point is, yes, of course I want you like that. You’re beautiful, and any
man with eyes would be happy to take you to bed.
“But that’s not
my end plan. You’re honest, you take care of your family—I saw all those
presents at the mall, despite you hating the holiday.” He grinned. “You have
great taste in food.” He looked back down at their hands. “And despite me
ruining your sweater, drunkenly babbling at you, dragging you all over
Santaland like a crazy man and nearly making you cry—and I’m sorry about that.
That was not my intention at all. Despite all that, you’ve not only
not
called
the cops on me, but I’ve managed to get you to kiss me.” He flashed a grin
again. “Twice. So either you’re incredibly forgiving or somewhere near as crazy
as I am. Either way, I like you.”
Her insides went
soft, practically mushy. He was really getting to her. Damn it. “You are
crazy,” she said, her voice embarrassingly breathy. “And I like you, too.”
She’d never intended to like him.
“Walk me to my
car? I’d offer to walk you to yours, but you’re not leaving, so…”
His eyes somehow
lit up and darkened at the exact same time. He planned to kiss her again at the
car, now did he? Well, then. She planned to let him.
Brett took her
hand again as they headed out the door of Tom’s garden home. He wasn’t tugging
her somewhere this time. Or comforting her or helping her up or anything that
resembled a reason for holding hands. She looked down at their interlaced
fingers. How could such a chaste gesture feel so intimate? The contact of his
long fingers and smooth palm pressed against hers was comfortable—nice,
even—but she worried her acquiescence gave him the wrong idea.
He noticed
her attention and shook their joined hands. “Does this bother you? I like
holding your hand, but I’ll stop if it bothers you.”
It seemed
to matter to him, so she shook her head. “No. It’s good.” That was mostly
true.
“Okay.
Good.” He squeezed her hand gently. “I’ll keep doing it then.”
His
unvarnished honesty again threw her off balance. “Do you always go point a,
point b, point c? Do you never, I don’t know, jump to d and sneak up on c from
behind?”
His
expression turned quizzical. “I don’t understand the question.”
“You’re
really straightforward, and it’s not from lack of imagination.”
He kissed
her fingers, as if that pleased him. “Thank you. Although, I can’t take too
much credit as that was expected where I grew up. I think my mother’s favorite
admonition was”—his voice shifted to a light accent with fierce, choppy
phrasing in what Carrie assumed was an imitation—“‘State your intentions and
follow through. If you can’t get what you want that way, you didn’t earn it.’”
She laughed
at the impersonation. “She sounds intense.”
His shoulders
shook, his own laughter silent. “She was. And still is, I assume. She’s a good
woman. I miss her.”
“I guess you
don’t get back home a lot, living so far away.”
“I can’t go back.
I left.” He said it plainly, as if it was a fact and not a decision. Hadn’t he
said something before, in the story of his scarred ears, about leaving his home
being treasonous? But that didn’t make sense. Before she could ask about it,
though, he shot her a sidelong glance. “Answer a question straightforwardly for
me?”
Uh-oh.
“What is it?”
He stopped
in front of a silver car that was meticulously clean and looked awfully nice
for a mall actor. Not that she knew a thing about vehicles. It was probably
just really clean. But still, in spite of his blunt honesty, the mystery of
Brett seemed to grow and grow.
“How’d you become
a restaurant critic? You never mentioned it at dinner.”
Okay, that
question wasn’t too bad. She ignored the car to consider the easy half-truths
she told everyone about her work. But Brett had asked for honesty and had
already given her more than his fair
man with eyes would be happy to take you to bed.
“But that’s not
my end plan. You’re honest, you take care of your family—I saw all those
presents at the mall, despite you hating the holiday.” He grinned. “You have
great taste in food.” He looked back down at their hands. “And despite me
ruining your sweater, drunkenly babbling at you, dragging you all over
Santaland like a crazy man and nearly making you cry—and I’m sorry about that.
That was not my intention at all. Despite all that, you’ve not only
not
called
the cops on me, but I’ve managed to get you to kiss me.” He flashed a grin
again. “Twice. So either you’re incredibly forgiving or somewhere near as crazy
as I am. Either way, I like you.”
Her insides went
soft, practically mushy. He was really getting to her. Damn it. “You are
crazy,” she said, her voice embarrassingly breathy. “And I like you, too.”
She’d never intended to like him.
“Walk me to my
car? I’d offer to walk you to yours, but you’re not leaving, so…”
His eyes somehow
lit up and darkened at the exact same time. He planned to kiss her again at the
car, now did he? Well, then. She planned to let him.
Brett took her
hand again as they headed out the door of Tom’s garden home. He wasn’t tugging
her somewhere this time. Or comforting her or helping her up or anything that
resembled a reason for holding hands. She looked down at their interlaced
fingers. How could such a chaste gesture feel so intimate? The contact of his
long fingers and smooth palm pressed against hers was comfortable—nice,
even—but she worried her acquiescence gave him the wrong idea.
He noticed
her attention and shook their joined hands. “Does this bother you? I like
holding your hand, but I’ll stop if it bothers you.”
It seemed
to matter to him, so she shook her head. “No. It’s good.” That was mostly
true.
“Okay.
Good.” He squeezed her hand gently. “I’ll keep doing it then.”
His
unvarnished honesty again threw her off balance. “Do you always go point a,
point b, point c? Do you never, I don’t know, jump to d and sneak up on c from
behind?”
His
expression turned quizzical. “I don’t understand the question.”
“You’re
really straightforward, and it’s not from lack of imagination.”
He kissed
her fingers, as if that pleased him. “Thank you. Although, I can’t take too
much credit as that was expected where I grew up. I think my mother’s favorite
admonition was”—his voice shifted to a light accent with fierce, choppy
phrasing in what Carrie assumed was an imitation—“‘State your intentions and
follow through. If you can’t get what you want that way, you didn’t earn it.’”
She laughed
at the impersonation. “She sounds intense.”
His shoulders
shook, his own laughter silent. “She was. And still is, I assume. She’s a good
woman. I miss her.”
“I guess you
don’t get back home a lot, living so far away.”
“I can’t go back.
I left.” He said it plainly, as if it was a fact and not a decision. Hadn’t he
said something before, in the story of his scarred ears, about leaving his home
being treasonous? But that didn’t make sense. Before she could ask about it,
though, he shot her a sidelong glance. “Answer a question straightforwardly for
me?”
Uh-oh.
“What is it?”
He stopped
in front of a silver car that was meticulously clean and looked awfully nice
for a mall actor. Not that she knew a thing about vehicles. It was probably
just really clean. But still, in spite of his blunt honesty, the mystery of
Brett seemed to grow and grow.
“How’d you become
a restaurant critic? You never mentioned it at dinner.”
Okay, that
question wasn’t too bad. She ignored the car to consider the easy half-truths
she told everyone about her work. But Brett had asked for honesty and had
already given her more than his fair
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