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.
“Let’s go back in,” he said with an involuntary glance at the king-size bed just
beyond.
“’Kay.” She looked shell-shocked, in an adorably feminine way, her bourbon eyes
dazed and her lips swollen.
“You taste like chocolate,” he heard himself say, a bit dazed himself.
She raised a finger to her bottom lip. “It’s my gloss.”
Which he’d no doubt kissed off of her by now—or would in the immediate future.
Grinning, he reached for her again.
They were interrupted by a rap on the door and a cheerful male voice calling,
“Room service!”
Dylan groaned. The intrusion was his own damn fault—after all, he’d been the one
to order the food—but right now the only thing he hungered for was C.J.
She, however, had sprung back at the sound of the knock, guilt stamped all over
her features as if she and Dylan were Mistletoe High students again, caught by
the principal making out. Would it make her feel self-conscious if Dylan
hollered out just to leave the food in the hall?
With a sigh, he opened the door. A guy in a dark suit and his very early
twenties was beaming behind a silver cart. “Mr. Echols? It’s an honor to meet
you, sir. Several of us flipped a coin to see who’d get to bring up your
dinner.”
Dylan managed not to grimace at the sir, feeling much older than the hotel
employee even though they were probably only separated by half a dozen years.
“Well, it’s nice to meet you, too—?”
“Artie. My brother plays catcher over at the school. I made the team when I was
there, but mostly warmed the bench. We think he could go all the way. Pro, like
you.” At Dylan’s polite but cool nod, Artie stopped gushing. “Um…where would you
like the food, sir?”
As Dylan turned to indicate the table and two chairs, he realized that C.J. had
disappeared—into the restroom, he suspected, to freshen her lipstick and smooth
her mussed hair.
“Over here is fine,” Dylan said, signing for their dinner. “Tell your brother I
said good luck.”
Artie’s youthful grin flashed again. “Will do. Thanks, Mr. Echols!”
It wasn’t that Dylan was completely bitter about baseball—he still loved the
game and always would—but it continued to sting when people referenced his
baseball career. His dream had been to be remembered as truly great at the game,
and now there was no way of ever knowing how close he could have come.
The creak of the bathroom door was a welcome distraction. C.J. stepped back into
the room, and as he’d anticipated, she looked more composed. Except for her
eyes. They shimmered with barely banked panic.
“Hungry?” he asked her, gesturing toward the food.
She clutched her purse tightly. “A-actually, I have to go.”
“Now? But the food just…Is something wrong?”
“I’m sorry.” She hurried toward the door, slowing only long enough to thrust a
twenty-dollar bill at him. He was so startled by her exit that he took the money
automatically.
“Candy, wait.”
She flinched. “I can’t.” Then she hurried out into the hall.
His impulse was to go after her, find out what had prompted her to flee and try
to change her mind, but it seemed unchivalrous to pursue a woman so adamant
about leaving.
Bemused, he returned to their dinners and slumped into a chair, thinking that it
was a whole lot of food for one man with a dwindling appetite. Intriguing woman,
C.J. Beautiful, seemingly successful, funny when she wasn’t rigid with anxiety.
But she definitely gave some mixed signals. One moment they’d been hot and
heavy—
Had he been too aggressive, the way he’d kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough
of her? Echols, you ass. She’d admitted earlier that she was a bit nervous,
spending the evening with a former crush, had even blushed sitting right here in
this chair. And what had he done? Practically fallen on her like a ravenous
beast or, worse, a horny teenage boy.
In a lot of ways, Mistletoe was a quaint, old-fashioned place and C.J. was a
local girl. She wasn’t a baseball groupie who’d picked him up in a bar or a
jaded sophisticate like Heidi. Instead of lobbing her a nice, simple practice
ball, he’d brought the heat, scaring off the most promising thing that had
happened to him in weeks.
“I AM A BAD PERSON,” Chloe told her reflection in the mirrored elevator panels.
She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, trying to figure out what the devil
she’d been thinking. You weren’t. Her brain had short-circuited as soon as she’d
seen Dylan down in the lobby. That was the only explanation for everything that
had transpired.
She’d wanted so badly to kiss him, to take the chance she knew she’d never be
given again, but it had quickly spiraled out of control, leaving her feeling
shaken and inexperienced. So that’s what lust feels like. With a shiver, she
recalled his gentle tug at the straps of her dress, the rasp of his callused
fingers against her skin. It was all too easy to imagine those fingers sliding
down the bodice of the dress, exploring her. Chloe Malcolm was not the kind of
woman who went to a man’s hotel room after a few minutes of conversation and let
him feel her up!
Especially when she’d lied to the man in question. She’d let him think she was a
cheerleader, for crying out loud! And a decorator? When he’d called her Candy as
she made her escape, she’d wanted to throw up from guilt.
Once she stepped off the elevator, she hurried toward the front of the hotel to
catch a cab. She’d text Nat on the way home to let her know so her friend didn’t
worry. Something casual like “Tired, think I’ll turn in early,” rather than
admit that she was fleeing into the night like the proverbial Cinderella at the
stroke of twelve. Thank heavens for room service.
If not for the interruption that had broken the sensual spell, would Chloe even
now be in the arms of a man calling out another woman’s name?
THOUGH DYLAN MADE a halfhearted stab at eating, he conceded defeat pretty soon
and placed the tray in the hall for pickup. He flipped on the television to
check scores, but nothing held his interest. Sitting on the bed only reminded
him of what he’d rather be doing. Which is probably why she took off. Get your
hormones under control. Had she left the hotel, or had she gone to their reunion
after all?
It wasn’t a bad idea, he decided. He was restless, alone in the small room. Why
not go downstairs, attend the party as originally planned?
In the back of his mind was the thought that perhaps he’d see her there, that he
could apologize if he’d offended her with his amorous enthusiasm and maybe even
convince her that it would be safe to go out to eat with him tomorrow. Trying to
pretend he didn’t have ulterior motives, Dylan quickly showered. Then he changed
into black slacks and a matching coat over a white button-down shirt, open at
the collar. A lot spiffier than his earlier jeans and shirt, although C.J.
hadn’t seemed to mind his attire. When he hit the button for the elevator, he
possessed far more zeal for this reunion than he had when he’d entered the hotel
a couple of hours ago.
He passed through the lobby and went downstairs, following the thumping bass of
a band. A folding table sat outside a ballroom door, and two women sat chatting
with partygoers and checking in late arrivals. One of the ladies working the
door was Lilah Baum—he never forgot a pretty redhead—who’d dated the same
varsity football player all through high school. Next to Lilah was a dark-haired
woman who’d outdressed everyone else in a one-shouldered sparkling white dress.
As he approached, the brunette glanced up from the clipboard in front of her,
her mouth curving into a feline smile when she spotted him. “Why, Dylan Echols.
I heard rumors you were coming. I’m sure I speak on behalf of the entire female
student body when I say we’re glad to see you.”
Candy Beemis.
She looked almost exactly the same, but even if she hadn’t, he would have
recognized the drawl. It was like syrup when she was flirting, but it quickly
developed a razor’s edge if you were fool enough to displease her—the entire
baseball team had overheard her dump Nick Zeth, alternately laughing at her
colorful word choices and wincing on their teammate’s behalf. Until Dylan had
seen her just this second, he hadn’t remembered much about her other than her
being a dark-haired cheerleader. The vague past hadn’t been nearly as compelling
as the present with a beautiful lady in red. Now that he’d laid eyes on Candy,
details about her rushed back. One thing remained wildly unclear, though.
If this was Candy, who the hell had he been kissing upstairs?
“Candy. Long time, no see.” Happen to know anyone running around the hotel
impersonating you?
She fluttered her lashes. “You remember me. I’m flattered.”
“Surprised you’re not in there being the life of the party,” he said lightly,
resisting the urge to storm into the ballroom and get answers from a certain
mystery woman.
“The volunteers are working in shifts,” she explained. “Mine will be over in
about fifteen minutes. Look for me inside, and I’ll check to see if there’s any
room left on my dance card.”
He smiled noncommittally. “Hey, weird question for you. By any chance, are you
an interior decorator?”
She laughed. “No, why? Is this leading to some cheesy line about how I beautify
my surroundings?”
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Must have you confused with someone else. Did we go
to school with another Candy? Who was also a cheerleader with dark hair?” In a
high school as small as theirs? That was so statistically unlikely that he felt
ridiculous just asking.
“No. I’m a one and only,” she said with an indignant toss of her hair.
“Right.” People were now standing in line behind him. He should go, but he took
one last futile stab. “You don’t happen to remember a girl we went to school
with named C.J., do you?”
Candy narrowed her eyes. “What’s with you? Get beaned one too many times in the
head with the baseball?”
Lilah Baum—who was probably no longer Baum, judging from the ring on her left
hand—was much kinder but no further help. “We had a linebacker named J. C.
Delgorio,” she told him, “but I don’t remember any C.J., male or female.”
“Thanks,” he said weakly, officially feeling stupid. A distantly familiar and
much-loathed sensation.
With Candy glaring after him—apparently it was bad form to be obsessed with some
lesser brunette when she’d offered her dance card—he slunk through the doors to
the ballroom. Except for the bright stage spotlights, the lighting was dim.
Dylan paused, letting his eyes adjust, and scanned the crowd for flashes of
telltale red. When I get my hands on her…
Wrong line of thought. He hardened at the memory of how she’d felt in his hands.
Okay, no touching this time. But “C.J.” definitely owed him an explanation.
After a purposeful circuit of the room, he was forced to conclude she wasn’t
there. Natalie was, though. The blonde danced with a tall man Dylan didn’t
remember. As the song ended, he started toward them. Natalie could give him
answers, but he didn’t get anywhere near her.
“Echols!”
Nick Zeth, known in years past as Z-Man, and former outfielder Shane McIntyre
intercepted him. Shane had on a suit and tie; Nick had opted to pair his old
baseball jersey with black slacks. Both men wore name tags that featured
yearbook photos. Dylan found that he was suddenly a rabid supporter of name
tags; people should be required to wear them at all times. Especially enigmatic
brunettes with identity crises.
The guys insisted he have a drink with them. They grabbed a couple of beers and
sat at a table far enough away from the speakers to have a normal conversation.
Shane said he’d caught one of Dylan’s broadcasts when he was in Atlanta on
business, and Nick, now a local firefighter, revealed that he’d divorced his
college sweetheart last year, although he seemed more rueful than bitter.
Eventually talk turned to Coach Burton’s retirement dinner, which they were all
attending.
“He was the best,” Shane said.
“He was like a dad to me,” Nick reminisced. His own father, also a fireman, had
died rescuing a civilian when Nick was in middle school.
It seemed wrong for Dylan to add that Coach B. had been like a dad to him, too,
since Michael Echols had been alive.
“Everything okay, man?” Shane nudged his arm. “You keep looking around the
room.”
“Looking for a woman,” he admitted.
Nick grinned. “Dude, they’re nothing but trouble. You’re better off with us.”
“Not my type.” Dylan grinned back.
“You still got a thing for redheads?” Shane wanted to know.
“This one was brunette. But she was wearing a red dress.”
“Oh, so you’re not just looking, you’ve already found one?” Nick scanned the
crowd curiously.
“She temporarily got away,” Dylan said. “I’m trying to figure out who she was.”
“You could always check the table over there,” Shane suggested. “Where the name
tags are? Someone on the reunion committee put together a book, a ‘where are
they now’ thing that has pictures and info about everyone.”
Dylan got to his feet. “Great. You guys don’t mind if I…?”
“Nah.” Shane waved his hand. “I was thinking about asking someone to dance.
You’re not my type, either.”
“We’ll catch up with you at the coach’s banquet if not tonight,” Nick said. “Go
get her, bro.”
There were only a few unclaimed name tags on the long table, Dylan’s among them.
He winced at the picture of himself, the cocky smile that said he knew what his
ticket out of here was and that he was off to bigger and better things. Far away
from the struggles he hadn’t liked people to see and, more important, away from
Michael Echols. And here I am, back again. Dylan shoved the tag into his coat
pocket and studied the remaining female faces on the table.
Chloe Ann Malcolm? Her middle name wasn’t even Jane!
Squinting, he double-checked, comparing the wide-eyed teenager in black and
white to the temptress who’d kissed him on the balcony. Not the best picture,
but that was her, all right. Chloe Malcolm. He couldn’t remember anything about
her, but his recollections were probably clouded by his time with her tonight.
On the corner of the table was the green binder Shane had mentioned. Someone had
printed out a label and stuck it on the front: Mistletoe High, Class of 1999. He
flipped through the alphabetical entries until he located Chloe. Background
information included her graduating with honors, top ten of their class and her
superstar status in Academic Decathlon. Since high school, she’d gone to
college, where she earned a degree in computer science. She’d ultimately settled
in Mistletoe, near her parents, and ran her own business building and
maintaining Web sites.
Dylan ground his teeth. She was a braniac, one of those people who’d
effortlessly earned A’s when he’d struggled for C’s. What had possessed her to
tell him she was a cheerleader and an interior decorator? Instead of correcting
his mistaken impression that she was Candy, she was having a laugh at the dumb
jock’s expense.
He must really be dumb. Co-worker Liza Finnell was attracted to him, but she
didn’t cause even a blip on his radar. If he had half a brain, he’d ask out the
sweet, easy-to-read woman. Instead he’d been drawn to Heidi, who’d used him as a
rung on her social-climbing ladder but had at least been honest about the
basics—say, her name. Then he’d spent tonight flirting with a woman who didn’t
respect him enough even to tell him who she was. Everything his old man had ever
said about his lack of intelligence circled through Dylan’s mind like a cruel
wind. He had noticed inconsistencies in the way Chloe was behaving tonight, but
he’d never once dreamed that she might be flat-out lying to him.
It was the second time in a month he’d been left looking like a fool because of
a duplicitous female. Before he left Mistletoe, he and Ms. Malcolm were going to
have a chat.
THE PHONE RANG at such an unholy hour of the morning that it certainly would
have wakened Chloe if she’d actually been able to sleep. She’d gotten tired of
staring at the dark ceiling overhead sometime between three and four, tromping
in her robe and bare feet to the computer. Might as well get some work done,
she’d reasoned. But her mind had been too preoccupied with replaying each second
with Dylan—particularly the kissing—to focus on database fields.
“Hello?” As she answered, she experienced a frisson of irrational fear that it
would somehow be Dylan on the other end.
Thank heavens it was Natalie instead. “Hey! You took off way too early last
night. You had to know I would call first thing for details. What happened that
sent you sneaking away without a goodbye?”
Chloe could insist that she hadn’t been “sneaking,” that she’d merely wanted to
get home and knew Nat was busy with her reunion responsibilities, but this was
her best friend. “I screwed up. You never should have left me alone with Dylan!
I was a mess.”
“You’ve always been more critical of yourself than anyone else is. Candy
notwithstanding,” Natalie conceded. “Even if you stammered or put your foot in
your mouth, I’m sure he didn’t find it as noticeable as you did.”
“He thought I was Candy.”
“Huh?” Nat sounded appropriately flummoxed. In what parallel universe could
Chloe be mistaken for head cheerleader and budding socialite Candy Beemis?
“Maybe it was seeing me with you that threw him, but he honestly thought I was
Candy. And I…sort of let him go on believing that. I told him to call me C.J.,
and that I work as an interior designer.”
There was a strangled sound that was either laughter or a gasp. “You’re kidding
me!”
“Oh, how I wish I were.”
“So…the two of you talked for a little while, under false pretenses, and you
felt so bad about it that you went home?”
“Close. We went up to his hotel room, made out for a while under false pretenses
and then when room service interrupted with our dinner, I beat a hasty retreat
before I ended up sleeping with him or telling him some other incredible whopper
like I was once crowned Miss Georgia, right before I invented the Internet.”
“You made out with Dylan Echols?” Natalie’s voice was full of awe. “You’re my
heroine.”
“Nat! Haven’t you heard what I’ve been telling you? I was a disaster. I barely
had control of what was coming out of my mouth. He kissed me, then called me
Candy.”
“Okay, that part would have been a tad ooky. But the rest of it—”
“Natalie, promise you’ll never leave me alone with another hot guy.”
Her friend’s sigh came through loud and clear. “Honey, your life’s not going to
be terribly interesting if you never spend any alone time with guys.”
“I don’t want interesting,” Chloe resolved. “I wasn’t meant for interesting. I
tried it last night, and you see how that turned out!”
“You looked stunning and ended up kissing a guy half the women in town have
drooled over. Things could have gone worse.”
“Not by much. I felt terrible, running out on him like that.” She pinched the
bridge of her nose, reliving her graceless exit. “He probably thinks I’m off my
meds.”
This time, the noise Natalie made was definitely a laugh. “If it’s any
consolation, it’s Candy he thinks is nuts, not you.”
“And yet I don’t feel comforted by that. The only thing I find comforting about
this whole mess is that he’s probably packing up to leave town by now.”
“No way he would miss Coach B.’s dinner tomorrow,” Natalie interjected. “I think
he’s even giving a speech or something.”
“Right. I forgot about that.” Even someone as far removed from athletics as
Chloe knew about Coach Todd Burton—he was a town institution. Her heart sank.
“Wait, do you think Candy will be there?” The last thing Chloe needed was for
Dylan to run into Candy.
“Nah. There’s no love lost between her and the coach. He bawled her out once
when she dated two baseball players at once, pitting them against each other.
She retaliated by whining to her friends that the coach gets too much credit
when it’s the guys on the field winning the games.”
So Coach and Candy didn’t get along? Chloe was surprised then that Dylan would
cheerfully seek out the former cheerleader. Or maybe, after all he’d been
through professionally and personally, he didn’t recall petty squabbles from a
decade ago.
She regrouped. “All right, so he’s in town for at least another day or so. But
eventually—soon—he will leave. Given his track record for staying away from
Mistletoe, I won’t ever have to worry about seeing him again.” More important,
she wouldn’t have to dwell on her own asinine behavior.
“At least not until the twentieth reunion,” Natalie teased.
“I’m busy that weekend,” Chloe said flatly. She was done with high school
reunions. She was also finished with wine. In vino veritas, my butt. After a
minute passed, she stopped obsessing over her own evening long enough to ask,
“Tell me you had a good time last night?” Natalie deserved to have fun after all
the work she’d put into the event.
“I did, thanks.” Natalie sighed. “I’m just sorry you didn’t get more out of it.”
The memory of Dylan’s kiss tingled through her, and she pressed a hand to her
lips. “It was…I have a lot of work to do. Call you later?”
“You busy tonight? I can bring over comfort food and a couple of chick flicks
and get my shoes back.”
Chloe knew “comfort food” meant chicken-fried steak and made-from-scratch mashed
potatoes from the Dixieland Diner, both topped with white pepper gravy. She was
powerless to resist. Good thing I own that treadmill. “Sounds like just what the
doctor ordered, thanks.”
After they disconnected, Chloe once again looked at her computer monitor, but
lacked the mental energy to pretend she was getting anything done. Instead, she
did seven and a half miles on the treadmill, then jumped in the shower. By the
time she got out, she’d worked up an actual appetite. She padded to the fridge
in a pair of denim shorts and a purple shirt printed with flowers that spelled
out GET LEI’D IN MAUI. A gift from Aunt Jane, naturally. It was the least risqué
of the bawdy T-shirts, acceptable Saturday wear for bumming around the house.
A quick scan of the shelves reminded her that, with everything else that had
happened this week, she’d neglected grocery shopping. Maybe getting out of the
house would help her get out of her head, too, putting last night’s absurdities
behind her. She would certainly be more productive at the market than she had
been at her computer.
She grabbed her car keys and was parking near Mistletoe’s only big grocery store
fifteen minutes later. Making a mental list of items she needed, she headed up
the sidewalk into the shop. Since Nat was coming over tonight, ice cream was a
must-have, but she’d save that for the end of her trip, so it didn’t all melt in
the cart. Instead, she rounded the corner toward the produce section and stopped
cold at the sight of Dylan Echols examining fresh oranges.
Eek.
Well, who needed fruits and vegetables, anyway? She could live without them for
another few days. Executing a stealthy about-face, she retreated to the
soft-drink aisle, grabbing several things at random before continuing to speed
away, wanting to put as much floor space as possible between her and Dylan. With
little more in her cart than lunch for today and ice cream for tonight, she
checked out, breathing a sigh of relief as she swiped her debit card. As soon as
the kid at the register handed her the receipt, she’d be home fr—
“C.J.?”
Oh God. This was karmic punishment for her dishonesty last night.
Did she dare ignore him? If so, he might call out louder and create a scene. It
was in her best interest to get their encounter over quietly—and quickly.
Trapped, she turned with a weak wave as Dylan closed the distance between them.
A smiling middle-aged woman stepped aside so that he could get in line behind
Chloe.
If anything, he looked even better this morning, in a close-fitting T-shirt that
did amazing things for his biceps. And he was making the most of the unshaven
look that worked so well on some guys, lending a rugged touch.
Chloe was at a loss for what to say. “Hey.” Even that monosyllable strained her
current capabilities.
For an instant, Dylan’s expression was inscrutable. Then he gave her a grin so
wolfish she almost felt the top of her head to check for a red hood. “It is you.
Must be my lucky day.”
Chapter Six
Dylan wanted to pump his fist in the air and let out a whoop of victory. He
couldn’t have asked for a better moment than this, his beautiful liar of last
night caught off guard, her eyes wide and stricken. When he’d read her bio at
the reunion, he’d been furious and imagined a straightforward confrontation,
asking her point-blank about her identity and watching her squirm over the
inevitable truth. But some imp took hold of him as he studied her. With all her
hair skimmed back in a high ponytail and wearing practically no makeup, she
looked as fresh faced and innocent as she probably had in her teens.
It incensed him anew that a woman who would knowingly make a fool out of him
looked so damn much like a schoolgirl. Only her colorful shirt—get lei’d?—and
shiny full lips hinted at possible naughtiness. He was annoyed to find himself
wondering if she once again tasted like chocolate.
“I was sorry you had to leave in such a rush last night,” he said, trying to
forget how hopeful he’d been about seeing her in the ballroom. And how terrible
he’d felt for possibly scaring her off with overzealous ardor. Idiot. He managed
not to grit his teeth. “I hope it wasn’t anything I did?”
“N-no. Nothing like that. I had somewhere I needed to be.”
“The reunion?” he pressed. “I looked for you downstairs.”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. “When I was fixing my makeup, I
noticed…that I had a text message. From a friend. Needing help.”
“I see. Is everything okay?”
“Mmm-hmm. It was just a, um, girl thing. All taken care of now.”
The fact that she was a lousy liar made him feel like an even bigger chump for
not seeing through her last night. How could he have fallen for anything that
came out of her mouth? Maybe because you were too busy fantasizing about the
mouth in question.
He handed over a twenty that covered the few basics he’d picked up for his
mother, then followed Chloe out the door without bothering to wait for his
change. No way was he letting her escape before she confessed her perfidy.
“I was sorry we didn’t get to talk longer about your job,” he said.
“My job?”
He nodded, grinning as a spontaneous plan took shape. “The interior decorating.
What’s your specialty?” He had no idea whether decorators even had specialties.
“Feng sway?” It came out as a tentative squeak. “Shui. Feng shui.”
“Because I was thinking of having my condo redecorated.” He wondered how much
rope he needed to hand her before she hanged herself.
“B-but you live in Atlanta!”
“Hardly the far corners of the earth.” He shrugged. “It’s not too bad a drive.
Surely not all your clients are in Mistletoe? If I hired you, I’d know I wasn’t
getting ripped off by some stranger in the city. And as an extra bonus, I’d get
to see you again.”
“No, I—” She broke off, looking even more alarmed than before, if such a thing
were possible.
He followed her gaze to a pregnant woman farther down the sidewalk. The spring
breeze plastered her blue maternity dress to the small baby bulge, and a
headband was keeping the raven-black hair out of her eyes while she took
pictures with a digital camera. She seemed to be photographing storefronts.
Turning back to Chloe, he asked, “Someone you know?”
After a brief hesitation, Chloe admitted, “Rachel Waide. But she’s working right
now. For the chamber of commerce. Very artistic. She hates to be bothered while
she’s trying to get the perfect shot,” she added, already striding in the
opposite direction.
Dylan amiably tagged along. “I don’t know if you realize this about me, but I’m
very stubborn. Coach taught me to hang in there all nine innings and go for the
win. I really would like to talk to you more about decorating my place. Or at
least coming to look at it before you turn me down completely.”
They were passing a woman with what appeared to be her teenage son, and Chloe
ducked her head, clearly hoping not to be recognized by any of her fellow
citizens.
“How about I buy you lunch and we can chat?” He aimed his most charming smile
directly at her. “Come on, you owe me for running off last night, C.J. Is the
Dixieland Diner still in business?”
“I can’t go out to lunch. My ice cream would melt.”
“Dinner, then?” he persisted. “Or why don’t you just give me your business card.
I’ll come by your office later and—”
“I work from home.”
“Even better. We can go there and have lunch together. To protect your ice
cream,” he added with a smile.
She stared back with a deer-in-the-headlights look, finally sighing in
resignation. For a moment, he thought she was about to cop to not being an
interior decorator. “Fine. Follow me.”
Game on, then?
He nodded. “Lead the way.” This should be interesting.
CHLOE BRIEFLY entertained the fantasy of mashing down the accelerator and not
stopping. She’d recently decided she wanted to see more of the world—here was
her chance! Yet she was slowly realizing that Dylan Echols wouldn’t be that easy
to shake. Besides, she only had about a quarter of a tank of gas. As great
escapes went, that wouldn’t get her far.
Cursing her luck, she stayed right at the legal speed limit, neither too slow
nor too fast, and dutifully signaled with her blinker well before each turn.
Story of my life. Until this weekend, anyway. Dylan stayed close, impossible to
miss in her rearview mirror. Even his car was sexy—a recent-model dark
metallic-blue Mustang convertible.
Driving around with the top down, he looked like a man without cares. If she
hadn’t known about his shoulder injury and subsequent career disappointment, she
would have bought into the illusion. He seemed to have bounced back well,
though. She wondered if he enjoyed his sports reporting job. Addressing a
faceless audience with a camera trained on her sounded like purgatory to her.
Chloe did better in front of a computer than she did in front of people.
Which made it thoroughly ironic that she was having two meals with Dylan in as
many days. Why in heaven’s name had she capitulated to his suggestion that he
come over for lunch? Well, there had been the fear of being recognized, of
course, and her escalating need to end their conversation in front of the store,
but that was the logical, intellectual reason. On a purely instinctual level,
when a man like Dylan Echols said, “Take me home,” a woman’s automatic response
was yes!
When Chloe parked under the carport, he was quick to hop out of his own vehicle
and offer a hand with the groceries. She thanked him as she gave him the bag of
ice cream.
“What about you?” she asked. “Do you have anything you need to put in the
refrigerator?”
He shook his head. “I just grabbed a few things to take over to my mom’s this
afternoon. Nothing that won’t keep for a little while.”
That was nice of him; she could identify with taking care of your parents. Not
only did Chloe miss Aunt Jane horribly, her passing made Chloe even more
conscious of her parents’ age.
She swallowed. “How’s your mother doing? I mean, I heard that your dad had
passed away. That must be hard on her, living alone after so many years of
marriage.”
He was silent, remote behind the sunglasses he wore. Then he said, “I suppose it
is,” and strode past her on the sidewalk even though he’d have to wait for her
to unlock the front door.
Lesson learned. Apparently, even with the months that had passed, he wasn’t
ready to talk about his late father.
She climbed the steps to the front porch, thinking back to earlier in the week.
It had been such a surprise to find that package from Aunt Jane. How could Chloe
have known she was in for a bigger shock—Dylan Echols right here at her door?
She ushered him inside, grateful for the tiny bit of redecorating she’d managed
since moving into the house. Undecorating, rather.
Chloe was the only child of adoring parents, and the place had looked like a
shrine to her. Framed pictures of her entire childhood had filled the wall space
in the hallway and trophies from the Academic Decathlon and sophomore science
fair had perched on the mantel. Her parents had taken their favorite portraits
with them to their smaller apartment, but had left so much of it here that she’d
felt a little embarrassed living among the memorabilia her first week back at
home.
Was the Echols house a similar museum to Dylan’s achievements? Like her, Dylan
was an only child, and she imagined his parents must have been bursting with
pride for him. There were probably team pictures, from kindergarten community
league to the major leagues, and sports trophies in every room.
“So this is your place, huh?” Sliding off his glasses, Dylan glanced around at
the serviceable but worn furniture, her mother’s faded floral curtains and the
rug Chloe planned to replace with faux hardwood. Eventually.
Dylan raised an eyebrow. “I have to admit, it’s not what I expected from a
decorator. But then, you’re just full of surprises.”
Her heart hammered. Surprises as in her kissing him last night, or her fleeing
immediately afterward? “Well, you know what they say about the cobbler’s
children having no shoes? It’s like that with decorators, too.”
The sensible thing to do would be trying to convince him that she was a lousy
decorator so that he’d abandon any half-baked notion of hiring her. But she was
already humiliated enough over last night and hated for him to think she was
completely incompetent.
She found herself adding, “Besides, I haven’t been here long enough to renovate
much. It was my parents’ place, and they recently gave it to me. Moved into
their own apartment at the seniors’ center. They’re older than a lot of my
friends’ parents,” she explained. Nat’s mom had recently hit fifty, but could
pass for a woman in her late thirties—good genes in that family.
“These your folks?” Dylan gestured toward a magnetic frame on the refrigerator.
In the picture, her mother was wearing a bright green sweater and her dad a suit
with a Christmas-tree tie.
Chloe nodded. “Yeah. That was taken at the Winter Wonderland Dance.”
“I remember that dance.” His smile was nostalgic. “For this town it was like
homecoming and prom all rolled into one.”
He was right. Even though it seemed more heavily chaperoned than a high school
event because of all the adults, the annual charity formal had always been a big
deal among her classmates, wondering who would invite whom. Even the strictest
of parents normally allowed their children to attend since it was a community
fund-raiser, benefiting the seniors’ center and adjacent medical complex. No guy
had ever asked Chloe, though. Her junior year, Natalie had tried to force a
double date with her own date’s cousin who was visiting for the holidays, but it
had turned out to be such an awkward fiasco that Chloe had skipped the whole
thing her senior year, telling her parents she’d rather use the time to study
for winter finals.
She didn’t realize she was scowling until Dylan asked, “Did I say something
wrong?”
“Not at all. Just trying to decide on a plan for lunch. Pizza okay with you?”
“Sure.” He stayed out of her way while she bustled around the small kitchen,
stowing her newly purchased groceries. “But I still can’t believe you opted for
manual labor over my buying you lunch at the diner.”
“Well, there was the ice cream to consider,” she reminded him lamely.
The bigger consideration was the half-dozen people who would have greeted her at
the diner, where she was a regular. Just the thought of being exposed as a fraud
left her wanting her inhaler. Dylan would be gone again soon. Couldn’t she have
this small, stolen period of time with him and retain her dignity?
Then say something, she scolded herself, and stop just standing here with a
guilty expression. She cleared her throat. “Besides, my dinner plans are for the
diner.”
“Ah. Hot date?”
If it weren’t for the faint brackets of tension around his mouth, she would have
assumed he was poking fun at her, but she reconsidered from his perspective. If
Dylan Echols had deemed her attractive and interesting enough to have dinner
with last night, why wouldn’t she be good enough for some other guy to take to
dinner? It was an unfamiliar yet pleasant way to think of herself.
“Just dinner with a friend. Nothing romantic.”
His shoulders relaxed almost imperceptibly. “As embarrassing as this is to
admit, I think I would have been jealous.”
It ranked among the most flattering things a man had ever said to her—right up
there with technophobe Zachariah Waide telling her that the Web site she’d
created for his supply store was a user-friendly work of art. “Th-thank you.”
Dylan’s eyes held hers. “You’re welcome.”
The moment took on an intimacy that heightened both her attraction to him and
her discomfort. She turned away to preheat the ancient oven, then got out a
baking sheet. When the metal hit the counter, she realized for the first time
how quiet her house was. It never bothered her when she was alone, but somehow
it seemed even more quiet with him here.
As she threw away the cardboard box and plastic wrapping, he asked, “How’d you
get into feng shui?”
“You could say I followed an impulse.”
“I’ve heard of it in passing, but never met anyone who uses it. I’d love to hear
some specifics.”
Gulp. She’d only mentioned feng shui because, at the time, it had been the
single decorating term she could even think of. In retrospect, she should have
told him her specialty was commercial interiors. Since there was no way he had
the authority to hire her to redecorate a television station, that would have
been a tidy way to end the discussion. I have to get better at thinking on my
feet.
Except what she really meant was that she should get better at lying, a thought
that made her queasy. Her parents would be horribly disappointed in her.
“Well, as you probably know, feng shui is an ancient Asian art. Or maybe more
like a tradition. A philosophy. Having to do with the placement of items in the
home and the different ways said placement can affect the home owner.”
“Such as?” He took a seat, watching her with fascination.
Chloe wanted to groan. After hearing Nat and other girlfriends complain about
dating guys who talked only about themselves, why did she have to find such a
good listener? Stalling, she opened the refrigerator with vague intentions of
pulling together a salad to accompany the pizza. Until she remembered that she’d
not bought any produce because she’d been dodging Dylan. And here he sits in
your kitchen. Excellent job with the avoidance, girl genius.
She straightened. “Are you sure you’re really interested in hearing this? It’s
pretty metaphysical. Probably not your cup of tea.”
“Why, because I’m just a jock?”
Oddly, in that moment, he reminded her of Candy Beemis, the way the other woman
would say something under the pretext of “just kidding” when, in reality, she
was speaking her mind. The difference was that Dylan wasn’t targeting someone
else with the disparaging humor, but himself. Though his tone was light enough
to be considered jesting, there was a vulnerability in his green eyes that
sliced straight through Chloe. An insecurity, even.
Had someone made him feel like “just a jock”? He had to know there was more to
his personality than that…although maybe he was more sensitive to the issue now
that baseball had been ripped out of his life. A knot formed in her chest. On
top of her other crimes this weekend, she’d inadvertently belittled him just
because she was trying to cover her own butt. After all the times she’d felt
inadequate in her life, she couldn’t stand to do the same to someone else, even
accidentally.
“I’ll come to your apartment,” she blurted.
Both his eyebrows shot up. “You’re kidding.”
Well, he couldn’t be any more surprised by the spontaneous offer than she was.
“You caught me unawares today—I don’t usually give presentations to former
crushes while standing in my kitchen in bright purple T-shirts of dubious
taste—but I’ll get my materials together and do a formal consultation for you
later in the week.” After she’d had time to learn something about feng shui but
before she lost her nerve. Unless…“I’m afraid it will have to be soon. Starting
next month, my schedule just takes off. But if you don’t have the time right
now, I under—”
“Not a problem.”
“Oh. Great,” she lied. This is getting to be a bad habit.
She wanted to smack her forehead and just admit all; it seemed simpler than
continuing this far-fetched charade. But she looked into those green eyes and
forgot what she was going to say. As Natalie had grumbled during their teen
years, Chloe avoided conflict whenever possible, even if it meant letting
someone like Candy occasionally run over her. While Chloe hoped she’d matured
past some of that, the thought of the conflict, the contempt, she’d cause if she
told Dylan the sordid truth made her stomach clench.
Grateful to break eye contact, she put the pizza in the oven and set the timer.
As soon as she sat at the table with him, he asked, “So, you have a home
office?”
“Down the hall. But it’s way too messy for anyone to see,” she prevaricated.
Chloe was compulsively neat, a holdover from her mother believing that if they
could just keep the home dust-free Chloe wouldn’t have asthma attacks. Rose had
kept the house meticulous and raised Chloe to do the same.
“Fair enough. But do you have a portfolio of your work here that you show
perspective clients?”
“Actually, no. That’s a good idea, though.”
“Surely you have a Web site.”
“It’s, um, down temporarily. Being transitioned to a new server.” She bounced
out of her chair like a demented jack-in-the-box. “I’m being a terrible hostess.
Can I get you a drink?”
“Whatever you’re having.”
Her hands trembled as she pulled a jug from the fridge. Dylan sat looking so
relaxed in comparison that she wanted to scream just to relieve some of her
tension.
He smiled. “For the record, I like the bright purple shirt. Have you actually
been lei’d?”
Lemonade sloshed over the top of the pitcher. “Excuse me?”
He flashed that same wolfish smile from this morning. “What I mean is, have you
been to Hawaii? You mentioned wanting to travel. I wondered if the shirt was a
personal souvenir or a gift from someone else or…”
“Ah.” Barely paying attention to what she was doing, she tore too many paper
towels off the roll to clean up her spill. “Gift. From my late aunt Jane. She
was really something…visited at least four continents. She sent me all kinds of
crazy things. She died on her most recent trip. In her sleep, in the Caribbean.
There are definitely worse ways to go, so I should be glad.”
Dylan studied her, the playfulness gone from his tone. “You miss her.”
“A lot. Even though she wasn’t in Mistletoe much, she was still a major presence
in my life.” She blinked hard against the tears she hadn’t expected. “We just
buried her last week. To tell you the truth, I haven’t been myself ever since.
I…”
“Yes?” There was empathy in his voice. Because of how much he missed his father?
Chloe leaned against the counter, staring into the eyes of a man she hadn’t seen
in ten years, a man who hadn’t even known she existed ten years ago. Yet she
felt she could tell him anything. Would he understand how she’d so desperately
wanted to become the person Aunt Jane saw in her? Chloe knew that her aunt had
loved her, had been proud of her, but she was also aware that Jane had hoped for
more for her niece. Recently Chloe found herself yearning for an undefined
more…but not enough to change a carefully organized and mostly satisfactory
existence to reach for it. At least, not until last night.
That had been a big enough shake to register on the Richter scale. She probably
should have hurried for the nearest doorway as soon as she’d seen Dylan in the
lobby.
“C.J.?” His tone was heartbreakingly gentle. “Was there something you wanted to
say?”
But she didn’t think she’d be able to get the words past the lump of emotion. It
was all tangled together, and the minute she tried to explain any of it, she’d
start sobbing. Her eyes were already stinging. She had plenty to regret about
her behavior this weekend, and she wasn’t going to add to the list by bursting
into tears in front of Dylan.
So she swallowed, reaching for the timer before it had a chance to buzz. “I
think the pizza’s ready.”
“Right.” He looked away, and the startling connection between them was broken.
Chloe didn’t know whether to be disappointed or relieved.
CHICKEN-FRIED STEAK wasn’t nearly as good when it was cold, Chloe discovered.
The gravy had congealed unappetizingly while she filled Natalie in on the
details of the past twenty-four hours. Natalie, sitting on the living room floor
on the opposite side of the rectangular coffee table, had finished her dinner,
almost choking on laughter and mashed potatoes when Chloe repeated her supposed
specialty.
“Feng shui?” Natalie had sputtered. “What on earth possessed you to say that?”
“It’s not like I have an extensive mental encyclopedia of decorating terms to
choose from! Heck, I’m lucky I was able to come up with that on the spot. It was
just…everyone in this town sees me as a computer geek, which I am, but it was
nice for Dylan to see me as—” A total fake? Yeah, much better.
Chloe pushed away her take-out container of untouched food and considered her
rash promise. “I can’t believe I agreed to go to his apartment.” He’d just
looked so irresistibly vulnerable. She would have agreed to virtually anything
in the moment.
“What I cannot believe is that you’ve scored more alone time with Dylan Echols.”
Natalie wagged her brows. “Lucky girl.”
“Alone time is how I got into this mess in the first place.” Chloe sighed,
resting her head against the couch behind her. “Maybe it’s not too late to…Think
I could convince him that every graduating class has a senior prank and this was
it, ten years later?”
“We did have a senior prank. Back in ’99. A few guys from the swim team and a
few from the chess club took apart the lavatory stalls and reassembled them on
the front lawn.”
Only partly listening, Chloe tried to regroup. It was devastating to imagine
telling Dylan she was a big fat fake. How could she admit that after the way
she’d once idolized him, after the immensely flattering way he looked at her?
The way he—her skin flushed with warmth—kissed her. She’d officially gotten
herself in too deep to undo all the fibs, including the comparatively innocuous
one that she had dinner plans with her parents tomorrow. Before he’d left today,
Dylan had invited her to be his last-minute date to the dinner honoring the
coach.
Stupid irony. The guy of her dreams was seeking her out at seemingly every
opportunity, and she had to turn him down because of her own self-sabotage.
Her intellect argued that he was seeking her out for local weekend events
because he happened to be here in Mistletoe and she was convenient. Even then,
he probably would have rapidly lost interest if she’d said, “Don’t you remember?
I’m Chloe, the mousy tongue-tied girl you ignored throughout high school. I
stayed in Mistletoe, live in my parents’ house and work with computers.” Where
was the glamour and sex appeal in that? Most people were not turned on by HTML
code.
“I think I want to be someone else,” Chloe said.
“Okay, but Candy?” Natalie pulled a face.
“No, not her. Someone with her confidence maybe, but not her cruel streak.
Someone who knows how to talk to men. Someone who, when she notices a guy
staring, assumes it’s for a good reason and not because she tucked her dress
into her panty hose. Maybe I shouldn’t have stayed in Mistletoe.” Chloe was an
arguably successful adult; would she have fared better if she’d started fresh
someplace, where no one knew her as the wheezy kid or uncoordinated teen?
“Hey!” Natalie looked genuinely alarmed. “I, for one, am thrilled that you
stayed in Mistletoe. Don’t move!”
“I won’t. I was just thinking out loud.” Her parents would be crushed if she
abandoned them. She knew she couldn’t do that.
Natalie shook her head. “I can’t believe one stupid reunion has you
second-guessing your entire life. It was just a dance, Chloe.”
“It isn’t only the reunion—it’s me. Even before Aunt Jane died, I…Knowing you
want to make changes doesn’t mean you know where to start. It’s scary. And it’s
difficult to re-create who you are in a place where everyone’s known you since
preschool. I think, subconsciously, that’s why I told Dylan that my name is C.J.
and I’m an interior designer. He doesn’t know me. It was my big chance.”
Natalie looked thoughtful, refraining from judgment. “Well, C.J., what are you
going to do now?”
“Exactly what I told him I would. Go to his place on Wednesday.” She took a deep
breath, reminding herself that she’d always been a quick study. With facts and
books, anyway, if not people. “I can do this.”
“Do what?” Natalie’s blue eyes widened. “Decorate his place?”
“No, it won’t come to that. I’ll quote him a ridiculous price or suggest we do
everything in orange and pink feathers or something. He won’t hire me. All I
need is enough information to bluff my way through a conversation at his
apartment. I’ll look up some decorating terminology online, maybe get one of
those ubiquitous and insultingly titled books. You know the type. Feng Shui for
Fools, Danish Modern for Dumbasses.”
Natalie snorted. “Now there’s the Chloe I love. You have a delightfully dry wit
when you’re not censoring yourself. I get antsy on bad dates, eager to recap
them for you because I know your observations will be more entertaining than the
date itself. You can be wicked when you want to.”
“Thank you. I think. Jane was like that, unafraid to speak her mind even if it
shocked people around her. And it always shocked Mama. Funny, you’d think she
would have gotten used to it after all those years.”
“Chloe.” Natalie hesitated, which was so unlike her that it made Chloe sit up
and pay closer attention.
“What is it?”
“Don’t take this the wrong way, but your parents? They could be really
protective. I know you were sick a lot when you were a kid, but that was a long
time ago. Don’t let their good intentions smother you. You don’t have to be
perfect for them.”
“Last night, I went up to a hotel room with a guy I barely know and I’m losing
count of the lies I’ve told him. I don’t think we need to worry about me being
perfect.”
“I just meant—”
“I know what you meant.” Chloe just wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Her
parents had tried to do right by her, and she loved them a lot. But she had to
admit, there had been times she’d chafed under their sheltering strictures.
Natalie stood. “Come on, then.”
“Ice cream time?”
“No, let’s hit the Web and see what we can find out about feng shui.”
“I hate that you’re helping,” Chloe said. “I feel like I’ve made you an
accessory, like I’m taking you down with me.”
Natalie waved a hand. “Are you kidding? This is exciting stuff. Besides, you
know I’d help with anything in my power. I owe you. You’re the only reason a
bubble brain like me passed math.”
“You’re not bubble brained!” Chloe protested vehemently.
“Math sure made me feel like I was. Until I met you.”
“You just had some bad teachers.” Though Chloe herself had never had trouble in
school, she knew that some instructors weren’t flexible enough to account for
different learning styles. “Look at you now! Taking care of the books for a
profitable retail operation. You rock.”
“Back atcha,” Natalie said with a smile. “I was serious about helping you. If
you want to make changes, I’m happy to lend advice. Or shoes. Or alibis.”
Chloe laughed. The fact that the person who knew her best thought she might need
an alibi showed that, for better or worse, Chloe was changing already. Here goes
nothing.
Chapter Seven
“You’re such a good son,” Barb Echols said from the hallway.
No, he wasn’t. Finished in the closet, Dylan descended the ladder, thinking that
his afternoon sounded like the beginning of a joke. How many ex-baseball players
does it take to screw in a lightbulb?
Just one, but it took him months to get around to the job. They both knew he’d
done the bare familial minimum for years—mailing tickets to games and the
occasional Mother’s Day card—but it was just like Barb to content herself on
scraps of affection. He’d watched her settle throughout her marriage; an ugly
thought chilled him. Was he no better than his father?
“Hey, Mom?” Dylan folded the collapsible ladder and shoved it to the back of the
closet, wishing it were as easy to push aside his burgeoning self-disgust.
“Would you like to go with me to dinner tomorrow night?”
She blinked the green eyes that he’d inherited. “But you have that important
banquet at the KC Hall.”
“I know. I’m asking you to come with me as my date.”
“Me?” She looked shocked by the small gesture.
Why shouldn’t she be? He hadn’t even come home for the holidays, citing his busy
new work schedule covering college football games. He hadn’t known then that it
would be his father’s last Christmas. Would I have done anything differently? He
wasn’t honestly sure, but his relationship with the man was now a moot point.
His mom was a different story.
“Come with me,” he reiterated. “Unless you have other plans already? A lady
scolded me just earlier today that it’s bad manners to ask at the last minute.”
Chloe had tried to sound mock-indignant at his eleventh-hour invitation, but he
could tell she’d been anxious about the idea of going somewhere in public with
him. Still, she’d exhibited plenty of nerve when, instead of wisely backing
down, she’d brazenly agreed to come to his condo for a decorating consultation!
As if he wouldn’t be able to tell she was a fake. What kind of moron did she
think he was, to be duped by spluttered nonsense like “a philosophy of the
placement of stuff”?
Please. A layman could pick up better specifics than that during a thirty-second
HGTV commercial. Chloe was playing him for a fool, but she couldn’t keep it up
forever.
“Earlier today?” Barb echoed, pursing her lips. “I’m not the first person you’ve
invited to this dinner, am I?”
Oh, hell. Sensitivity was not his strong suit. “Sorry, Mom, I—”
“Are you kidding?” She beamed. “I’d love you to start dating a nice Mistletoe
girl!”
She’s not that nice. Despite himself, he recalled the self-deprecating way she’d
admitted to her high school crush on him—had that part been true?—and the pain
in her voice when she spoke of the aunt she’d obviously adored. Plus, she’d
blushed last night in his hotel room, hardly seeming a jaded woman of wiles. She
had her parents’ picture displayed on her fridge as proudly as his mother had
once hung his kindergarten drawings and, later, his baseball cards. Chloe had
even asked how his mother was faring after his dad’s death, showing more
compassion than Dylan himself, who avoided thinking about home.
The truth was, he didn’t know what to make of the woman.
He considered asking his mother if she knew anything about her, but Barb already
looked entirely too delighted by the prospect of his seeing a local girl,
probably imagining his being around more and chubby-cheeked grandchildren. He
didn’t want to get her hopes up, especially since his association with Chloe
Malcolm was going to be short-lived and would no doubt end badly once he exposed
her as the shameless fraud she was.
AS SOON AS Dylan escorted his mom into the hall, his eyes went to Todd Burton,
standing amid a throng of well-wishers. Whether the older man was actually
stooped with age or Dylan was taller now than he’d been as a high school
freshman, Coach B. seemed smaller than he once had, but he was still just as
imposing, just as solid. He’d already been losing his red hair when Dylan had
played for him; now, only a circle of faded orange and silver remained around
his mostly bald head. Dylan was startled to see that the man had gotten rid of
the matching mustache. He’d never seen Coach Burton clean shaven before.
The last time the two of them had seen each other was when Dylan had been in the
hospital after the first shoulder surgery. Coach had come to visit him. Michael
Echols had not.
When Dylan’s father had died right after the new year, Coach Burton had been
visiting his daughter in Colorado before the school’s spring semester started.
He’d ordered an arrangement of flowers for the funeral and later visited Barb to
tell her he was here if she needed anything. Dylan wondered if his mother had
ever taken the man up on his offer. Barb could be borderline passive-aggressive,
depending completely on others while constantly fretting that she didn’t “want
to be a bother.” She’d adopted an apologetic attitude with her own husband,
instead of grabbing him by the collar, reminding him that she was half of the
marriage, too, and demanding his respect.
In spite of himself, Dylan grinned at the mental image. He would have paid damn
good money to see tiny Barb, five foot nothing in her stocking feet, give
Michael Echols a piece of her mind. Since leaving home, Dylan had avoided timid
women as if they were a curse, gravitating instead toward females who did
whatever they wanted. Of course, that practice had netted him women like Heidi.
There must be a middle ground he was missing.
“Echols!” The coach had looked up from the people talking to him and spotted his
one-time protégé. With a quick nod of dismissal to the people surrounding him,
he covered ground in the exact manner Dylan remembered. How many times had he
seen that purposeful stride as Coach headed out to the pitcher’s mound to confer
during practice or a game?
Nostalgia bubbled up, forming a lump of emotion in Dylan’s chest. Being a guy,
he hadn’t cried when he lost his major league career—although, dear God, he’d
wanted to at times, wondering if it would help him purge any of the frustration,
fury and loss—and he hadn’t shed a tear over his father’s grave. Barb had sobbed
enough for both of them, and Dylan had played the part of the stoic son, holding
her and thanking everyone who’d come to pay their respects, knowing that many of
them were there out of obligation to his mother not affection for Michael. Now,
Dylan’s vision blurred for just an instant, his eyes stinging.
Then he blinked, and the world righted itself again. “Coach.” He clapped the
man’s shoulder, leaning into it and making it a half hug. “It’s good to see
you.”
“You, too.” Coach Burton squeezed him hard, strong as an ox despite his
advancing years. Speaking low enough that only Dylan could hear him, he added,
“I’m sorry I couldn’t get back in time to be here for you in January, son.”
Dylan swallowed and nodded.
Coach Burton moved back, turning to Barb. “Mrs. Echols, you’re looking as lovely
as ever. I’m glad you made him bring you. It’s good to see you again.”
“I was glad he asked! You’ve been such a special person to our whole family.” A
cloud passed over her face. “I’m just sorry Michael couldn’t be here for this.”
Taking the diplomatic path, Coach patted her arm and said nothing. During his
summers off, he’d attended some of Dylan’s pro games. They’d gone out for beer
afterward once, and Coach Burton had let slip the opinion that any man who
routinely made himself feel more important by belittling his kid should be
horsewhipped. As Dylan approached thirty, he found himself wondering if he’d
ever settle down and if, assuming he ever became a parent himself someday, he’d
be a decent dad. After all, his own father hadn’t provided a shining role model.
But I had Coach. That was more than some kids ever got.
Other guys were coming through the doorway now, including Nick and Shane, who
was accompanied by a very pretty girl with golden hair. Both men hailed Dylan
with loud greetings.
His mother smiled. “You’ll be wanting to catch up with old friends. I should get
out of your way.”
Coach Burton extended his arm gallantly. “You two will sit with me. Can I show
you to the head table? Maybe get you a drink?”
Looking ten years younger, Barb nodded.
Shane strolled up, introducing his date. “Dylan, this is Arianne Waide. Ari,
Dylan Echols.”
She grinned, her eyes twinkling at Dylan. “You went to school with my older
brothers. I watched you pitch some great games.”
“Waide?” Dylan flashed back to the pregnant photographer yesterday. “Any
relation to Rachel?”
The blonde nodded. “She’s one of my sisters-in-law. Lilah Waide is the other.”
Right, now he remembered the name of Lilah Baum’s steady boyfriend throughout
high school. Tanner Waide. He’d been a fairly decent football player, but had
been far more passionate about Lilah than sports.
“Nice to meet you, Arianne.” Smirking at Shane, Dylan leaned closer to her. “You
do realize you’re too good for this guy here, right?”
She laughed. Shane, less amused, socked Dylan in the shoulder—not the one that
had been injured, thank heavens.
“Shane and I are just good buddies,” Arianne said. “Honestly, I think he asks me
out because he hopes I can get him a discount on fishing equipment at the family
store.”
“That’s not why I ask you out,” Shane insisted. “Although now that you mention
it…”
Heckling each other, the two of them moved farther into the room, leaving Nick
and Dylan behind.
“I didn’t want to ask for details in front of Ari,” Nick began, “but did you
track down your mysterious lady in red the other night?”
“As a matter of fact.” Maybe Nick knew more about her. “Chloe Malcolm. Is she—”
“Klutzy Chloe?” Behind them, a man guffawed. “Don’t tell me she’s here tonight.
Better keep her away from the punch table.”
Next to Dylan, Nick had stiffened. His unsmiling expression fell several degrees
cooler than civil. “Petey.”
Dylan turned to find Peter “Petey” Grubner holding a drink and sporting the same
severe crew cut he’d favored ten years ago, atop a much rounder face. Their
former teammate had gained about thirty pounds. What Dylan remembered about the
guy was that Petey had often tried too hard to fit in, laughing loudly at his
own jokes or picking fights with other teams to prove his “boys” had his back.
To give him credit, though, he’d had a decent batting average. One of the best
in the county, but he’d lacked the discipline to do anything with his God-given
talent.
“Hello, Pete.” Even though he’d heard far stranger nicknames in professional
sports, Dylan would feel asinine calling another grown man Petey.
“Dylan Echols.” The man bared his teeth in a smile. “We’re honored that you took
time from your high-powered big-city career to hang out with us yokels.”
“No chance I’d miss Coach’s send-off,” Dylan said easily, refusing to be
disturbed by someone else’s bitterness. Not when I already have plenty of my
own.
“Shocked no one asked him to retire years ago.” Grubner sipped whatever was in
his red plastic cup. “I mean, I like the guy as much as the rest of you, but
he’s been at Mistletoe High ever since it was a one-room schoolhouse for the
pioneers’ kids. It’ll do everyone good to get new blood.”
Go away, Grubner. “Who’ve they got to replace him?” Dylan asked Nick.
“They don’t. They’re still interviewing. The assistant coach, Asbury, will fill
in for the interim, but he’s not too far off from retirement himself. They can
make him head coach, but then they’ll be going through the same process in a
couple of years.”
Grubner rocked back on his heels, puffing up his chest. “You know, I thought
about going into coaching instead of taking over the car dealership, but it’s a
good thing I followed in the family footsteps. Coaching just wouldn’t be fair to
Petey Jr. Wife’s home with him tonight ’cause he’s got some stomach bug, but
he’s a strapping boy. Quite the baseball future ahead of him. Why spend all my
time and energy on a team that changes every year when I can devote every spare
minute to shaping Junior’s career?”
Petey Jr. had Dylan’s sympathies. “Well, it’s been nice catching up, but—”
“When I walked over, you were talking about Chloe Malcolm.” Grubner was studying
the room with predatory interest. “Where is she?”
“Not here,” Dylan said, unintentionally biting off the words. “I ran into her
briefly at the reunion.”
Again with the braying guffaw—one of Petey’s many donkeylike qualities. “She
actually showed up? I’m surprised she left her computer long enough to venture
out in public. That little gal’s scared of her own shadow. Most exciting thing
she ever did was douse Candy Beemis in punch at a high school dance.” He leered.
“Even back then, Candy was an excellent candidate for a wet T-shirt contest.”
“She dumped punch on Candy?” Had Dylan stumbled into some bizarre, grudge-match
rivalry?
“Not on purpose. Why d’you think we call her Klutzy Chloe? I remember this one
time she—”
“Dude.” Nick interrupted, rolling his eyes so hard his sockets probably had
whiplash. “That was over a decade ago. Grow the hell up.”
When Nick stalked off, Dylan and Petey were left staring at each other in
surprise. Dylan recovered first, muttering a quick, “I should be going, too.”
He caught up with his friend waiting in line at the open bar. “No one could
accuse you of mellowing with age.” But his tone was openly admiring. Grubner had
been working his nerves, too.
Nick looked sheepish. “That guy makes me insane. I didn’t like him when we were
in school, but he was part of the team. Then he and his wife lived next door to
me for a while with these three yappy little dogs. He was the type who
complained about everything—say, if a leaf from one of my trees blew into his
yard. They moved across town to a bigger place once Petey Jr. outgrew his
nursery, and I nearly threw a block party to celebrate.”
“How old is the poor kid?”
“Around seven. With all the pressure his dad puts on him, he’s probably going to
hate sports before he even gets into junior high.” Nick asked for two beers,
then admitted as they moved away from the bar, “I didn’t like how that blowhard
was ragging on Chloe.”
“So you know Chloe?”
“Not well. You remember my grades slipping junior year? Plummeting, really.
That’s when Mom started seriously dating again, and I had a tough time dealing
with it. You know how strict Coach has always been about no pass, no play. My
chem teacher asked Chloe to help me. Nice girl. Maybe a little…awkward, but
decent. I see her around town sometimes. She grew up to be a looker, but I’m not
sure she knows it.”
So far, Dylan had seen her in a low-cut red dress and a flamboyant purple shirt
with a suggestive slogan. It wasn’t a wardrobe that screamed “shy.” Although she
definitely had her bashful moments. Hell, maybe she was a split personality.
Chloe and C.J. Would that make sleeping with her a threesome?
Grimacing at his inappropriately wayward thoughts, Dylan pushed her out of his
mind and focused on socializing with other ball players, some from his time at
Mistletoe High and others who had come before or since but shared a mutual
respect for Coach Burton.
“I brought my mom with me,” he told Nick, “and I’ve ignored her too long. Why
don’t you come say hi. She’d like that.”
“Sure.” Having vented on Grubner, Nick was back to his affable self.
Barb was seated between the coach, who’d lost his wife decades ago to breast
cancer and later declared himself married to his job, and the Asburys. She
looked like she was having the time of her life, so enthusiastic that it made
Dylan wonder if she got out of the house enough. Having lived in Mistletoe since
birth, she must have enough friends and neighbors to keep her social calendar
filled.
Before long, the waitstaff announced that dinner would be served. People who had
been mingling in clumps throughout the hall gradually found their way to their
seats.
Over the salad course, Coach Burton asked Dylan, “You nervous about giving the
speech?”
God, yes. “No. I plan to regale them with stories about how your answer to
everything was ‘walk it off.’” Dylan smiled at Assistant Coach Asbury. “Whereas
you always told us to ‘ice it.’”
Coach Burton chortled. “He’s got you there, Steve.” Lowering his voice, he
imitated his assistant’s gravelly tone. “‘Go get some ice on that.’ ‘See the
trainer for some ice.’”
At sixteen, Dylan had been led to believe there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be
solved with enough ice or some pacing.
Steve Asbury harrumphed, but his gray eyes twinkled with humor as he shook his
head at his longtime boss. “You know we’re not going to miss you, old man.”
“Liar,” Coach Burton said confidently. “And good luck replacing me. You ever
think about it, Dylan? Coaching?”
Dylan coughed, stunned by the question. As far back as first grade, he’d
desperately wanted to get out of school; he couldn’t imagine voluntarily
returning to one.
“No, sir. Can’t say that I have.” Could he stand it, watching young kids with
the same dreams he’d once harbored, doing what he was no longer able to? He
shuddered.
The coach eyed him. “The biggest requirements are patience and a love of
baseball. I used to ask a lot of you guys in ninety-degree practices and during
games. This is the last thing I’ll ask of you—think about it? For me.”
Reluctantly Dylan nodded, trying to ignore the way Barb was practically
vibrating with excitement in her seat. He’d resolved to come visit her more, but
that did not mean he wanted to move back to Mistletoe. He’d promised Coach to at
least consider it, though, so he would. Fleetingly.
His temples throbbed with the onset of a headache. So far on his weekend away
from work, he’d become preoccupied with a woman who viewed the truth as nothing
more than a loose guideline, he’d been swamped with guilt over what a bad son he
was and now he found himself faced with unexpected career questions. Maybe next
vacation, he’d try scaling Everest. It might be more relaxing.
Chapter Eight
Dressed in clothes Natalie had helped her pick out and armed with several books’
worth of theory and tips on feng shui, Chloe felt totally prepared. Until Dylan
opened the door. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a pair of dark jeans, a
timeless look that she was sure had never worked quite this well on any other
man. Ever.
“Hi.” He spoke before she found her voice. “You’re earlier than I expected. I
guess traffic was light today.”
It had been easier than she’d anticipated to find her way to his neighborhood.
She’d even had a few minutes to grab something to drink at a trendy coffee shop
around the corner and study some final crib notes. Learning new things—and
learning them well—had always been something she enjoyed, and a certain part of
her was eager to apply her newly acquired knowledge.
Dylan backed up to let her in, his warm gaze falling across her body like a
sunbeam. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.” The bright pink, sleeveless V-neck blouse was Natalie’s, worn
underneath a beige lightweight blazer of Chloe’s. According to Nat, the matching
beige skirt was saved from being boring by a pair of cute sandals and Chloe’s
“great legs.”
“So this is ‘professional C.J.,’” he said, an odd note in his voice. “You are a
woman with many sides.”
She smiled weakly and followed him into the living room. The couch sat with its
back to the entryway, and his decorating choices were full of sharp edges.
“Bad chi,” she mumbled.
“Pardon?” Dylan was studying her intently. Very intently. As if looking for
something specific.
Or maybe, since she had something to hide, she was paranoid. She set her purse
on a shiny black table and passed by Dylan to sit on the far end of the couch.
“I should tell you, I’m…not the best decorator out there.”
“I hope that isn’t what you have printed on your business cards.” He cocked his
hip against the arm of the sofa, facing her but not exactly sitting with her.
“I just meant that lots of people probably work in this area and have more
expertise. I’ll tell you what I know, but you have to decide for yourself what
speaks to you. It’s your space,” she said, wanting to absolve herself of as much
responsibility as possible. “You ever see some of those redecorating shows on
cable? Professionals charge a lot of money to do things to people’s homes that
occasionally make me cringe.” She’d watched a few such shows this week and,
while she’d thought jokingly of scaring Dylan off with feathers, one designer
actually did incorporate feather trims and animal prints. Heavily.
“Decorating isn’t like math,” she continued. “There’s no set equation or one
right answer. Even in feng shui, there are differences of opinion between
traditionalists and modern practitioners. So don’t take anything I tell you too
seriously. It’s just my opinion.”
“But people pay you for that opinion.”
She wouldn’t let it get that far. “This is just a preliminary consultation,” she
reminded him. “You may well decide not to hire me. My feelings won’t be hurt if
you go a different direction. At all.”
He arched a brow. “Well, I appreciate your being so honest and up-front about
it.”
She managed not to flinch at his word choice. Now that she’d given her
disclaimer, she wanted to share with him what she’d discovered. “Feng shui
creates the most harmonious living space possible, with emphasis on the chi, or
energy.”
Since Dylan Echols was a “man’s man” from a small Georgia town where coffee came
in only one standard size and flavor—none of this four-dollar “venti”
madness—she’d half expected him to be put off by discussion of crystals, natural
life force and the spiritual importance of wind chimes and mirrors. In fact, she
was counting on it. Once they’d established that this was not his cup of green
tea, they could casually part ways, her dignity and his both intact.
But he listened avidly as she gave a brief overview of feng shui’s history and
how it went beyond color schemes and new throw pillows, even encompassing the
property on which the home was built.
She caught herself rambling and took a deep breath. “I figured you’d be looking
at me like I was crazy by now.”
“Is that the reaction you usually get from people?”
“I never know what reaction to expect.” Especially since she’d never discussed
this with anyone until now. “A lot of this comes across as pretty New Agey.”
Apparently she’d misjudged his open-mindedness, which made her feel better about
him and worse about herself. After all, she knew what it was like to be branded
by a stereotype, how it could be superficially accurate without telling the
whole story.
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