Главная страница | Современные любовные романы | Mistletoe Cinderella

Mistletoe Cinderella
Tanya Michaels


Computer programmer Chloe Malcolm doesn't know how she let her best friend talk her into attending her ten-year high school reunion.But when Dylan Echols–her former crush turned major league baseball player–mistakes her for a popular cheerleader, she decides to make the most of the Cinderella moment. Dylan can't believe it when the gorgeous woman he just kissed runs away. He's even more stunned to discover she's not the person he thought she was….Chloe knows she can't deceive the sexy sports star forever. But once she tells Dylan the truth, will she turn back into her tongue-tied former self? Or will he love her for who she is and give her the happily-ever-after she's always dreamed of?









A mere week ago, Chloe had been chiding herself to start seizing the day


To take risks and reap the rewards. Now here she was, practically in the arms of the most alluring man she’d ever known. All it would take was a step forward…. She stretched up to press her lips to his, although she might have lost her nerve if he hadn’t leaned down to meet her.

After one stunned second of paralysis, she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the moment, the once-in-a-lifetime chance to live out cherished fantasies. Wrapping her hand around his neck, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him, dizzy with sensation.

Carpe Dylan.




Dear Reader,

Have you ever wanted to be someone else, just for a day? That’s the premise I started with for Mistletoe Cinderella and the character of Chloe Malcolm. She’s brilliant, gifted with computers and has a wry sense of humor (once you get to know her). But back in high school she wasn’t the kind of girl who could catch the eye of baseball star Dylan Echols.

Ten years later, at her high school reunion, Chloe shows up with a makeover courtesy of her fairy godmoth—Er, best friend. Dylan notices her, all right, but confuses her with somebody else entirely. When midnight strikes, will she turn back into plain old Chloe?

My mom, who has a great sense of humor, raised me on funny, romantic films of mistaken identity like Doris Day’s Lover Come Back and the more recent While You Were Sleeping. I hope you enjoy Mistletoe Cinderella as much as I’ve always enjoyed those charming, feel-good movies! And I hope you’ll watch for the summer installment of my 4 SEASONS IN MISTLETOE miniseries, Mistletoe Mommy.

Happy reading!

Tanya Michaels




Mistletoe Cinderella

Tanya Michaels










ABOUT THE AUTHOR


Tanya Michaels started telling stories almost as soon as she could talk…and started stealing her mom’s Harlequin romances less than a decade later. In 2003 Tanya was thrilled to have her first book, a romantic comedy, published by Harlequin Books. Since then, Tanya has written nearly twenty books and is a two-time recipient of the Booksellers’ Best Award as well as a finalist for the Holt Medallion, National Readers’ Choice Award and Romance Writers of America’s prestigious RITA® Award. Tanya lives in Georgia with her husband, two preschoolers and an unpredictable cat, but you can visit Tanya online at www.tanyamichaels.com.


This book is dedicated to all of you

wonderful readers who e-mailed to ask,

“Will there be more Mistletoe stories?” Enjoy!




Contents


Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen




Chapter One


It was a bad sign when you were feeling envious of the person in the casket.

Chloe Malcolm winced at her own thoughts, which were highly inappropriate and completely out of character. Chloe was always appropriate; it was one of the things Aunt Jane had teased her about. Swallowing a knot of emotion, Chloe smiled at her aunt’s peaceful face. As far as Chloe knew, Jane Walters had never once in her sixty-three years worried about decorum. It was that free-spiritedness Chloe envied.

Aunt Jane had appalled Chloe’s parents by nicknaming her niece “Wheezy,” making the childhood asthma Chloe later outgrew seem like more of an in-joke than a handicap. I’m going to miss you. Jane hadn’t spent much time here in Mistletoe—too busy running with the bulls in Pamplona or, more recently, hot-air ballooning over Flagstaff—but each of her visits had been memorable.

“How are you holding up?”

Chloe turned to see blond and beautiful Natalie Young, her best friend and manager of the town’s flower shop. “Okay. I know she wouldn’t have any regrets and wouldn’t want any of us moping. She was just so full of life that it’s hard to believe…”

“Yeah. She was a force all her own.” Natalie grinned. “I’m amazed at some of the stories I’ve heard this afternoon, but I guess you grew up with them.”

Not exactly. Chloe’s parents had loved Jane, but they hadn’t minded her keeping a geographical distance from their impressionable daughter and had deemed some of Jane’s exploits unfit for young ears.

Back in the sixties, Aunt Jane had shocked her own parents and her older sister when she’d eloped with a local boy who’d left shortly after for Vietnam. When he’d come back, he’d been unable to assimilate to small-town Georgia life; he and Jane had restlessly roamed the country for the remainder of their marriage, part of which she’d spent dancing in a Vegas show and perfecting her blackjack skills. Chloe’s mother, Rose, had commented more than once that her younger sister had the devil’s own luck. She’d said it with neither jealousy nor censure, but worry. Fear that Jane’s exuberant, outrageous ways would catch up to her one day.

But Chloe believed Jane left this world exactly as she would have wanted—after a day of parasailing in the Caribbean and a romantic evening with a forty-nine-year-old divorced tax attorney, she’d died of a blood clot in her sleep. Jane had dated a wide range of men in the past two decades, never lacking companionship. She’d aged beautifully, like Helen Mirren or Diane Keaton. Still, Chloe thought that what really attracted admirers was her aunt’s confidence and verve—two qualities Chloe lacked, except when it came to computers.

During Chloe’s teen years, Jane had insisted her niece was simply a “late bloomer.” At twenty-seven, Chloe had resigned herself to the fact that she was as bloomed as she was going to get.

Trying to push away vague pangs that she might have let her aunt down, Chloe redirected her attention to Natalie. “The arrangements are beautiful, by the way. I’m sorry I didn’t say so earlier.”

“Thanks.” The blonde pursed her lips. “You don’t think the flowers seem too formal? I filled people’s orders, but I feel like Jane would have preferred sunflowers or daisies. Something bright or funky. The remembrance wreath and spray of roses are a little at odds with…everything else.”

“Like the music and the open bar? I thought Mama would have a conniption.”

Jane’s final wishes had been well-documented with her lawyer, right down to the slide show and five-song sound track for the memorial. It had been designed to follow Jane’s life, ending a few minutes ago with “Spirit in the Sky.” But it was the earlier “It’s Raining Men” that seemed to have left an impression on guests. Jane Walters hadn’t wanted a funeral; she’d wanted a party at which the people she’d known could celebrate her life. If she’d picked out Chloe’s attire for the service, it probably would have been the flowered sarong Jane had once sent her niece from Maui. Instead, Chloe had paired a lightweight blouse with her navy skirt, her only touches of whimsy the polka-dotted yellow headband holding back her long dark hair and pomegranate-flavored lip gloss.

“Speaking of your mother.” Natalie looked around. “Is she doing all right?”

“Hard to say.” Chloe’s parents, aside from making sure their only child knew how adored she was, didn’t make a point of discussing their emotions. What Chloe had deduced for herself was that restrained and proper Rose, dutiful first daughter, had always had a complicated relationship with her free-spirited younger sister. “Mama mentioned that she didn’t think Jane had ever truly stopped loving her husband and that the two of them can be together now. She was talking to some old schoolmates the last time I saw her, but I should check on her.”

As soon as Chloe said school, Natalie opened her mouth.

Chloe headed her off at the pass. “Let’s not discuss the reunion now, okay?”

“Of course not.” Natalie’s blue gaze was suddenly bright with innocence. She should have joined drama club as a student instead of the cheer squad. “I wouldn’t nag you at your aunt’s memorial service.”

A refreshing change. Natalie had been nagging on a daily basis since she’d signed on as a committee member for the Mistletoe High reunion. During their senior year, Natalie had made a few uncomfortable attempts at socially assisting Chloe, her erstwhile algebra tutor, but had felt ever since graduation that she, as popular cocaptain of the cheerleaders, should have done more to boost her nerdy friend’s status. Whenever Natalie talked about the reunion, she got an overzealous gleam in her eye and morphed into a stubborn fairy godmother hell-bent on dragging Cinderella to the ball. Nat harbored unrealistic dreams of making Chloe over so that everyone could be dazzled by her a decade later, the once-shy brunette voted prom queen or reunion queen or whatever.

“Girls.” Vonda Kerrigan approached, nodding her respects. In her midseventies, Vonda was closer to Rose in age but closer to Jane in personality. The two women had shared a cheerful disregard for conventionalism and had spent time together whenever Jane visited town. “Kasey and Ben are taking me home now, but I wanted to say goodbye to you, Chloe.”

Chloe hugged the older woman gently. “I’m glad you came.”

“Wouldn’t have missed it.” Vonda’s wizened face split into a grin as she looked over her shoulder at the bar and handsome bartender. “Even from the hereafter, Jane throws a good party. You know, I think she accomplished just about everything she wanted to during her lifetime. Not many people can say that.”

True. Some people had difficulty even figuring out what they wanted, much less achieving it.

Vonda patted Chloe’s shoulder. “I can see a little bit of her in you.”

Chloe smiled politely. She wanted to be flattered by the comparison, but it was too hard to believe. I couldn’t be less like Aunt Jane if I tried. Chloe’s idea of rebelling was taking two complimentary mints instead of one after her Greek salad at the deli. When it came to dealing with programming errors or challenging code, Chloe was self-assured and quick-thinking. When it came to tackling life…

Well, she could learn a thing or two about living from the dearly departed.



THREE DAYS LATER, as she returned from running errands, Chloe discovered that Aunt Jane didn’t just throw parties from the hereafter—she sent gifts.

Chloe had worked at home that morning, updating pet-sitter Brenna Pierce’s professional Web site and brainstorming ways to incorporate new features Brenna wanted to add. Then Chloe had joined her parents for lunch at the seniors’ center. Mr. and Mrs. Malcolm had moved into a small apartment in the complex last winter, deeding Chloe the modest two-bedroom home she’d grown up in and explaining that it was getting difficult for them to maintain the house and yard.

“We’re not spring chickens, you know,” her dad had joked.

Because Chloe had been an unexpected late-in-life baby, her parents had always been much older than those of her peers. When she was little, she hadn’t noticed, but the first time she ever spent the night at Natalie’s, she’d been struck by the difference. Natalie’s mother had double-pierced ears and laughed as she asked them who the cutest boys were at Mistletoe High.

Dylan Echols.

The name rose so suddenly in Chloe’s mind that she almost tripped over a crack in the sidewalk. Other female classmates might have sighed over the Waide brothers or brooding and vaguely dangerous loner Gabe Sloan; in Chloe’s mind, however, there’d been no contest. Dylan Echols was the best-looking guy in all of Mistletoe. But her unrequited infatuation had been ten years ago—he’d left town after graduation on an athletic scholarship. Though she’d seen him since then in the newspaper and on television clips, he rarely visited Mistletoe. Surely she’d moved on from an unrequited adolescent crush?

Then again, it was difficult to move forward when you spent your time with the same people year after year, had barely updated your wardrobe to reflect the new millennium and lived in exactly the same place. She frowned at the house, and a brown box on the porch caught her eye. Was I expecting a delivery? Not that she could remember. Curious, she quickly took the three steps leading up to the front door. The label was penned in familiar loopy cursive. Although Chloe’s middle name was Ann, the packages always came addressed to Chloe W. Malcolm.

W for Wheezy, an epithet that was suddenly, alarmingly appropriate.

Chloe’s chest had tightened at the sight of her aunt’s handwriting, and for a moment she couldn’t breathe. She sat on the top step and closed her eyes, waiting for the initial panic to pass. The more she fought for air, the worse the situation became. Besides, this was not one of the long-ago respiratory incidents that had landed her in the E.R. or prevented her from chasing other kids in the neighborhood while they played tag. She was just temporarily dazed.

Intellectually she knew that packages from other countries could get held up in customs and take extra time to reach their destinations. Emotionally she was startled to be receiving mail from someone she’d said her final farewells to over the weekend.

After a moment, Chloe stood, fishing her keys out of her windbreaker pocket. She carried the box inside, set it on the kitchen table and stared at it. Then she picked up the cordless phone and dialed.

“Mistletoe Berries and Blooms,” Natalie chirped on the other end.

“Hey, it’s me.” Chloe sagged into one of the straight-backed chairs that had been in the kitchen since the late eighties.

“Chloe! I was going to call you later. You won’t believe what came in the mail.”

“She sent you something, too?” Unusual but not unheard-of. Jane had been generous as well as spontaneous. “Because I have to tell you, I’m a little—”

“She who? I was talking about a him.”

“Oh. I got a package today. From Aunt Jane.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah.”

“What did she send?”

“I haven’t opened it,” Chloe admitted. “Knowing it’s the last one of these I’m going to get, it felt disrespectful to tear into it like a five-year-old at a birthday party. But treating it with a lot of pomp and circumstance seems silly when, for all I know, it’s an obscene T-shirt she thought was funny.” Chloe had two such ribald tops from New Orleans that she’d never wear in public. Heck, she practically blushed just sleeping in either of them.

“I’ll close the store early and come over.”

“You sure?” Chloe asked, grateful but feeling melodramatic.

“Yeah. It’s been kind of slow today. We did some nice spring arrangements just before Easter, but it won’t get seriously busy again until prom, Mother’s Day and summer weddings. I’ll be so swamped in June you’ll forget what I look like. Give me about half an hour, okay?”

True to her word, Natalie showed up right at the thirty-minute mark. She was holding a bag from the local grocery.

“Provisions,” she declared. “They’re not perfect, but it was short notice.”

Once inside the kitchen, Natalie pulled out a plastic container of macadamia-nut cookies and piña colada wine coolers. Chloe smiled at the impromptu tropical theme.

Natalie opened a wine cooler and passed Chloe the still-cold bottle, then opened one for herself and held it aloft. “To Aunt Jane.”

“To Aunt Jane.”

They clinked the bottles together and each drank. Then Chloe slit the packing tape with one of the kitchen knives and pulled back the cardboard flaps. On top was a postcard, showing a beautiful white sandy beach and crystal-blue waters. Chloe flipped it over.

I got you a card with a half-naked cabana boy, but then kept it for myself. Put this by your computer and daydream about future vacations. I saw the enclosed dress and thought of you—you still don’t know how beautiful you are. Give some local fellow a chance to show you! Or come with me to the tropics, and I’ll introduce you to a nice cabana boy. I’m proud of you, Wheezy, but don’t spend all your time at the computer and taking care of your parents! Shake things up from time to time.

Love and mai tais,

Aunt J

Chloe had to blink away tears to read the end of it, but she grinned when she got there. She held the postcard out to Natalie.

A second later, Natalie chuckled. “Think there are cabana boys in heaven?”

“If not, Aunt Jane’s talking Saint Peter into it even as we speak.”

“So what’s this dress look like?”

Good question. Chloe pushed aside some plain tissue paper and got a glimpse of deep red. The silky material slipped through her fingers like water.

“Whoa,” Natalie said, looking over her shoulder. “Now that’s a dress.”

Chloe held it up, stunned. Her aunt had seen this and thought of her? Perhaps Jane had been under the influence of a mai tai at the time. The so-called sleeves were wide, off-the-shoulder bands, hardly more than straps; the skirt, while the same color, was a different material. It fell in gauzy, staggered layers to form a handkerchief hem. Even at its longest point, the skirt would barely reach her knees.

“Try it on,” Natalie urged. “That’s what she would have wanted.”

“I’m not convinced it’s my size,” Chloe said. The hours she did on the treadmill to improve her lung capacity kept her trim, but the skirt looked brazenly insubstantial. And the draped neckline—which wouldn’t come anywhere near as high as her neck—didn’t seem big enough to hold in generous C cups.

Natalie rolled her eyes. “It’s not like I asked you to show up for dinner at the Dixieland Diner wearing it. It’s just us.”

“All right, all right.” Chloe took the dress back to her room without further protest. She shrugged out of her clothes and eyed the red fabric. Here goes nothing.

Not only did the dress fit, it looked as though it had been magically tailored to her body. Surprised, she turned in front of the mirror, enjoying the way the fabric moved. When Vonda had said she could see some of Aunt Jane in her, Chloe had dismissed it as a well-meaning fib. Now though…

“This is not a Chloe dress,” she told her reflection. It was beguiling, just for this moment, to see herself as someone else, someone—

“I’m going out of my mind with curiosity,” Natalie complained from the other room.

“Come take a look,” Chloe called, doing mental inventory of her closet. What kind of shoes did one wear with an outfit like this? She doubted canvas sneakers would cut it.

From the doorway, Natalie reiterated her earlier assessment. “Whoa.” Then she grinned. “We have so found your outfit for the reunion.”

“Natalie—”

“Explain to me why you won’t go,” the blonde demanded, her hands on her hips.

Because high school had represented some of the most abysmal times in Chloe’s sheltered life. In elementary school, she’d been mostly invisible, the girl who sat quietly in class and read storybooks through recess; she’d never minded. The only child of a couple who hadn’t expected to be blessed with a baby, as well as being born premature and battling respiratory developmental delays as a kid, Chloe had received tons of attention at home. Not being the center of everyone’s focus at school had been a relief.

Her teachers liked her well enough and she made good grades. Maybe she hadn’t been invited to a lot of roller-skating and swimming parties, but she wasn’t that coordinated anyway. She’d buried herself in descriptions of faraway places and made lots of fictional friends.

Then came her teenage years. As a freshman, she’d had a significant growth spurt, and was suddenly several inches taller and filling out her blouses much differently. Also, there were far more extracurricular activities offered in high school. Teachers were no longer content to inconspicuously give her A’s—they asked her to peer tutor and courted her publicly for events like the Academic Decathlon. Although her parents’ official policy was that Chloe couldn’t date until she was sixteen, they’d allowed her to go to the fall homecoming dance sophomore year and meet a boy from her geometry class there.

That dance had been a fiasco. Chloe had been nervous, awkward within her changing body and with the sudden attention of classmates who’d previously ignored her. Her date had grazed her breast at the punch table—which she realized in hindsight had been an accident—but she’d jerked away violently enough to send Candy Beemis, a popular brunette, sideways into three dozen filled and waiting cups. Candy went on to cocaptain the varsity cheerleading squad, so one would think she could forgive a less socially adept person an awkward moment.

One would be wrong.

Instead, Candy and her A-list entourage targeted Chloe for snide comments. What Chloe had hated most wasn’t that they cracked jokes at her expense, but her own inability to quip back or at least to shrug it off. She froze every time, her throat tightening as her cheeks heated. Natalie, annoyed with Candy’s pettiness and exasperated by Chloe’s tendency to react like a deer in the headlights, had claimed that Candy was jealous. Chloe couldn’t imagine what kind of insane person would have been jealous of her in high school.

And now Nat wants me to willingly relive all those superfun glory days?

Chloe sighed. “Our former classmates fall into two groups. Those who had no clue who I was and those who ragged me about who I was.”

“A-hem.”

“Not counting you,” Chloe amended. “You are a true friend.”

Although it had been Natalie’s idea senior year to give Chloe highlights, neither girl knowing that Chloe’s dark brown hair had natural red undertones. The proposed blond touches intended to make Chloe glamorous had become clownish orange streaks that sent Candy and others into fits of giggles. Fairy godmothers were supposed to transform pumpkins for you, not give you pumpkin-colored hair.

“You’re a successful self-employed woman who can seriously work that slinky red number you’re wearing,” Natalie said. “Don’t you want to stick it to everyone who heckled you by showing up and looking hot?”

She hated to think she was insecure enough to need that kind of validation. “Stick it to them? It’s been ten years. I don’t care that much about anyone’s opinion. Especially at seventy-five dollars a ticket.”

“Well, that includes a sit-down dinner and dessert buffet. Don’t forget the great band. And it goes without saying that the floral arrangements will be phenomenal.” Natalie smiled beseechingly. “Come on! There have to be some people from our graduating class you want to see.”

“Most of the people I care about still live here in Mistletoe.”

Natalie’s blue eyes took on a wicked gleam, but she ducked her gaze, making a point of studying her French manicure.

“What?” Chloe demanded. “What ace do you think you have up your sleeve?”

“I got an unexpected RSVP today. From Dylan Echols.”

Dylan? An all-too-clear picture of his sexy grin and deep green eyes flashed through Chloe’s mind. “He’s really coming home?”

After college, the former Mistletoe High baseball star had become a local celebrity when he worked his way through the “farm system,” pitching two and a half seasons in the minors before being called up to play for the Atlanta Braves. As far as Chloe knew, he’d been back in Mistletoe only once, for his father’s funeral this past January. That had to have been a dark period for him, coming on the heels of a highly publicized early retirement. He’d torn a rotator cuff last season. After surgery, time off and physical therapy, he’d attempted to return but it was clear his pitching arm would never be the same. Just when Dylan had, according to sports journalists, “hit his stride,” his dreams of becoming the next Nolan Ryan or Greg Maddux were snatched away.

“I’ll bet Dylan would love that dress,” Natalie added. “You could really wow him. A little red lipstick, we could do something special with your hair…”

“I prefer my usual gloss,” Chloe said. Natalie had given her a gift certificate two birthdays ago for a fancy cosmetics Web site, and she’d developed a fondness for their line of high-end flavored glosses. “Remember what happened the last time you got big ideas about my hair?”

Natalie had the grace to blush. “Well, maybe someone at the salon could help you with it this time.”

“Yes, but why? What’s the point of spending three hours trying to convince a guy who doesn’t remember me that I’m someone I’m not?”

While Chloe had adored Dylan from the back of civics class, he’d given no sign of reciprocating the sentiment, which would have first required him to notice her existence. He’d been preoccupied with either baseball or whichever girl he’d been dating that week. Dylan Echols was the kind of guy who’d held court in high school, a student-body Prince Charming who made peers and teachers alike laugh during discussion and led his baseball team to state championship.

“Are you sure you know who you are?” Natalie asked skeptically. “Jane saw that there was a lot more to you than just a quiet straight-A student. I do, too.”

Chloe remembered the way she’d felt at the memorial service, the vague sense of having let down Jane. I could be more, couldn’t I? Suddenly she found it difficult to recall why she was so set against going to the reunion. After all, it was just one night. Seventy-five dollars wouldn’t break the bank.

Still, she worried about Natalie’s plans for the evening getting too grandiose. “I’ll go. But stop imagining some movie where the formerly mousy heroine shows up, impresses everyone with her poise and scintillating conversation and wins her man. Get real. Dylan’s only going to be here for the weekend, and he doesn’t even know me.”

Natalie smiled, undeterred. “Then we’ll have to find the perfect opportunity for you to introduce yourself.”




Chapter Two


Dylan Echols muttered a word under his breath that network censors would definitely frown on. Since the broadcast had just gone to commercial, however, he felt free to express his irritation.

And Grady Medlock, seated behind the anchor desk, was free to snicker. “The scores may not be as important as world politics,” Grady said, “but viewers still expect you to get them right.”

Dylan didn’t bother responding. The newscaster had been insufferable ever since Dylan was hired, and had become even more so since Liza Finnell—the object of Grady’s unrequited affections—had hinted at the station’s spring picnic last month that she was attracted to the newest addition to the Channel Six team. Dylan had ducked her interest by politely reminding her that he was seeing someone.

At the time, anyway.

As of Friday’s e-mail, his brief relationship with Heidi was over. Dylan wasn’t sure what bothered him the most: that she’d jilted him for a Braves first baseman he himself had introduced her to, that she’d jilted him via an impersonal e-mail or that he’d only recognized in hindsight that she’d used him as a stepping stone to better-paid guys who were still in The Show.

Dumb. Much like the mistake he’d just made in his broadcast.

For the majority of Dylan’s reports, he had plenty of time to prepare beforehand, but he’d flubbed some incoming college scores on the teleprompter. Falling back on adolescent habits, he’d made a joke to cover his unease reading aloud. Why had he thought this local sportscaster position was a good idea? Because you didn’t have a Plan B.

He’d known what he wanted to do with his life ever since he pitched his first elementary school baseball game, striking out older kids with more practice. He’d known the major leagues were his destiny, but he’d had no idea what to do when the glorious ride screeched to an abrupt halt.

Liza, the divorced hair and makeup artist with a bright smile and a kid, darted forward to give Dylan a powder touch-up. He wondered if he would ever adjust to having to use on-air cosmetics. Pretty boy, his father would have sneered. More looks than brains. Thank God you have a decent throwing arm.

“Great job tonight,” Liza offered.

“Really?” He was careful to keep his tone teasing, not want to take his annoyance out on her. “What broadcast have you been watching?”

“Your recovery was fantastic. Don’t let Grady bother you. He’s a jerk.”

Dylan flashed a quick smile. “That’s nicer than what I usually call him.”

Grady Medlock was an insecure windbag who clung to the hope that covering important events made him important by extension. He’d been none too thrilled when Channel Six hired an ex-Braves player whose minor celebrity status threatened his own. Dylan sympathized with having insecurities, but he had no patience for men who puffed up their own egos by belittling their teammates.

The commercial break ended, and the cameras cut to the weather segment. Dylan could seethe in peace until it was time for the entire Channel Six crew to bid viewers good-night. As he stood, unfastening his lavalier mike, he noticed Liza hovering to his left at the edge of the lights.

He chuckled at her anxious expression. “I’m not that upset. Don’t worry about me.”

“Is that how I look?” She smiled self-consciously. “You’re probably sensing nervousness.”

“About?”

“Asking you to dinner this weekend,” she said in a rush. “My ex has our son for a couple of days, and you’re not on the schedule, so…I heard about you and Heidi.”

Who hadn’t? His spotlight-seeking former girlfriend had thrown her arms around her new beau right in the middle of a postgame interview. Dylan winced. They hadn’t been together long enough for him to be broken-hearted, but he hated to be humiliated. Though Liza’s interest in him might be a soothing balm to the ego, this job was already awkward without adding the complication of dating a co-worker.

“Thanks for the invite,” he said, “but I’m out of town this weekend. Going home.” The word felt clunky and foreign on his tongue. Despite the years that had passed, his mother still called Mistletoe his home, as in when will you be…?

“Town in north Georgia, right?” Liza snapped her fingers. “Christmas? Evergreen?”

“Mistletoe.” For such a small place, it held a vast store of conflicting memories. He’d struggled through his early school years—far worse than the actual dyslexia had been his father’s disdain that Dylan couldn’t read properly—but he’d later developed his fastball and his confidence. Most important, he’d been blessed with Coach Todd Burton’s mentorship. The gruff affection of the high school coach, who was officially retiring this spring and would be honored at a dinner this weekend, had almost made up for Dylan’s uncomfortable home life.

Almost.

Liza nodded. “Well, have a good time.”

“Thanks.” High school had been a good time. He’d set the division record for strikeouts but never struck out with his female classmates. He’d graduated with an indulgent fondness for Mistletoe High, grateful for what had taken place during the four years but knowing he was headed for bigger things.

Now he was returning, a twenty-seven-year-old has-been. Would he enjoy the reunion? He didn’t want to be one of those clichés who stood around all night with a beer in hand, reminiscing over former glory. For a second, he regretted his RSVP.

However, on the heels of his breakup, it seemed like a good time to get out of Atlanta for a few days, and his mom deserved better than to be neglected by her only child. In earlier years, he might have resented that she hadn’t done more to intervene, buffering him from his emotional bully of a father, but it was hard to be angry when she seemed so lost without her late husband. Dylan planned to stay at the reunion hotel, visiting the house to see his mom and find out if there was anything she needed done around the old place. The moment of the weekend he most looked forward to and simultaneously dreaded was presenting the appreciation award at Coach Burton’s dinner. Perhaps more than anyone else in the entire town, Coach had believed in him. Dylan was sorry that two shoulder surgeries hadn’t been able to keep their combined dream a reality.

He grimaced at the weekend that stretched ahead. If he were really lucky, his mother would be in a cheerful, noncloying mood, the reunion band would be loud and the hotel would be filled with pretty alumnae feeling nostalgic.



“I CAN’T BELIEVE you talked me into wearing these!” Chloe stepped out of the car, hyperaware of the towering heels she’d borrowed. She’d accepted Natalie’s red shoes and patient help with a curling iron, drawing the line at crimson lipstick and salon highlights.

Natalie grinned as she handed her keys to the valet. “I can’t believe it, either, but you look great.”

Chloe tottered into the lobby, trying to adjust to Natalie’s expensive pride-and-joy shoes. Natalie had said she was glad someone could wear them tonight since they wouldn’t have matched her sapphire-blue spaghetti-strapped dress. Ironically, the appreciative way the hotel clerk behind the counter followed Chloe with his eyes did nothing to bolster her. Women like her aunt knew how to gracefully handle attention; Chloe always felt breathless and panicky. Why couldn’t she have been more of a “people person” like Jane or Natalie? Even Chloe’s professional contact with clients was done largely through e-mails, rather than face-to-face.

“I tell you what,” Natalie said sympathetically, “let’s check to make sure there aren’t any last-minute glitches with the reunion committee or hotel staff, then I’ll buy you a drink in the lobby bar, okay?”

“Deal.” Chloe followed her friend downstairs, fighting the urge to tug at the top of her dress. She’d never left the house with this much cleavage exposed.

One floor below the main lobby, an elegant corridor led to the ballroom. Waitstaff in white tuxedo jackets were setting tables in the back half of the room. Toward the front, a stage set with sound equipment overlooked a portable dance floor. An archway had been created with tightly fastened helium balloons of green and gold, their alma mater’s colors. Against the entrance wall was a long table covered in a gold cloth and rows of name tags. A man and woman, both in formal attire, stood near it.

Natalie headed in their direction. The man was Jack Allen, who had been their student-body president and was now a married father employed by the planning office of city hall. The striking dark-haired woman next to him was—ugh—Candy Beemis.

Though Chloe had seen her former nemesis around from time to time, they hadn’t spoken since high school. Candy was the personal assistant to one of the town’s wealthiest women and spent most of her time in elite circles. Well, as elite as Mistletoe got, anyway. The brunette’s shimmering white one-shouldered dress looked like a toga as reimagined for the Academy Awards. Annoyingly, she hadn’t gained a visible pound in the past ten years.

“Hi.” Chloe smiled in their combined direction but focused on Jack’s congenial face.

He returned the smile, his gaze apologetic. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m blanking on who you are.”

“Chloe. Chloe Malcolm?”

“Right. Sorry. I’m terrible with names. My wife harasses me about it constantly. I have entire building forms memorized, but can forget our neighbor’s name in the middle of a barbecue.” He turned to Natalie, reporting on the event’s status. “Everything’s well in hand. We had to make a quick appetizer substitution, but they’re not charging us extra. Candy was just on the phone with the band’s lead singer. ETA is about ten minutes for sound check.”

“Nat, you did such a darling job on the flowers,” Candy interjected with a toss of her sleek, shampoo-commercial hair. “One of these days I’m going to have to develop an actual skill. And, Chloe! I hear you’re quite the entrepreneur. If I had it to do all over again, I’d go the computer-nerd route myself.”

No, you wouldn’t.

Even though Candy’s tone was playful, no overt malice, Chloe bristled. It was one thing for Natalie to call from the shop, freaking out because the computer had crashed and she needed the help of a “professional geek.” Yet being reminded of all the times Candy had indeed made Chloe feel like a socially awkward nerd—and encouraged others to treat her as such—was different.

Behind her polite smile, Chloe ground her teeth. She gestured toward a table covered with a green cloth and Mistletoe High memorabilia. “I think I’m just going to stroll down memory lane.”

As the reunion committee finished their conversation, Chloe idly studied framed pictures from pep rallies and school plays. Gold and resplendent, the trophy from the state baseball championship sat in the center of the table; the Academic Decathlon first prize she’d helped win sat off to the side. Still, she grinned at the unlikely parallel of her and Dylan Echols, school superstars. And here I thought we wouldn’t have much in common to discuss.

Beyond the mementos Natalie had convinced the high school to let them borrow sat rows of name tags. Leaning over for a closer look, Chloe realized that each tag was printed with a black-and-white yearbook photo and identity: Chloe Ann Malcolm. Period. She hadn’t flown high enough on the social radar to earn the Most Popular, Most Likely to Succeed or Most Likely to Make You Laugh labels that accompanied some of the other names.

Natalie had not warned her that she’d be walking around all night with that awful senior portrait pinned to her chest. Eek. In Chloe’s junior picture, she’d removed her glasses and squinted, so she’d overcorrected the next year. With her wide eyes, lopsided formal drape and mouth caught between forced smiles she couldn’t hold long, she looked surprised and frightened of the photographer. Not flattering.

The silver lining had been that shortly after Chloe’s parents had seen the picture, they’d finally allowed the contact lenses she so desperately wanted.

Surveying the photos of her classmates, she stifled a laugh. She wouldn’t be the only one regretting her senior photo. In his shot, Brady Callahan sneered at the camera, his hair teased into short spikes and his eyes rimmed with black eyeliner; he’d long since outgrown his Goth phase and was a deacon for a local church. A few students who’d been into grunge at the time proved that what looks trendy one day merely looks like an aversion to hygiene the next. Of course, Natalie, blond and smiling, looked perfect in her picture. All the cheerleaders did.

If it weren’t for Nat being her best friend, Chloe would have suspected the squad of making some sort of demonic pact. It seemed statistically unlikely that not one of a dozen teenage girls had blinked, had a bad hair day or had a zit.

Chloe found herself studying the row of E’s, telling herself she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. But she knew that was a lie even before her gaze landed on Dylan’s photo. Though the black-and-white photo didn’t do justice to his green eyes, there was the promise of sexy intensity he’d later grow into, and that one left dimple made visible by his cocky grin. Seeing that smile in class had turned her knees to jelly. Their civics teacher had once called on Dylan, who’d clearly been flirting with a redheaded volleyball player instead of listening; when he’d floundered for a response, Chloe had blurted the answer, bringing the moment to a quick close. The teacher had frowned but returned to the lecture. Dylan had turned slightly, sending a smile in Chloe’s direction and a bolt of lightning straight through her.

Emotions were often exaggerated for teenagers, though, distorted through a hormonal lens. She was an adult now, not an overreacting adolescent. If she happened to glimpse Dylan’s smile in the crowd tonight, she doubted lightning would strike again.

“You ready for that drink?” Natalie asked from beside her.

Chloe jumped. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

“Too preoccupied with—” Natalie smirked at Dylan’s name badge “—memory lane?”

“Watch it, smart aleck. I may decide to go home early—like now.”

“I have the keys, remember?”

“So your whole ‘let’s do makeup at my house and ride over together’ suggestion was a trap?” She’d been wrong—this wasn’t Cinderella at the ball, it was a hostage situation. Technically Chloe could call a cab, but they both knew curiosity would keep her here until she saw him.

Chloe sighed. “What do you suppose it is about our teenage years that we never quite shake?” Even her more recent memories from the nearby college she’d attended weren’t as vivid as the day her team won the Decathlon or the day she’d realized Natalie, a teacher-assigned tutoring pupil, had become a true friend. Thinking about how much she valued Natalie, she smiled. “Tell you what, the drink’s on me.”

There was a private bar in the corner of the ballroom, but it wasn’t staffed yet. They turned toward the doorway, Chloe’s ankle momentarily twisting in the unfamiliar shoes. Wincing at the brief flare of pain, she regained her balance before she fell. You can lead me to the Manolo box, but you can’t make me walk gracefully in three-inch heels. She made sure to hold the stair rail on the way up to the lobby.

The recessed lounge was an elongated rectangle a few steps down from the main entrance. Natalie gestured to a row of four high tables against the wall. “Grab us a spot, and I’ll order.”

“But I said I’d buy,” Chloe reminded her.

“Well, I said it first. Besides…”

Chloe raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want me pushing my luck balancing in these shoes, do you?”

“So, um, white wine? Or has the red dress inspired you to have something crazy and bold like shooters?”

“What do you think?”

“Two chardonnays coming right up.”

Chloe pivoted toward a table at the far end, near an unmanned baby grand piano. She pulled herself up onto one of the two padded chrome stools at the tall table, taking the opportunity to slide off the red high heels. Her feet were wider than Natalie’s and the shoes pinched slightly. Also, Chloe was surprised she hadn’t suffered a nosebleed from the extra height. She rotated her ankles and flexed her toes, closing her eyes in blissful relief. Now all she needed was a hot, sudsy bubble bath and the assurance that she wouldn’t have to go anywhere near her senior yearbook photo ever again.

Her skin prickled, and Chloe opened her eyes, discomfited by the sudden sensation that she was being watched.

She saw him in the lobby, knew who it was immediately even though she couldn’t quite believe he was really standing there in jeans and a green shirt. Dylan’s gaze locked with hers, and electricity gathered, heavy and crackling. Sizzling energy ribboned through her.

Definitely lightning.




Chapter Three


Dylan had returned to the hotel depleted. Following an afternoon of physical labor—fixing a leaky pipe in his mom’s kitchen, repairing the screen door—and emotionally taxing guilt that he didn’t visit more, he’d walked into the lobby unmotivated to shower and change for the reunion. Suddenly, however, he felt pretty damn alert.

The shapely brunette in the bar area was a splash of vivid color among the black tables and chairs. She’d kicked off a pair of red shoes—he noticed them as his gaze traced over her long legs—and there was something invitingly uninhibited about her sitting barefoot in an evening dress. From what he could see, everything about her was inviting.

She had her head tilted back, eyes closed, a half smile playing about her full lips as if grinning at some secret only she knew. The neckline of her gown plunged just low enough to expose the shadow of cleavage and made his fingers itch to touch her. The thick mass of loose curls spilling past her shoulders looked as soft as her creamy skin. Then her eyes opened.

Although he couldn’t tell their shade from where he stood, her startled expression as she caught sight of him was unmistakable. He was used to women doing double takes because they either admired him or recognized him. He was not accustomed to the alarm he saw on her features.

Because you were staring at her, Einstein.

The woman had opened her eyes to find a total stranger gaping at her from a few yards away. No wonder she was unnerved—although a lady who looked like that obviously got her fair share of appreciative glances. Now that she’d caught him ogling, he should go introduce himself as a nonpsycho, apologize with charm and offer to buy her a drink. This plan also meant he could look at her some more, up close. Bonus.

Then a blonde entered his line of vision, carrying two wineglasses. So much for buying the dark-haired beauty a drink. But he could still go say hi. The lighter-haired woman looked familiar, so maybe the ladies were from his graduating class, also here for the reunion. The women were holding whispered conference, and as he walked down the few steps that led into the bar, the blonde glanced over her shoulder. He definitely knew her.

Nancy? Nadia?

Natalie!

Natalie Young, he thought, recalling her name on the reunion literature he’d received in the mail. She’d been a cheerleader. He smiled, feeling a nostalgic warmth for the short-skirted green uniforms, each emblazoned with a sparkly gold M. The brunette had been a cheerleader, too, hadn’t she? He’d been more interested in redheads back in the day, but he seemed to remember the other head cheerleader had been dark-haired and gorgeous.

Her name started with a C, didn’t it? He struggled to recall it but was distracted. At this distance, he saw her eyes were an intoxicating whiskey color.

She leaned forward on the bar stool, toward him. “Dylan.” His name rolled off her tongue in a husky voice weaker men called 1-900 numbers to hear.

For a moment he forgot Natalie stood there, almost between them. “Hi.”

Natalie cleared her throat a little, sounding as if she were trying not to laugh. “Dylan Echols. Welcome back to Mistletoe. You might not remember me, but—”

“Sure I do.” With effort, he took his eyes off the brunette. “Natalie Young. I remember both of you very well.” They probably wouldn’t appreciate his reminiscences over cheerleading outfits and the effect thereof on seventeen-year-old males.

“You do?” The brunette’s sexy contralto had somehow become a squeak of disbelief—a damn shame.

“Absolutely.” His smile was deliberately rueful. “A guy doesn’t just forget two stunning women.”

The dark-haired woman frowned at him over her wineglass. Did she think he was coming on too strong? Calling her stunning wasn’t flattery, merely a statement of fact.

Natalie picked up her own wine. “Well, I hate to take my drink and run, but duty calls. I should get back downstairs and make sure my other committee members don’t need anything. I’ll see the two of you later!”

“But we just…” The brunette trailed off when it became clear her friend, already striding toward the stairs, wasn’t listening. Then she—Connie? Caren?—turned back to him with a weak smile. Was it his imagination or had she paled? “You’ll have to excuse Natalie. She lacks subtlety.”

He grinned. “Not a problem. I’ve never been a big fan of subtle, anyway. To tell you the truth, I was going to take the straightforward approach myself, march down here and ask if I could buy you a drink, but—” Startled, he watched as she gulped down her wine in a manner he’d previously associated with keg parties.

She was either apprehensive or really thirsty.

Or perhaps she wanted the chance to take him up on his offer. Dylan signaled for a waiter. “May I join you?”

“Uh…sure. Suit yourself.”

Well, there was an enthusiastic invitation if ever he’d heard one. Not quite a swing and a miss, but maybe a foul ball. Hang in there, ace. You’ve come back from worse odds than this. The waiter stopped at their table, and Dylan placed an order for a beer and a second glass of wine.

Once they were alone again, Dylan glanced down at the discarded heels beneath their table. “Nice shoes, but I—”

“I didn’t want to fall down,” she blurted before he could tell her that the barefoot look suited her.

Okay.

This wasn’t going quite the way he’d envisioned. Maybe a smarter man would apologize for intruding, take his drink upstairs and get ready for the reunion, where there could be dozens of women interested in conversation. But it was suddenly, irrationally important to win over this one. Heidi’s face flashed through his mind, followed by Grady’s snickering. Dylan sought assurance that, in at least some way, he was still the guy he’d been before surgery, that he hadn’t lost all his talents.

Besides, while he might tell himself that another man would walk away, he wasn’t sure he had the willpower to do so. Not before he tried to cajole that husky tone from her again and bring a little heat to those skittish amber eyes.



THIS WAS LIKE a sick joke.

Which makes me the punch line, Chloe thought, drinking in Dylan’s profile as he tipped the waiter. At first this had seemed exactly like one of Natalie’s far-flung scenarios, a modern update of the fairy tales Chloe herself had loved to read as a girl: former geek, all dolled up, former athletic god walks into the room, their eyes meet…

And geek proceeds to trip over her tongue as if she’s a fifteen-year-old on her first date.

She groaned at the unfortunately accurate analogy. All she needed to do now was crash into a refreshments table and this could be her first date all over again. What was wrong with her? Chances to live out long-held fantasies didn’t come along every day. They barely came along once in a decade! But as much as she might admire Aunt Jane’s brazen fearlessness or Natalie’s extroverted ease, Chloe couldn’t wipe away a personality years in the making and replace it as simply as if she were applying a new flavor of lip gloss.

“Everything okay?” Dylan asked. While she’d been lost in thought, he’d turned back to her, looking even more attractive than he’d been in high school. He was still lean and muscled, but his boyish charm had matured into an appeal that was adult and sensual. His black hair was as dark and thick as ever, and while she regretted his career circumstances, the disappointment seemed to have given him an alluring edginess, something he hadn’t had as a seventeen-year-old golden boy.

And, wonder of wonders, he’d been attracted to her! She’d seen it in his smile when he first approached, before Natalie the Traitor had fled, abandoning Chloe to the butterflies in her stomach. It felt like she had enough in there for her own million-monarch migration.

“Ev-everything’s fine,” she said. Wow, repartee just didn’t get any wittier than this.

There was no way Dylan had trouble getting women, so why was he still here, seeming…well, grimly determined to flirt with her? The situation had gone from being her wildest dream to her worst nightmare. Except that in her nightmare, she’d also be naked right now and late for a college final.

As awkward as things already were, why not just go ahead and lay her cards on the table? She took a deep breath—and a fortifying sip of wine. “Honestly? I’m a little nervous.”

He grinned. “That’s a relief. I was afraid maybe you didn’t like me. Is it the pro-ball thing?”

“People here do consider you a celebrity,” she said, noting how the brightness of his smile had dimmed when he mentioned baseball. “But no, that’s not it. It’s more the, ah, massive crush I had on you in high school.”

Cards didn’t get much more on the table than that. Aunt Jane would be proud.

“Really?” Dylan sat back. “If I’d known, I would have asked you out for a drink back then. The nonalcoholic type, of course. Maybe a milk shake,” he added with a wink.

Gaping was probably not an attractive look for her, but she couldn’t help herself. Did he seriously expect her to believe he would have dated her? “I didn’t think I was…your type.”

He looked sheepish. “It’s true I dated a lot of redheads, but I noticed you, too. Every guy in the student body with working eyesight noticed you.”

The warm glow she’d developed from thinking that Dylan might have returned her adolescent affections was cooling rapidly. Was he patronizing her?

“This may be coming ten years too late,” he said, “but would you like to have dinner with me, Candy?”

She froze, confused. Candy? Oh God. Had he honestly mistaken her for Candy Beemis?

Under other circumstances, Chloe might have been flattered. Or at least amused. Right now she felt cruelly deflated. How had she let herself think, even temporarily, that he might really have remembered her? Now their stilted encounter was going to become more awkward than it already was. She would correct him, tell him she was Chloe Malcolm; he would frown and ask, “Who?” and she’d be crushed. It was one thing to know the boy of your dreams hadn’t known you existed, it was another to have him verify it.

Stalling, she downed more of the dry wine.

Too bad it wasn’t the ex-cheerleader sitting with him now. Candy probably knew how to handle a man’s attention without dissolving into a flustered fool; she certainly would have had the chutzpah to wear the closetful of bold garments Aunt Jane had sent over the years.

“Is that a no on dinner?” Dylan asked, looking genuinely disappointed by her hesitation.

Dylan Echols wants to have dinner with me! Sort of.

Why, oh why, couldn’t she have been someone else? Even if it was just for tonight. Someone comfortable enough in her own skin to wear red dresses and high heels and flirt with a sexy man. The someone Chloe had always longed to become but never quite managed. “No. I mean, it wasn’t a no.”

“Good.” The grin he shot her was devastating; he should be required to carry a permit for using that on unsuspecting women. “I know we’re both here for the reunion, but…I’m not in a crowd sort of mood. Were you looking forward to catching up with Natalie and the other girls from the squad?”

“Not as much as you might think.”

“Would I be a jerk if I asked you to ditch the reunion and join me somewhere quiet where we can talk over a meal?”

“Sounds perfect!” For many reasons, including that it would only take him about two seconds downstairs to spot the actual Candy Beemis. Then he’d learn that Chloe had been the nerdy girl in the back row who’d just admitted to being infatuated with him. Pathetic.

“So, do you still go by Candy or is it Candace now that we’re all grown-up?” he asked.

She bit down on her lower lip so hard she half expected to taste blood instead of her chocolate-flavored gloss. “Actually…call me C.J.”




Chapter Four


On the outside, Chloe was still smiling—she could feel it on her face, frozen like a mask. On the inside, she was screaming, What did I just do?

“What’s the J stand for?” Dylan asked.

“Um…Jane?” Very smooth. With quick thinking like that, she’d missed her calling in some kind of undercover career. Luckily he was finishing his drink, which spared her the follow-up question about why she was unsure of her own middle name. Hopefully he would attribute her uncertainty to the already confessed nervousness. Get a grip. C.J. is not the nervous type.

Whoever the hell C.J. was.

Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a married couple she knew walking through the lobby—the man was another Mistletoe grad, and his wife had been toying with the idea of hiring Chloe to do a site advertising her homemade-cake business. Chloe ducked her head, letting her hair fall in a curtain across her face as she tried to monitor their progress surreptitiously. The longer she sat here with Dylan, the more she chanced one of their fellow alumni coming over to say hi. Of course, anywhere she went in Mistletoe…

“Dylan, do you have a room here at the hotel?”

He blinked at the breathless question, but his look of surprise faded into a slow grin. Oh Lord, had she just unintentionally propositioned the most eligible bachelor of her graduating class?

“Because I was thinking,” she added in a rush, “about how you said you’d like to have dinner someplace quiet. Where we could talk. With you being a local celebrity, I thought our best chance at that might be room service. Unless I’m being too forward.”

“No, I like a lady who speaks her mind,” he assured her. “Room service is a great idea. That saves us the whole ‘what are you in the mood for, what’s good around here, no, you decide, I don’t care’ rigmarole.”

Good point. If she was stumbling over questions like what her name was, she probably wasn’t up for discussing where they should eat. She pushed her chair back, trying to seem cheerfully eager rather than desperate to flee. “I’m ready when you are.”

He stood, but bent abruptly. “Don’t forget your shoes.” When he straightened, all the air around Chloe seemed to disappear. Natalie’s red high heels had never looked as sexy as they did at this moment, dangling from their straps on one of Dylan’s large hands.

Chloe tried to inhale, but her lungs must not have got the memo. When she reached out to take the designer shoes, Dylan’s fingers brushed hers. A perfectly innocent touch. If Nat had called after a date, gushing about her hand meeting some man’s, it would have sounded clichéd or exaggerated, but the lightning Chloe had experienced earlier just from looking at him now magnified and sizzled through every cell of her hyperalert body. A body that’s going to pass out soon if you don’t breathe, you dummy.

The unreality of the situation hit her, and she couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you,” she told him, her voice lower than she was used to hearing.

He grinned back. “You’re very welcome. Here. Let me help.”

There was no graceful and feminine way to get back into the shoes, and she gladly accepted his assistance, leaning on him as she stepped into the first, lifting her foot to wiggle the strap into place, then the other. Dylan Echols had his arm around her waist. I can die happy. The thought reminded her joltingly of Aunt Jane, but Chloe could easily imagine her aunt laughing at this entire turn of events. A wistful sense of envy edged through Chloe—her aunt had seized life even as a teenager, while Chloe had mostly survived hers by making safe, predictable choices. Well, not tonight.

She glanced from the elevators, which seemed like a portal to the deliciously unknown, to Dylan, who was just plain delicious. Smiling up at him with a flirtatious instinct she hadn’t even realized she possessed, she asked, “Shall we?”



DYLAN HAD WITNESSED plenty of great comebacks in baseball—a team that was seemingly down for the count, turning it around in the eighth or ninth inning—but even he was amazed by the way his luck had turned tonight. Once C.J. worked past her initial timidity, everything had changed. She’d gone from looking terrified at the prospect of a meal with him to suggesting dinner alone in his room. Plus, she’d once again fallen into that sexy rasp he’d first noticed. Some guys were primarily visual creatures. Dylan himself had always been very tactile. He liked hands-on activities—his libido tried to suggest several—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d reacted so viscerally to just a woman’s voice. It would be an actual pleasure to spend the rest of the evening listening to C.J. talk.

They headed for the elevators, falling into step, and she shook her head at him when he pressed the button for the fifth floor.

“You’ve probably stayed in some glamorous high-rises,” she said. “Must be hard for the Mistletoe Inn to compete. Not a lot of penthouse suites here.”

He chuckled wryly, thinking of some of the ratty places he’d slept when he’d played in the minors. “Trust me, I wasn’t spending all my nights in five-star hotels. That kind of luxury is for guys who last more than a few seasons.” And signed lucrative endorsement deals.

“Oh. Right.” She bit her bottom lip, and he found himself staring. “Still, at least you’ve been places.” She said it with admiration.

“Does that mean you stayed in Mistletoe?” he asked. Maybe that’s what she’d meant about not needing to catch up with Natalie. Both women could still be local.

Before she could answer, the doors chimed and parted.

“This way.” He gestured to the left and waited gallantly for her to precede him. Less gallantly, he noticed that she had a fantastic butt beneath the filmy red skirt.

That observation, combined with the act of unlocking his hotel room door, temporarily cast a different light on the moment. Normally if he was returning to a room with a lady…No, they were having dinner. He hadn’t seen C.J. in ten years and unlike his newscasting colleague, there was a limit to Dylan’s presumptuous ego.

Trying to think of something innocuous, he cleared his throat. “What do you do for a living?” His preference was always to discuss other people’s careers, rather than his aborted one.

“I design—” From the way she broke off as they entered the room, he first assumed there was more to the statement. But after a beat, she simply reiterated, “I’m a designer.”

“Fashion? Interiors?”

She laughed out loud, the musical sound making him smile even though he wasn’t in on the joke. “Fashion, me?”

He lowered his gaze meaningfully over her dress. “Is it that hard to believe?” Then again, despite the stylish red garment she wore, it was indubitably the woman beneath the clothes who provided the va-va-voom.

His eyes met hers, which were bright with appreciation. Heat leaped between them, enough to prompt him to cross the room to the air-conditioning unit and lower the temperature. When he turned around, he noticed that she was studying her surroundings. He found himself relieved that he’d stopped by for only a few moments earlier, just enough to check in and drop off his suitcase. Not that he was a slob, but boxer briefs over the back of a chair or dirty socks in the corner did not a romantic evening make.

“So.” He rocked back on his heels. “Room service. The menu should be here somewhere.”

The leather-bound menu turned out to be on a walnut-stained round table between two armchairs. He leaned against one seat, and C.J. took the other. He couldn’t help glancing at her legs as she settled against the upholstery. Whatever exercise had replaced cheerleading in her adult life, her calves were smooth and well toned.

Thumbing through the menu, he asked, “Anything particular you’re in the mood for tonight?”

He wouldn’t have thought twice about the question except that she flushed a deep, rosy pink. His grip tightened on the room service folio as arousal filled him. She was so damned expressive, responsive.

She averted her gaze for a second, then grinned at him, appearing somehow both shy and mischievous. “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘Oh, you decide’?”

“It’s probably best if you don’t,” he said. “But I do have a few ideas.”

Chloe was shocked by the blatantly suggestive teasing—mostly because she was actually participating. It appeared that “C.J.” had a naughty streak. Does that make me my own wicked stepsister? Natalie was never going to believe any of this. Nobody in Mistletoe would.

“Should I order up a bottle of wine?” Dylan asked, scanning the list. “Or maybe a carafe?”

She gave a quick shake of her head. “No more for me, thanks.” As it was, she felt drunk on Dylan’s proximity and ten years’ worth of finely aged fantasies—not to mention two glasses of hastily quaffed chardonnay. What she needed now was to get some food in her system. She’d barely eaten today, distracted by primping and wanting to make sure the dress didn’t bulge in the wrong places.

“Can I see that menu?” she asked, extending her hand.

“Absolutely.” He passed it to her. “I think I know what I want.”

Her heart thudded faster. Since when did everything sound like a double entendre? Since someone as sexy as Dylan Echols is the one saying it. The man could read aloud from programming manuals and make them sound hot.

After she’d decided on the steak salad and he chose the prime-rib dip, he called down to the kitchen.

He hung up the phone and smiled that same grin she remembered from civics class. “They said about twenty minutes. Can I get you something to drink in the meantime? I’ve got bottled water and colas.”

“I could use a water, thanks.” She closed her eyes for a moment. While the room wasn’t quite spinning, it wasn’t as stationary as she was used to, either.

Leaning into the minifridge, Dylan reverted to his earlier questions. “Just to clarify, did we establish that you’re in interior design or—”

“Uh-huh.” Interior design sounded like a far more sophisticated profession than computer nerd, even if it was absurdly out of character. “Interior designer. That’s me,” she said wistfully.

“You like what you do?”

She took a chilled bottle from him, nodding. “It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but yeah. I started out helping friends like Natalie, and word of mouth spread. I size up new clients, try to understand how they see themselves and how they want others to see them. Then I figure out the best way to capture them visually, to help them present that image.” She put a lot of thought into which fonts, graphics, color schemes and page layouts conveyed the most effective mood and brand.

“You must really be a people person to have that kind of insight into strangers and help them express themselves.”

A people person? “I never thought of it that way. Of course, this is Mistletoe. There aren’t that many true ‘strangers.’”

“So you did stay local, then.”

“Yes.” Thinking of Jane’s memorial service—all the things her vivacious aunt had done with her life and all the things Chloe had not—she added emphatically, “But I have plans to travel. Big plans!”

He chuckled. “You don’t have to convince me. I believe you.”

You shouldn’t. Half of what had come out of her mouth tonight was big fat lies. “Dylan…”

“Yes?” His voice slid down her spine, full of promise.

She shivered, whatever she’d been about to say evaporating.

Fresh air, that’s what she needed. Fresh air and an enormous do-over where this evening was concerned.

Chloe nodded toward the sliding-glass door. “Mind if we step out on the balcony while we wait?”

“Great idea.” He opened the door for them, and a pleasant breeze rippled into the room.

It was a beautiful spring evening, the night soft against Chloe’s bare arms, but the balcony itself was incredibly small. She hadn’t realized when she suggested coming out here that it would force her and Dylan even closer—not that she was complaining exactly. The heretofore undiscovered brazen part of her wanted to lean into him.

“Pretty night,” Dylan murmured, his profile to her. He glanced at the stars, then out at a landscape she imagined was worlds homier than Atlanta. “Nice view, too…even if we are only five stories up instead of looking down from one of the many penthouses to which I am accustomed.”

Chloe smirked. “You’re mocking me.”

He turned. “Maybe just a little.”

Smoothing a hand over her hair, he tucked a few strands behind her ear, out of reach of the light wind. His hand rested against her cheek. They stood motionless, so still that Chloe doubted she was even breathing. If asthma attacks felt like this, she wouldn’t mind them so much. What was oxygen compared to a moment like this, staring into those amazing deep green eyes and seeing herself—a more exotic, more sensual version of herself—reflected?

A mere week ago, she’d been chiding herself at Jane’s memorial service to start seizing the day, to take risks and reap the rewards. Now here she was, practically in the arms of the most alluring man she’d ever known. All it would take was a step forward…She stretched up to press her lips to his, although she might have lost her nerve if he hadn’t leaned down to meet her.

After one stunned second of paralysis, she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the moment, the once-in-a-lifetime chance to live out cherished fantasies. Wrapping her hand around his neck, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him back, dizzy with sensation.

Carpe Dylan.




Chapter Five


In the past, Dylan had prided himself on having finesse and being in control, but now he found himself reacting with pure instinct and enthusiastic need. C.J. tasted like woman and chocolate and wine, addictive, her mouth smothering his soft groan. It was the kind of kiss a man wanted to crawl inside, losing himself. Everything that had been eating at him lately, all his doubts and frustration, melted away.

Dropping one hand to her waist, he threaded the other through her hair, tilting her head back and deepening the kiss. But he was restless, craving more of the tantalizing contact, not content to keep his hands still when there was so much of her waiting to be explored. He skimmed over the smooth warmth of her shoulders, curving up to the straps of her red dress, letting his fingers slide slightly beneath the fabric. He heard her breath hitch and pulled away slightly.




Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/tanya-michaels/mistletoe-cinderella/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.