up.

  Instead of meeting her friend’s gaze like a brave woman, Carrie looked around the room. The dark wood tables and pub décor of her favorite craft cocktail bar were maxed out in evergreen and gold, providing no safe seats. Her house had once looked a lot like this, cheerful and decorated to the hilt like a medieval castle. Now, though, walking through the day, pretending to feel the cheer she used to genuinely possess made her feel barren and bleeding inside.

  Empty. She meant empty.

  Shit, that wasn’t any better.

  Lora sucked on her peppermint martini—far too sweet for Carrie’s tastes, but Lora loved them—and eyed her critically, as if determining what tack to take. Everyone wanted to help and no one knew how. Grief made people uncomfortable, and Carrie felt bad for her friends who had to put up with her. Finally Lora said, “If you don’t want to go, then don’t. Tell your editor there’s no way in hell. Tell her half of what happened—ten percent—and she’ll take you off the assignment.”

  Carrie shook her head. “No. I’m going. I need to… to beat this.”

  “Okay.” Lora gave her an encouraging smile. “Maybe you can get your holiday cheer back. I noticed you wore a holiday-colored sweater today. That’s the spirit!”

  For the sake of her friend, Carrie forced a smile onto her face and levity into her voice. Fake it ’til you make it, right? Not that that had worked last year. “It’s my favorite sweater. I can’t help that it’s
green.”

  Shawn, the bartender, appear before them and tapped the bar near her empty drink. “Finished that awful quick. Want another?” He gave her a grin halfway between sympathy and disapproval. “Or should I just pour you a whiskey?”

  Because he’d seen her shoot his artfully crafted drink like it was rot-gut tequila. She scrunched her face on a groan, trying to get her emotional shit together. Failing utterly, she stood. “I need to go to the bathroom.”

  Sensing his mistake, Shawn cleared his throat. “Really, Carrie, what can I make for you? On the house.”

  “Make me something I’ll like,” she managed. She’d give him a smile and drink his apology when she came back, but now she needed space.

  “You okay? Should I come with you?” Lora asked, eyes all wide in concern as she stood to join her.

  “No, no. I’m fine. Just picking debris from my hair.” Everything would be fine-ish; she just needed five minutes alone to get it back together. Five minutes of peace.

  She turned and crashed into an elf.

  The cold stickiness of a mixed drink seeped through her shirt as the tall man in a puffy green-and-red costume stumbled back, muttering, “Sorry... sorry... sorry...”

  Carrie looked down at her favorite sweater, now splotched with peppermint-scented red and likely ruined. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

  From the doorway, someone called, “Rethink this, Brett,” in frustrated tones, and the front door pounded shut.

  “G-Geirson, sir—” The elf turned to the door, like the guy was talking to him. One step that direction and he drunkenly lost his footing, tripped... and regained his balance.

  Carrie’s arms, up to defend herself from accidental elf molestation or, maybe, to help the man stay upright, lowered. On his next attempt at forward progress, though, the elf-man slipped on spilled drink and slammed backward onto her. She fell back into her chair with an inelegant “oof.”

  A startled, handsome, and utterly toasted face looked up from her lap.

  She let out her breath as Lora stifled a laugh into a snort. It probably had looked silly. Practically slapstick between the crashing, the spilling, and the slipping. “Laugh. It’s okay.” Somebody should.

  Lora’s snort became a guffaw.

  With a smile that felt more genuine than most, Carrie looked down at the instigator. His wide blue eyes, framed by dark lashes, blinked up at her. His coal hair was styled into disheveled spikes, and his graceful face was free of wrinkles or the usual signs of worry. He didn’t look innocent, exactly; maybe hopeful was the right word. Despite his obvious inebriation, it was endearing. Just looking at him made the gloom a little lighter.

  But encouraging drunk strangers, no matter how cheerful or handsome they were, was never a good idea. She turned to Lora and motioned at her sweater and the man in her lap. “I hate Christmas.” To her pride, the words came out more snarky than bitter.

  The elf—Brett, the guy had called him—made a sound more like a giggle than a laugh. “You hate Christmas?”

  “Got a problem with that, ye of the pointy ears?”

  He still hadn’t removed himself from her lap, so Carrie reached for his upper arm to help him out. He caught her fingers and held them next to his chest.

  “Dude—” she started to protest, but the words dried up as his face went awestruck. As he continued to stare, gaze darting across her face in fascinated approval, her cheeks heated self-consciously. She was pretty enough, but not that pretty.

  Then he started talking.

  “You have skin bright as twilight on the mountains and eyes as magical as the midnight sun.” Brett stood, his shoulders squaring and spine going straight, and she was surprised by how tall he was—well over six feet of lean muscle even the silly costume couldn’t hide. He cradled her hand in a strong but not forceful grip.

  Carrie couldn’t tell if he was making fun of her or not, but a drunk guy in an elf suit was waxing poetic at her. A laugh—the first she’d had since Thanksgiving—burst from her. This was exactly the kind of what-the-effery she needed to break a foul mood.

  He ran a free hand over her cheek, and she batted him away, laughing harder. “Soft as new fallen flakes.” Carrie had always been proud of her good complexion, but “fallen flakes” was a new one. “And your laughter, the music of the forest.”

  “Hey! Back off!” Lora put a firm hand between them, pushing Brett back a few inches.

  He glanced at her, batting eyes in confusion. “Did I do something wrong?” He hiccupped and sat on the bar stool beside them. “I’ve been drinking. I forget to behave when I’m drinking. So I don’t normally drink. But I only told her she was pretty.” He looked back at Carrie and shot her a goofy grin. “You don’t mind me telling you how beautiful you are, do you?”

  He was a drunk guy in a bar. Statistics said he was trying to score, and she wasn’t interested in a hook-up. At least his tactics were original. She shouldn’t give him the wrong idea by returning his grin, but one slipped through anyway. “No, you’re fine.”

  “Carrie, hon, I know I told you to start dating again, but I was thinking lawyer, not lunatic,” Lora said.

  “Carrie...” Brett muttered.

  “Oh, man. Sorry, I didn’t mean to tell him your name.”

  Carrie shook her head and grabbed napkins off the bar to try and sop up her blouse. “It’s okay. I need to get going and see if I can salvage this.”

  Brett stood when she did, reminding her of men in a costume drama. Even if he was swaying a little. He put a hand out. “Wait. You have to let me get you a new sweater. I ruined that one.”

  Shawn’s voice was back to surly as he said, “All right, son, I think it’s time you headed home. Need me to call you a cab?”

  The dude looked across the bar, bleary-eyed. “I have a car.”

  “One you’re not driving right now,” Carrie stated, firmly as she could. “Do you have a friend you could call? Or…” Who was that jackass who had left him here in this condition?

  The elf turned toward the door, took an unsteady step toward it, then turned back. “I should call a car.” He pulled out his phone and swiped at the screen.

  “That’s a very good idea,” Carrie assured him, trying not to sound condescending. Drunk guys were like five-year-olds sometimes. The costume didn’t help the impression.

  Shawn muttered softly, “Do you need me to get rid of him?”

  “Uh, maybe?” Lora said.

  “He’s fine,” Carrie whispered.

  “Could I get your phone number?” the elf asked loudly.

  “Okay, time to go,” Shawn announced, coming around the bar.

  Brett’s eyes went wide as he blew out a sorrowful breath, looking so damn deflated. “I’d rather have met you not now.”

  “You mean when you’re not wasted?” Carrie asked.

  When he nodded forcefully, then pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, like he’d jostled himself into a headache, Carrie giggled. He wasn’t getting her phone number, but he’d made her laugh for the first time in forever. She’d make sure he got into a safe car that he wasn’t driving.

  “Sorry, but we did, in fact, meet now, and we can’t rewrite history. Now come on.” She headed toward the door, hoping the guy would follow her and prevent Shawn from having to manhandle him out.

  “What are you doing?” Lora asked as, sure enough, the drunk elf followed Carrie, his hat and shoes jiggling merrily behind her.

  “I got this,” she assured them. “I’ll be back to pay the tab. Just let me get him in a car that’s he’s not driving.”

  “Carrie…” Lora muttered, tone worried.

  “You can watch me from the windows to make sure I don’t get snatched by a drunk elf. It’s my good deed to make up for pissing off someone I knew would be prejudiced against the Saturnalia.”

  “You don’t have to…” Lora trailed off, likely well aware she wasn’t going to change Carrie’s mind, then grimaced as she muttered something across the bar to
Shawn.

  Outside, the wind whipped into Carrie harder than she’d expected, buffeting her into the elf. His polyester costume crunched beneath her. He stumbled sideways, but a surprisingly steady arm wrapped around her, holding her upright and warming her.

  She quickly disentangled himself, and he let her go. “You’ve got a car coming?”

  He nodded. “They’re pretty fast.”

  “So, who’s the jerk who left you here? I know that’s not my business, but I’m nosy.”

  Brett looked over the parking lot. “He’s a vampire. I work for him.”

  “A vampire, huh?” And her skin was like new fallen snow. Dude liked his similes and metaphors. She looked over his outfit again, wondering what circumstances had forced a grown man to take a job as a mall elf. He looked around her age—early thirties—and it reminded her of her financial straits the first year after the divorce. Lincoln had offered her a pretty cushy settlement to ease his guilt, but she’d refused, leading to a rough few months. It’d been worth it. “Been there.”

  “Why do you hate Christmas?”

  She blinked at him for a moment, at a loss for what to say.

  “It’s my favorite time of year. I don’t celebrate Christmas, I celebrate the solstice, but it’s all the same thing. A big happy party about light and hope.”

  She shook her head, looking away. “Not everyone’s happy on Christmas. Or the solstice or Kwanza or Hanukkah or whatever you want to celebrate. Saturnalia.”

  He raised a fist and practically boomed, “Io Saturnalia!”

  “Is that the proper greeting?”

  He gave a confident nod. “So, why are you sad?”

  She scoffed. “So, why do strangers ask personal questions?”

  He looked her up and down, all wide-eyed and expectant like he didn’t realize how intrusive that was.

  Anger snapped inside her. “You know what? Fine. You asked. I’ll tell you. I hate Christmas because I was happily married for five years to a handsome, brilliant, fun man. Then we tried to start a family. Three years and four miscarriages later, he had an affair. With Erica—this total weasel. Then we got pregnant, he vowed to never see her again, and I forgave him. Three months later, I was still pregnant—our first time to make it through the first trimester. We told the whole family at Thanksgiving—one of the best days of my life. Christmas Eve, the bleeding started. I spent Christmas in the ER getting blood transfusions as our little girl died and I nearly followed her. Lincoln spent a week never leaving my side. I sent him to a New Year’s party to get him out of the house because he was driving me a little crazy. Guess who he went home with while I was still stuck home, too weak to do anything—the weasel.”