Tanya Michaels - [4 Seasons 02] - Mistletoe Cinderella p.03

AFTER DYLAN’S wholehearted appreciation last time, Chloe had briefly considered
bringing another key lime pie with her to dinner at his place. Instead, she’d
opted to make the drive to Atlanta with a bottle of white wine. She was going to
need a little liquid courage for after they’d eaten, and there was the hope that
wine would mellow Dylan before she dropped her bombshell.
While he sautéed the shrimp, she found a corkscrew. Chardonnay helped get me
into this mess, chardonnay can help get me out.
“Can I pour you a glass of this?” she asked.
“Yes, thanks, but just one. I still have to do my broadcast later.” He sounded
endearingly disgruntled. “Trust me, I would much rather be here with you than
delivering the sports news alongside Grady Medlock.”
She clucked her tongue sympathetically. “He’s still being a jerk?”
“At this point, jerk would be a step up. He disliked me from the word go, but
the hostility’s gotten more personal.”
“How so?” She settled on a stool, observing him cook for the sheer joy of
watching his body move. Poetry in motion had always sounded like a cheesy cliché
no one but professional ballroom dancers could ever live up to, but Dylan made
her rethink her cynicism.
He took his wine, casting her a sheepish glance. “You asked earlier about my
being single? I wasn’t until recently, right before the reunion as a matter of
fact. I was dating a woman named Heidi. She expressed keen interest in helping
me maintain friendships with my former teammates, saying that it wasn’t healthy
to shut myself off from people close to me in a dark time.”
Advice that might arguably have some merit to it, but Chloe sensed from his tone
that Heidi had not turned out to be entirely altruistic.
“On about three-quarters of our outings, she made sure we met buddies at a club
or we double-dated with another Braves player. Then when she found the one she
wanted, she broke up with me with a Dear John e-mail telling me to have a nice
life.”
“That’s awful!” Chloe was outraged on his behalf. “The social-climbing witch.”
“No argument here. Don’t worry, I didn’t languish around the condo heartbroken.
Mostly I felt dumb for having been so blind. She was clearly manipulative in
retrospect, and I must have been brain-dead to get close to her in the first
place.”
And how is he going to describe me “in retrospect”?
When she blanched, he added, “We weren’t that close, really. I’m making this
sound more important than it was. The reason it has anything to do with Grady is
because he has a thing for our makeup artist, who’s made it clear she wouldn’t
mind my asking her out—”
“A woman with taste,” Chloe decreed.
“But she didn’t make an issue out of it before because she knew I was seeing
Heidi.”
“So now that you’re a free agent, she’s doing nothing to conceal her feelings,
which is getting you even more enmity from Grady?”
“In a nutshell. That must be one of the benefits of being self-employed. No
annoying co-workers. No office politics.” He reached for the soy sauce and
sprinkled a liberal amount over the shrimp and seasoned vegetables steaming in
the pan. “Did you know from the beginning you wanted to work by yourself? I’d
imagine it could get lonely, not having colleagues to chat with over break or
join for drinks at the end of a long week. You miss out on the time-honored
tradition of griping about your boss because you are your boss.”
“It’s not lonely.” Much. “After all, I have my clients and the people I’m trying
to win over as clients. To some extent, I get to control how much I interact
with others and choose the days when I want to be a hermit. I’m not very social
by nature.”
“Not what one would expect to hear from a former cheerleader,” he remarked,
stirring chopped mushrooms into the stir-fry.
The ginger-scented perfume of dinner cooking would have made her stomach gurgle
in happy anticipation if it weren’t already tied up in so many knots. She’d
planned to tell him tonight. Was it too blunt to respond with, “Yes, but I was
never a cheerleader because I’m not the person you’ve thought I was for the past
three weeks—more wine?”
Lord, the poor man would join a monastery. This bimbo Heidi had just done a job
on his trust, and now Chloe was going to follow it up with identity theft? At
the very least he’d require two forms of ID and a federal background check on
the next woman he invited to dinner.
“Ready to eat?” he asked her.
She smiled weakly.
Though she took the first bite just to be polite, the balance of peppers and
garlic—a kick without overwhelming the more delicate flavors—soon seduced her.
“When I was rattling off your attributes in the parking lot this morning, I
forgot to highlight the fact that you can cook.”
“Only about four complete meals,” he said modestly.
“Maybe, but when they’re this good, you can just keep cooking them over and over
and nobody would mind. At least with shrimp and veggies, I can enjoy them
without feeling I have to do a marathon on the treadmill. My mother cooks
old-school—everything has half a pound of butter or bacon grease added for
flavoring. She is perplexed by this wacky, newfangled thing we kids call
‘cholesterol.’ I mentioned to her that Nat’s mom was doing the South Beach Diet,
and Mama misinterpreted that to mean Mrs. Young was on vacation.”
He grinned at her anecdotes, but there was a serious note in his voice when he
asked, “Was it hard growing up with such a generation gap?”
As much as her parents loved her, it seemed ungrateful to complain.
“Plenty of kids had it more difficult than I did, but their age did factor into
things,” she admitted. “They didn’t think they’d have children, and Mama
encountered some difficulties with such a late-in-life pregnancy. They were
hyperprotective. Not just in a ‘your curfew is sundown’ kind of way, but
hovering. Maybe that’s why I’m a self-contained non-people person.”
“A lot of kids start to chafe under too many restrictions. Did you ever rebel?”
She wrinkled her nose. “I got highlights once.”
“Wild woman.”
“I didn’t really do the angry teen bit. I loved my parents, and they loved
me…almost to the point of neurosis. Right up until middle school I think Mama
was afraid that if she let me out of their sight I might have some horrible
asthma attack. I used to wonder what it would have been like if I’d had a
sibling and wasn’t living under the magnifying glass by myself. Being the only
recipient for their attention got a little intense sometimes.”
“I’m with you on that.” Dylan stabbed a shrimp with his fork but didn’t lift it
to his mouth. He glared at his plate, as if seeing something she couldn’t.
“You felt smothered, too?” She actually thought Barb had done a laudable job
making sure Dylan and Chloe had some time alone the other night. Of course, Barb
had also suggested pulling out baby pictures and sports mementos. Maybe I
shouldn’t have encouraged her.
But Dylan was shaking his head, making it clear she’d misdiagnosed the problem.
“My father was ashamed of me,” he stated calmly. “Being the only recipient for
his disapproval could definitely get intense.”
Her knee-jerk reaction was to insist that there was no way his father had been
ashamed of him—the man would have to have been crazy. Half the town of Mistletoe
was glowingly proud of Dylan. How could his own flesh and blood be so
unnaturally different? But beneath Dylan’s neutral expression was a gravity that
made it clear he believed his words and hadn’t arrived at the conclusion
lightly.
Her second reaction was to pronounce his father an idiot, but it seemed wrong to
speak ill of the dead.
“I’m dyslexic,” Dylan said by way of explanation.
“I didn’t know that!”
He smiled wryly. “Is there any reason you should have?”
“No, of course not.” It had been a silly response to his declaration, but it
seemed bizarre when she knew so many details about him—his favorite dessert, his
baseball stats, even what his bedspread looked like—not to know something that
had obviously been a defining factor in his life.
“School was a struggle for me,” he said.
She experienced a surge of guilt, recalling her own feelings of adolescent
inadequacy and her misplaced certainty that people like Dylan Echols had it
easy. If nothing else, tutoring Natalie and seeing her friend’s tears of
frustration over math should have disabused her of that notion.
“If you were struggling, it didn’t show. Other students, even teammates of
yours, had noticeable difficulties in some of their classes. Or with
girlfriends. Or with their parents divorcing or losing jobs or whatever. You
always seemed to have everything so together.”
His laugh was hollow. “Then I’m definitely not who you thought I was.”
She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Was now the time to tell him she
wasn’t who he thought, either? It seemed tactless to interrupt what he was
trying to share with her to make her own revelation. She was incredibly touched
that he would tell him about his dyslexia and his father, which were both
clearly difficult subjects for him.
“You think your dad was bothered by your dyslexia?”
Dylan pushed his plate away. “I think my father saw me as an extension of
himself. Mom said he was so proud for the first three years. He had his own boy,
a strapping lad! When I pitched a no-hitter, he lived vicariously. But any time
I got in trouble or flunked a spelling test or got sent to the principal’s
office in grade school because I was making jokes, I was an embarrassment to
him.”
“Then I feel sorry for him for the way he screwed up having a decent
relationship with you.” And now, with Michael Echols dead, it was too late. She
suddenly felt motivated to call her parents on the way home tonight, just to say
she loved them.
“As I get older and look back with more perspective, I try not to take it
personally. I don’t think he was kind in general,” Dylan said. “He ran roughshod
over Mom, but she mostly learned to let him have his way and keep the peace. I
wasn’t so diplomatic.”
Recalling his earlier question about her own youthful rebellions—of which there
were none—she hazarded a guess. “You sought out trouble?”
“Until seventh-grade baseball,” he affirmed. “I knew that if I got suspended, no
more playing. After middle school was high school and Coach Burton, who kept me
on the straight and narrow. He’s the one who told me the great Nolan Ryan was
dyslexic.”
Even if Dylan’s career had been cut short, it sounded as though baseball had
saved him. It gave her a new appreciation for organized sports.
“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” he said. “It sounds like a poor-me
sob story, doesn’t it?”
“No! And I’m honored that you’re confiding in me.” Everything he said made her
admire him even more.
“You just really impressed me with what you said over breakfast the last time I
saw you, about how teaching kids depends on finding the right way to get through
to them. That a student isn’t stupid simply because he doesn’t digest
information the same way other pupils do. I wish more people had expressed that
sentiment to me when I was younger.”
So did she. “People can be cruel in what they say, even if it’s not
intentional.”
He shrugged. “More than people insinuating I was dumb, what really bothered me
were the times I actually felt that way. Making bad judgment calls, stupid
mistakes. But I guess everyone has their share of those, right?”
Lord, yes.
She wrestled with the desire to tell him about her own lapse of judgment when
she’d let him believe she was someone else. But juxtaposed with her desperation
to own up was the dawning realization of how she might make him feel. Would he
blame himself for not seeing through her pitiful attempts at deception? He’d
called himself “brain-dead” for not seeing Heidi more clearly. Chloe had seen
the banked pain in his eyes when he talked about his father. She never wanted to
do anything that brought him that same pain.
She’d thought tonight was going to be her downfall, and she was partially right.
After a day of joking with him and sharing opinions at the decorating warehouse
and an intimate evening of dinner and conversation, she had fallen for him
completely. But she couldn’t tell him the truth. Chloe would rather finish this
“job” and walk away from him than do anything that made him doubt his own
intelligence and self-worth.
Chapter Thirteen
“It was such a nice surprise that you called last night and were able to join us
for Sunday brunch,” Rose Malcolm said, smiling at Chloe from the sink. “We
haven’t seen much of you in the past couple of weeks.”
Chloe carried the last of the plates to the counter and reached for a sponge so
that she could help her mother wash the dishes while her father read the Sunday
paper in the next room. The Malcolms’ new place included a dishwasher, but Rose
never used it since it didn’t get rid of every spot on the glasses and
silverware, failing to meet her exacting standards.
“I’m sorry I haven’t been around, Mama. I’ve been busy with work, but also some
other things.” She cleared her throat. “In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask you…is
it all right if I make some changes to the house? Nothing big! I’m not planning
to knock down any walls or anything. I just thought maybe I could do some
redecorating.” Ferreting out information and studying color groups for Dylan had
inspired her.
Rose tilted her head, looking confused. “Your father and I gave you that house
permanently, dear. You may do with it as you please. Fix it up, sell it,
anything you deem acceptable.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“If you want to pick out some new colors and textures, I’m sure you’ll do a
lovely job. June Albright had me over for tea yesterday and showed me that Web
site you did for her grandson. I don’t understand any of what you actually do,
but you have a good eye.”
Gratitude swelled within her, not just for her mother’s words of praise but for
having two loving, healthy parents. In all those moments when she’d longed to be
someone other than she was, she’d lost sight of just how many blessings Chloe
Ann Malcolm actually had.
“You know,” Rose added with a sidelong glance, “June has another grandson who’s
in his early thirties and is still single. Beau, I believe his name is. She said
she’d be happy to introduce you sometime.”
Chloe had discovered that this was the biggest drawback to her parents moving
into the community at the seniors’ complex—lots of retired people with time on
their hands who all wanted grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a
matchmaker’s colony. “I know who Beau is. Our paths haven’t crossed directly,
but he seems like a nice man.”
He just wasn’t Dylan Echols.
Rose beamed. “Does this mean I should tell June to set something up?”
“Oh, no. I’m flattered she thought of me, but…”
“Is this because you’re too ‘busy’? Or is it just because you’re shy? I know
meeting people hasn’t always been easy for you.”
“Actually, Mama, I have met someone. Just recently. We’re not dating, but I care
about him.”
Her mother’s expression lit up. “Well, don’t stop there! Tell me more about him,
dear.”
“He’s my age, successful, takes good care of his mother. We may never be more
than friends,” Chloe warned, “but it probably isn’t fair to go out with Beau
until I know more.”
“I see.” Rose dipped a plate in the soapy water. “And if a relationship does
develop, you will bring him over so that we can meet this young man, won’t you?”
“Absolutely.” Not that she could ever bring Dylan to meet her parents if she
were operating under an assumed name.
She thought of yesterday, how much fun they’d had shopping and pointing out why
they liked or disliked certain items, how he’d taken her breath away with his
candor over dinner.
With their relationship progressing, what choice did she have other than to tell
him the truth? They could never go any further if she didn’t. Three weeks ago,
she never would have believed she could have a relationship with Dylan Echols.
But now she knew they were far more compatible than she had ever imagined, knew
how special he was. She might even be falling in love with the proud, imperfect
man he’d become, not the boy she’d hardly known.
She began drying the plates and bowls that were already clean. “Mama? When you
married Daddy, how did you know for certain that you loved him?”
“Love?” Rose stopped what she was doing, glancing covertly at the doorway into
the den before looking back at Chloe. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, dear,
because I definitely love your father and vice versa, but we cultivated those
feelings over decades together. It was never in my personality to get married on
an impetuous romantic whim. That was Jane’s style, God rest her soul.”
Not wanting to be argumentative, Chloe refrained from pointing out that she
didn’t think her aunt had ever regretted her impulsive elopement. Chloe
understood that her mother had always been slightly alarmed by the reckless way
her younger sister had lived her life. Rose was speaking more out of that
habitual fear than criticism.
“Your father and I met through our families. We were both living in Mistletoe
with no plans to go anywhere else, eventually joined the same church. He had a
steady job at the carpet plant and was on track to go into management there. I
married him because he was a decent man and showed every sign of being a stable
provider.
“Romantic love can be fleeting, deceptive. People shouldn’t act on that alone as
motivation,” Rose cautioned. “It was always a great comfort to me, when you were
in high school and other teenage girls were spending their Friday nights doing
who-knows-what out at Mistletoe Cove, that you were too practical to get carried
away.”
The fact that so few boys had been interested in dating her also had something
to do with it. “That’s me, practical Chloe.” Yes, she’d been the smart girl with
straight A’s, but on rare occasions, late at night, she’d wondered what it would
be like to be the exciting girl with the illicit hickey.
Rose patted her cheek. “Don’t worry about falling in love, dear. Just do what
you’ve always done and follow your brain. I rest easier knowing you’re too
sensible to make the kind of spur-of-the-moment mistake other people spend so
much time regretting.”
Chloe managed a feeble smile but kept her mouth shut. Practical Chloe she may
well be, but her mom had evidently never met C.J.

CHLOE’S PARENTS had raised her to fear consequences. As a girl, she’d believed
that in life, as in fairy tales, wicked deeds were punished and the true-hearted
heroine would always get her happy ending. It was one of the many reasons she
had never liked Candy Beemis, who proved a glaring exception to the rule. But
now Chloe’s universe had gone topsy-turvy. She’d performed the single most
duplicitous act of her life and was being rewarded at every turn.
Monday morning, she woke up to a brief but entertaining e-mail from Dylan. He
recounted an anecdote about a run-in with Grady, exaggerated for comedic effect,
and how much he was dreading a PR event with the man later in the week. He also
mentioned that he would be having lunch in Atlanta with Coach Todd Burton and
that he’d been thinking about her. Then he left a message on her answering
machine Tuesday to say that he’d scheduled a pickup for some of the furniture
they’d decided he should replace, that he was looking forward to seeing the “new
and improved” apartment when the pieces they’d ordered started to arrive later
in the week, that he’d had a really inspiring lunch with Coach B.…and he was
still thinking about her. A lot.
On Wednesday evening, she hit the treadmill, showered and put on her pajamas
early. She grabbed her laptop and decided to spend the rest of the night working
from the comfort of her bed—one of the major perks of her job. First she checked
her e-mail, experiencing an irrational twinge of disappointment when there was
no further correspondence from Dylan. Get a grip. Was she so needy that she had
to hear from him every day? Of course not! She was a modern independent woman.
She was working on a dummy sample home page for Rachel Waide’s photography
business when the phone rang. Tearing her attention away from an annoying
spacing error, she reached for the phone. “Hello?”
“Hey.” His voice came through the line, putting him right there in the room with
her. “It’s Dylan.”
A wide smile had spread across her face as soon as he’d said the first word, the
kind of grin that was so big it threatened to make her face hurt. “This is a
nice surprise.”
He laughed, a touch self-consciously. “Is it? I don’t see how it could be all
that surprising since I feel like I’ve been stalking you.”
“It’s not officially stalking until you’ve started keeping a journal of details
about the other person. And, of course, the all-important collection of candid
photos and/or news clippings,” she teased.
“Ah, good to know.” He paused, his tone less flippant when he spoke again. “I
have to go to work soon, but I wondered if you had a few minutes to talk?”
“Absolutely.” She set the laptop to hibernate and put it aside, wiggling around
until she was more comfortable against the pillows.
“Great. Because I’d value your opinion on something.”
“Decorating issue?” She eyed the stack of feng shui books on her nightstand.
“Career advice,” he corrected. “I told you that I had a very informative lunch
with the coach yesterday. I keep tossing it over in my mind. He wants me to
interview for the coaching position at the high school. I have my bachelor’s
degree, but to work at a public school, there are some extra courses I’d need to
take. If they were interested in hiring me, I’d probably start as an assistant
to Asbury while I worked on rounding out my teaching qualifications, then I’d
take over when he retires.”
“Sounds like you and Coach B. have given this substantial thought,” she said.
“That’s a nice way to describe my obsessing over it. I have to tell you, going
back to school in any way, shape or form does not fill me with joy.”
“I can see where that would be one of the cons for you,” she empathized. “On the
pro side, you should see yourself when you talk about what baseball meant to you
as a teen. I know most of the kids who play ball here in Mistletoe are never
going to get a shot at it professionally, but it can still make a major
difference in their lives while they’re part of the program. You could make a
major difference.”
“You sound so sure of that.” He, on the other hand, did not. “I worry about my
father’s legacy. I still hear his voice in my head. I don’t want to pass that on
to some other poor kid, lashing out at him because he can’t even hit a meatball
pitch or because he went for the glory of tagging out a runner instead of
tossing it to a closer teammate. Everyone makes mistakes, and I’m not sure I
have Coach Burton’s tolerance and patience. He always made you want to try again
and do better, to prove he was right to believe in you, but there are bad
coaches out there, too, who can really sap your will to play.”
She hesitated. Giving the pat assurance that he’d do a great job would be easy
for her to say, but it wouldn’t really address his fears. “I understand why
you’re worried, but I think you’re overlooking an important factor. You’re not
fully taking into account Coach B.’s legacy. You have so much respect and
affection for him that you’re far more likely to follow in his footsteps than
your father’s. And because you’re already hyperaware of the importance of being
firm without being cruel, I suspect you’ll be extra vigilant, weighing all your
words and actions more than most do.”
“Thank you.” He exhaled, relief clear in his voice. “That was exactly what I
needed to hear.”
Her heart thumped with excitement. “So you think there’s a chance you might
really do it?”
“I’m going to set up an interview with the school board,” he decided. “What
happens after that, we’ll just have to see.”
Dylan might be moving back to Mistletoe! She could conceivably see him every
day. Chloe hung up the phone and tucked her knees to her chest, grinning in the
lamplight as she hugged herself. She was euphoric.
For all of two seconds.
If he lived here, he’d know who she was. The only reason she’d been able to keep
her secret was because it had been a long-distance fib. She’d worried about
hurting him, but at this point, it was inescapable. All that she could control
was whether he found out because she herself took deliberate action, rather than
his finding out from someone else. She had to tell him. The sooner, the better.
So how was she going to do it?
She’d been aware for years that she was a nervous babbler around people she
didn’t know well—it was one of the reasons she tried to keep her mouth shut
whenever possible. Better a stranger judge her aloof than think of her as the
Crazy Woman Who Can’t Shut Up. Could she make Dylan understand that, when she’d
seen him that first night, her mouth and brain had disconnected from each other
and stuff had just started spilling out?
Yeah, that was going to make up for lying to the man for weeks on end. She’d
just tell him her mouth had gone on autopilot, and he’d tell her he understood
completely. People invented new identities all the time. In the witness
protection program!
Disgusted with herself, she whipped back the covers, unbuttoning her pajama top
as she crossed the room. Whatever she told him, he deserved to hear it
face-to-face. And the drive to Atlanta would give her time to figure out what to
say.
Chapter Fourteen
Surprised to hear anyone knocking at this hour, Dylan went to the front door.
More than once the easygoing but chronically forgetful tenant from the second
floor had locked himself out and come up here to call friends who had a spare
key. The guy owned a cell phone but often neglected to keep it charged. Dylan
glanced through the security hole and found not his goateed neighbor but Chloe.
She must have jumped in her car scant minutes after they’d hung up.
He opened the door and as soon as he got a good look at her tearstained face,
ravaged with grief and guilt, he knew exactly why she was there. Thank God. She
was confessing! He sent up a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. The ludicrous game
that had spun out of control was at an end. He itched to pull her to him and
rain kisses over her. He’d held himself in check until now, and his control was
strained to the breaking point.
Her presence here couldn’t have happened at a better time. Earlier tonight,
she’d been the only person he wanted to turn to, the person who’d given him the
exact input he’d needed, and he’d realized just how much he’d fallen for her.
“Dylan.” She took in his partially dressed state of slacks and undershirt. “I
hope I’m not bothering you, but—”
“C.J.” Chloe. He tugged her into his arms, tilting her face up to him. She cared
about him enough to share the difficult truth, had driven all this way in the
middle of the night. He was delirious with the need to touch her, the need to
comfort her.
What seemed like a lifetime ago, he’d wanted to see her break down. Now all he
wanted to do was kiss away her tears.
“I am so glad to see you,” he breathed, letting go of her just long enough to
shut the door behind her.
“You might not be for long,” she warned.
“No, don’t say that.” He shook his head. “I’ll always be glad to see you. My
heart does this stutter like it’s suspended in time for that second when I first
lay eyes on you. It happened when I saw you in that hotel lobby and every time
since.”
Unable to stop himself—not wanting to stop himself—he drew her back to him and
kissed her. He was better at articulating his feelings that way. At the last
minute, he made an attempt to slow down, softening the kiss so that he didn’t
pounce on her like a starving man presented with a buffet.
Instead, he nipped at her lower lip, sucking gently. She hadn’t bothered with
makeup before her late-night drive, and it was the first time he’d ever kissed
her when she wasn’t wearing lip gloss. She tasted like…Chloe, the most erotic
flavor he’d ever sampled.
Fingers meshed in her hair, he speared his tongue into the soft heat of her
mouth. She whimpered, but it was clearly not a sound of protest since she was
frantically wriggling closer. He kissed his way down the column of her throat,
murmuring against her skin. “You are so beautiful. And I want you so badly.”
Joining their mouths once again, he cupped her breast through the cotton of her
T-shirt, and she arched into his palm. Then he lowered his hand beneath the hem,
skimming over the sensitive skin of her midriff.
Although it had never been a question he felt compelled to ask anyone before, he
heard himself say, “Do you want me, too?” Even with all the physical evidence
before him, there was the faintest note of uncertainty in his tone.
She swallowed. “God, yes. You…I…”
When the tenderness in her expression gave way to apprehension, he laid a finger
over her deliciously bare lips. Now that they were finally body to body and he
knew without a doubt he could trust her, he couldn’t bear to lose this moment.
“Shh. It’s okay, you don’t have to put it into words.” He might not be able to
throw his best fastball anymore, but physical therapy had left him more than
able to scoop her up and carry her toward the bedroom. Since a charitable
organization had come by to collect some of the pieces he’d be replacing, such
as his nightstand, the bedroom was starker than it had been before, making the
bed such a focal point of the room that it might as well have neon flashing
arrows over it.
But, of course, arrows angled at him would be negative chi, and Dylan was
feeling extremely positive about life right now.
As soon as he’d set her on the foot of the bed, he tugged off his shirt. Then he
reached for hers, removing it so quickly it was as if the fabric obligingly
disintegrated. She sucked in a breath, causing her chest to swell in the lacy
cups of a pale pink bra. Her skin was pale, too, smooth and exquisitely
delicate. Pressing her against the mattress, he dropped kisses across her
shoulder and collarbone, his fingers tracing circles over her abdomen.
“I came here to tell you something,” she said.
He glanced up, meeting her gaze. “If it was to tell me that you think you’re
falling in love with me, the feeling is mutual.”
She froze, her eyes widening. “It is? You are?”
Feeling far shier than he had when he’d first done this at sixteen, he nodded.
She plunged her fingers through his hair, pulled him closer and kissed him
fervently, putting her whole heart into it. He kissed her back, realizing that
for the first time in his life, he had his whole heart to give. He’d always
dated, but baseball had been his first love, demanding so much time and
concentration. And after confiding in her the other night about his childhood,
he felt he’d cleared out emotional cobwebs that had kept him from experiencing
everything so vividly before.
His previous encounters with women had been grainy and blurred; Chloe was
hi-def.
Kissing the slope of her breast, he was pleased to discover that her bra had a
front clasp. He flicked it open with the enthusiastic awe of a boy unwrapping a
long-awaited birthday present. Propping himself on an elbow, he simply admired
her for a second.
She wiggled, and he wasn’t sure if she was trying to press their bodies closer
because she missed the contact or because she was trying to shield herself from
his gaze. “I’m not going to be able to talk to you naked,” she fretted.
“Excellent, then we’ll talk later.”
“But, I—”
“It will be okay.” He rubbed a thumb over one pebbled nipple. “It will be more
than okay, I promise.” Then he lowered his head to take her in his mouth, and
her words faded to gasps.
He managed to get them both undressed, although it was difficult to concentrate
on the button and zipper of his slacks with Chloe raking her nails lightly over
his chest and running her tongue across his earlobe. The shell-pink panties she
wore were silky, but she was far silkier beneath them, hot and wet to his touch.
He pressed his thumb against her, almost lost control himself when he slid his
finger into her. Her head dropped back, her breathing erotically ragged.
Watching her climax was humbling.
“You are magnificent,” he whispered, kissing her and tasting salt on her skin.
It wasn’t until he’d rolled on a condom that he realized the fundamental flaw in
his interrupting her earlier. As he sheathed himself in the welcoming tightness
of her body, he regretted not being able to call her by name. But if they had to
stop now for questions and explanations…So her name became a wordless chant in
his mind as he pulled back and slowly thrust. He slid his hands over the sleek
muscles of her toned legs, which she’d wrapped around his hips.
Dylan lost himself inside her. Inside her eyes and her touch and the way she
quivered around him. When she came a second time, she locked her arms and legs
around him and cried his name. It sent him over the edge.
Afterward, he felt dazed and dumbstruck. He wasn’t even sure how much time had
passed, although he knew it was late, when Chloe prompted, “Dylan?”
He yawned, his eyes feeling as heavy as two-ton weights. “Hmm?”
Her own voice sounded sleepy but determined. “Are you awake?”
“Definitely not. Best dream of my life,” he said, hugging her.
“Can we talk?”
“In mornin’,” he mumbled. His last waking thought was of how lucky he’d been to
go to that reunion.

CHLOE WOKE INSTANTLY, jolted from a dreamless sleep. She felt as if she’d been
unconscious for years—a naked and slightly sore Rip Van Winkle. Sunlight spilled
around the edges of a window shade in an unadorned window. They’d picked out new
window treatments Dylan planned to install this weekend. Dylan!
Emotion spasmed through her, intense joy at what had taken place between them
and daunting trepidation that she still hadn’t told him who she really was. Last
night she’d said she couldn’t talk to him in the nude, a tactical error on her
part. Perhaps she had a better shot of helping him work through his
understandable anger if there weren’t a lot of clothes between them.
“Hello?” She listened for the sound of water running or rummaging in the
kitchen. “Dylan?”
Her voice echoed in the empty apartment. Confused, she wrapped the sheet around
herself, trailing it behind her as she explored the place. No mistake about it,
he wasn’t here.
But on the otherwise tidy kitchen counter sat a gold key on a Braves keychain
and a note. It took her a second to adjust to his handwriting, definitely the
kind described as chicken-scratch.
C,
Had to leave early—damn PR thing. Couldn’t wake you. Stay as long as you want.
Lock up when you go.
Call you,
D.
For no good reason, despair filled her. She had next to no experience with
mornings after, but while some of them had been awkward, this was the only one
that had featured a jotted memo instead of the actual guy. What were you
expecting, a sonnet? Well, no. But “last night was the most magical experience
of my life” would have been nice. Or at the very least, “love, Dylan.” Even
“fondly” would have been an improvement to the terse letter.
She found herself chewing on her thumbnail and she impatiently dropped her hand.
Had he really tried to wake her? Sneaking off in the light of day with a vague
promise of calling later sounded like the horror stories she’d heard from
girlfriends on the unreliability of guys. Stop being so insecure. He’s never
given you any reason not to believe him. In point of fact, she was the liar in
this relationship.
Oh God. She’d slept with a man under false pretenses. How had she let it get
that far? Images played through her mind—the way he’d looked at her, spoken to
her, touched her. Okay, she knew how she’d let it happen; she just wished she’d
told him the truth first. Now it was going to be doubly hard. She wasn’t even
sure when he would be back. Earlier in the week he’d mentioned a publicity
function at Turner Field, some sort of all-day event each of Channel Six’s
personalities were expected to attend. Should she—
The phone cut into the silence, making her jump. She didn’t answer, figuring
that if Dylan wanted to talk to her, he would have tried her cell. A moment
later, his voice filled the condo as he told the caller no one was available
right now and instructed them to speak at the beep.
“Hey, dude, it’s Nick. Ran into Coach at the bakery and he said it looks as if
you’re gonna apply. It will take someone special to fill his cleats—you’d be
perfect. And I called ’cause my curiosity is killing me—what happened with
Chloe? Next time you’re in town, holler. You, me and Shane will hang out.”
What happened with Chloe?
Nausea swamped her so hard she almost fell, grabbing the edge of the counter to
steady herself. He knew! She’d racked her brain trying to figure out how to tell
him, and he knew. Had known, last night when he’d made love to her. When he’d
interrupted her multiple times as she tried to spit out the truth. Not only did
he know, he’d told his buddies about it.
She pressed her hands to her eyes. Had this been a lark for him, or something
more sinister like revenge?
While she had been dying a thousand deaths over her deception, had he been
planning all along to seduce her and teach her a lesson? Boy, did you let
yourself get seduced! They’d gone from first base to scoring pretty damn
quickly. She was ashamed of herself. I should have told him sooner, should have
tried harder…
True. But did that excuse his yukking it up with friends? Nick wanted an update.
Would Dylan give him one? Would she become the grown-up equivalent of
locker-room talk? She’d considered Nick a friend once, or at least a friendly
acquaintance. Then again, he’d dated Candy Beemis, hung out with a lot of the
same popular kids who’d sneered at her and called her Klutzy Chloe. Were they
all laughing again? She knew she’d screwed up, but she hated that instead of
just calling her a liar, Dylan had turned her into the butt of an old joke that
hadn’t been funny ten years ago and wasn’t now.
The difference was, she was no longer a mild-mannered seventeen-year-old who
lacked the backbone to stand up for herself. She was furious. What would C.J.
do?
Looking around the kitchen with the strategic gaze of a woman scorned, she
glimpsed the business card they’d picked up from the decorating warehouse, where
Dylan had introduced her as his decorator. The card was pressed to the fridge
with a magnet from a local Chinese delivery place. She retrieved it, staring at
the promise that they provided the essentials for every design taste and
philosophy. With an idea beginning to take shape in her mind, she slid the card
into her purse—which also contained the uncashed check she’d planned to return
as a symbolic gesture once she’d told him who she wasn’t.
Chloe scanned her mental library of everything she’d read about feng shui. She’d
promised to help Dylan use the guidelines for more positive energy, after all,
and she’d always excelled at book learning. Now she was going to take a bunch of
suggestions and get Dylan Echols all the good chi he deserved.

IF GRADY MEDLOCK HAD made one smart-ass comment about how goodwill events didn’t
involve being abrupt with the public…well, he would have been absolutely right.
Dylan tried to tamp down his impatience, but he was dying to get out of there.
It had nothing to do with being in this stadium, where he’d once played and
hadn’t been able to imagine anything more thrilling than the roar of the crowd
and the certainty that came with the perfect pitch that the batter would miss.
Instead, it was all about the woman he’d kissed goodbye that morning. Although
she’d snored through that, he recalled, grinning inwardly.
When he’d first awakened, a naked Chloe in his arms, he’d entertained calling in
sick. But if his interview with the school board went well, he was about to spit
in the faces of those who had pulled strings and lobbied for him to have the
Channel Six job. The very least he could do was honor his final commitments.
Then he would be free to go home to Mistletoe, to baseball and to Chloe.
The day passed in an eternity of small talk and autographs. He stole a
fifteen-minute break for a late lunch and tried Chloe’s cell number, but there
was no answer. Since all the words that came to mind seemed inadequate, he
didn’t bother with a message. Finally, he was free to go…and sit in Atlanta
traffic. He glared at the cars moving so slowly they might as well be parked.
What sadistic fan of irony had deemed this “rush” hour?
When he got home, he raced up the stairs two at a time, knowing even as he did
so that it was foolish. There was a good chance she wouldn’t even be there. It
had been a gift that she’d shown up last night, but he couldn’t expect her to
put her life on hold and sit around waiting for him all day. It was a sweet
fantasy, though, the idea that he would come home to find Chloe.
Maybe even in bed? He had dyslexia and a bum rotator cuff. A naked Chloe
reclining on his mattress would be the perfect way for karma to make it all up
to him.
“Hello?” He was calling out even before he had the door fully open. “Is any—”
What in the name of all that was holy and good had happened to his apartment?
His gaze was bouncing around like a caffeinated preschooler, moving so quickly
that he couldn’t really process everything he was seeing. Such as that one
section of the room where there was so much purple and gold that it looked like
Mardi Gras had thrown up in the corner.
Purple and gold. She’d said that those colors were associated with wealth,
hadn’t she? In the “romance” area were fuzzy pink heart-shaped pillows resting
on his couch. And a red throw rug with hideous naked cavorting cupids!
He stomped through the apartment. Was this her idea of a prank? Her way of
saying she hadn’t found last night as satisfying as he had? In the kitchen, next
to his spice rack, now hung a freakishly ugly still life of fruit in a bowl. It
looked like it had been painted by a toddler with anger-management issues. Right
after he noticed the gilded mirror she’d somehow affixed over top his stove, he
realized that the business card from his fridge was missing. Surely she
wouldn’t…
With a sinking feeling low in his belly, he wondered if he would still be
getting that delivery from the warehouse tomorrow with the new odds and ends
they’d picked out or if a certain interior decorator had changed the order?
He hurried to the phone, not sure yet if he intended to call the warehouse first
or Chloe, to demand an explanation and offer the chance to grovel for
forgiveness. This wasn’t bad taste—her own home might not have been a bastion of
high design, but it hadn’t been Roy’s House of Tacky, either—this was
deliberate. He remembered how he’d told her he didn’t want anything too
effeminate or busy. Her exact words had been trust me.
Like a jackass, he had. Repeatedly.
It wasn’t until he reached for the receiver that the blinking red light on the
answering machine finally cut through his murderous preoccupation. He stabbed
the button, hoping to hear Chloe’s voice tell him that it was all a belated
April Fool’s joke. Instead Nick Zeth’s voice boomed out. Dylan was about to hit
the stop button, his potential job in Mistletoe currently the last thing on his
mind, but froze when he heard his friend ask “What happened with Chloe?”
Oh, hell.
She’d heard the call. It was the only reason—besides her being psychotic, and
possibly color-blind—for her going nuts like this after what had been one of the
best nights of his life. For a millisecond, he was tempted to blame Nick for
this fiasco, but Dylan wasn’t a moron. How could he fault Nick when he was the
only person in this entire mess who’d been entirely honest?
Still, Chloe had a lot of nerve saddling up a high horse under the
circumstances. He glared at the blinking lights that now hung from his bedroom
ceiling but stopped when he started to develop a headache. When I get my hands
on her…
No time like the present. He turned off the lights and left in such a hurry that
he nearly forgot to lock the door. Of course, he reminded himself, anyone
stealing from his apartment in its current condition would be doing him a favor.

ALTHOUGH SHE’D FELT grimly satisfied when she’d left Dylan’s apartment,
impressed with her own speedy efforts, Chloe couldn’t sustain the feeling all
the way back to Mistletoe. Had she stood up for herself, or merely thrown a
peevish tantrum involving gilt light fixtures and cheap fabrics? Had she only
made a bad situation worse?
You fell in love and got your heart broken. Did it get much worse? Her mother
may have been right about the emotion. Chloe never should have trusted in it,
especially when it had been formed on such a shaky basis. Trying to have a
relationship with Dylan after she’d lied to him was like building a house on
quicksand, then having the gall to look surprised when it turned out to be an
unlivable disaster.
She wished she hadn’t fallen in love. She wished she hadn’t lied. She wished
she’d never even gone to that stupid reunion.
By the time she got home, she was sniffling back a torrent of tears. She’d
called Natalie earlier, but her friend had a consultation with a bride today and
had sworn to come by the house as soon as humanly possible. Chloe kicked off her
shoes and went straight for her freezer, wondering if it was possible to
literally drown your troubles in ice cream. Death by fudge-mint ripple. There
were worse ways to go.
When the frantic pounding came at her front door, she was relieved. She put down
the spoon she’d been using to eat straight from the carton. Thank goodness,
Nat’s come to save me from myself.
She swung open the door, and all the ice cream she’d downed threatened to come
back up. “Oh, crap.”
“Nice to see you, too.” Dylan raised his eyebrows, taking a step forward so that
she had no choice but to retreat, letting him inside. “Chloe Malcolm, I
presume?”
Chapter Fifteen
Stand your ground, Chloe admonished herself. As if she had a choice—her legs
were trembling too badly to make a run for it. “It’s not like my identity comes
as a surprise to you,” she retorted accusingly. “You knew.”
He crossed his arms over his chest and nodded sharply. “I knew. No thanks to
you. A guy could grow old waiting for you to develop a conscience.”
The truth in his words stung. Hadn’t she tried multiple times to gear up her
courage and face what she’d thought would be her biggest humiliation ever? That
had been before the embarrassment of this morning, realizing that she’d made
love to Dylan when he…
“I tried to tell you last night,” she said in a weak stab at self-defense. “You
didn’t let me get the words out.”
He had the grace to look chagrined.
“Did you deliberately interrupt?” she demanded. “Just so you could keep
stringing me along for your own amusement?”
“Stringing you along? Don’t make me the bad guy here! I’ve been patiently
waiting. Ever since the night of the reunion.”
She felt the blood drain from her face. “You’ve known since then?”
“You’re not a gifted liar. But what gave it away was running into Candy Beemis
downstairs. Once I’d seen both of you, I couldn’t figure out how I ever made the
mistake in the first place.”
Because Candy was so much more glamorous? Chloe flinched, turning toward the
living room where she could at least sag against the sofa for support. “I’m
sorry. I never meant to lie to you. I know that doesn’t change what I’ve done,
but it wasn’t intentional. And if you’d given me half a chance, I would have
made this apology last night! What the hell was that?”
“Well, if I have to explain it to you…”
Was he trying to make a joke about what had happened, or was he just being
sarcastic? Either way, she didn’t appreciate it. She glared in wordless
reproach.
His expression grew more earnest. “I’ve been trying so hard not to touch you. No
matter how badly I wanted you. And then I finally had you in my arms, passionate
and—”
“So you were more interested in getting laid than hearing the truth?” Tears
pricked her eyes as she remembered their fiery encounter. Where had her own
willpower been? She could’ve said no. In theory.
In reality, she wasn’t sure she had the iron discipline to walk away from the
temptation of making love with Dylan Echols. But what had been beautiful at the
time, magical even, now seemed like her biggest mistake of all.
“Did you tell your buddies about last night?” she asked hollowly, wondering if
she was going to become a laughingstock in town. None of the gossips in high
school had ever had ammunition this juicy to use against her.
“Like you didn’t tell Natalie?”
“Because I was seeking advice!” Her voice rose, quavering. “Because I felt
horrible—”
“You deserved to feel bad. Do you know how it made me feel when I realized I’d
been duped?”
That had been what she couldn’t face, making him feel foolish. “I am sorry,
Dylan. If I could go back, I would erase it all, I really would.”
“All of it?” Until his voice suddenly dropped to a murmur, she hadn’t realized
they’d been yelling at each other.
She wanted to curl up under her comforter and cry. The worst part was that she
liked who she’d become during the past month. She’d taken too much pleasure in
Dylan’s company and discovering the C.J. side of herself. Now it was all muddled
together, mired in guilt and confusion.
“You deserved an apology,” she said tiredly. “For my lying to you, for what I
did to your apartment. And you have it. I’m truly sorry. If I could take it all
back, I would. But since I can’t…please just go.”
He clenched his jaw, somehow looking angrier now than when he’d first arrived.
“If you’re sure that’s what you want?”
Unable to look at him, she nodded.
He didn’t say a word as he crossed back to the front door. But he stopped there.
“Then you’re a coward.”
Her head jerked up. “What?”
“I thought…I thought we had something special,” he said. “Then again, I’ve never
been that bright.”
“Don’t say that!”
“Then you explain it to me. Is it that you’re too insecure to explore a
relationship with me, a real relationship, without you hiding behind C.J.? Or am
I just an idiot for imagining something between us that was never really there?”
She bit her lip, tasted salt and realized she was crying. “So my choices are
that I’m a chicken or that you’re an idiot? Isn’t there a none of the above?”
“There’s C. People make mistakes.”
She nodded vehemently, walking toward him. “I like C. I choose C. Dylan, I am
truly sorry.”
He took a step forward, intercepting her and pulling her into his embrace.
“Don’t ever lie to me again?”
“Lord, no. I’m terrible at it. I felt nauseous half the time. The other half,”
she admitted shyly, “I was just giddy to be with you.”
That earned her a slow, thorough kiss. “Promise me one other thing?” he asked
when he lifted his head.
Anything. She waited expectantly.
“If I get the coaching job and move to Mistletoe, don’t help me decorate. I beg
you.”
She winced, remembering the gaudy accents she’d inflicted on his apartment.
“Where did you even find that butt-ugly throw rug? You didn’t have enough time
to get it special ordered from Vegas.”
“The cupids?” In spite of herself, she grinned. “They were in this mega-discount
bin of things that didn’t sell on Valentine’s Day.”
“I can see why.”
“I was so incensed when I heard that phone message, but it also seemed fitting,”
she admitted. “Deep down, part of me had wondered why a guy like you would be
with me, and I suddenly realized that maybe it was all to teach me a lesson.
That you were just—”
“Hey.” He tipped her chin up with his index finger. “You’re a beautiful,
successful woman. Don’t you think it’s time to put Klutzy Chloe to bed?”
She looked into the eyes of the man she loved, the man who had helped her see
herself as beautiful and successful, then startled him by tugging his hand.
“Yes, please.”
He chuckled, but there was more desire than amusement in his voice. “Lead the
way.”

AS COACH BURTON had predicted, once Dylan stated his clear interest in coming to
work for Mistletoe High, the school board members were quick to pass a vote
through, approving him for conditional employment with stipulations that he’d
get further certification and education within the next year. Dylan had turned
in his resignation notice at Channel Six and had sold his condo in Atlanta
almost immediately—the building had a waiting list of interested tenants.
Tonight, Dylan was celebrating his impending return to Mistletoe with the people
who meant the most to him.
“I still dread going back to school,” Dylan complained to Chloe as they sat at
the largest table in the Dixieland Diner.
“I promise to help you with your homework.” She lowered her voice to a wickedly
sexy register. “The trick is finding the right incentive program for each
student.”
“And you have some ideas about what might motivate me?” he teased.
“A few.” She glanced over his shoulder, and he knew he’d have to wait until
later to hear more. They had invited his mom, her parents, Nick, Shane, Natalie
and Coach B. to join them for dinner. It looked as if Natalie and his mother had
arrived simultaneously.
Dylan was surprised to see Chloe’s expression turn wistful. “Everything okay?”
“Better than okay,” she assured him. “It’s just…I was thinking about someone I
wish could have been here tonight.”
He’d seen that nostalgic expression before. “Aunt Jane?”
“Yeah. Sometimes I feel like she was my fairy godmother. If she hadn’t sent me
that red dress, would I even have gone to the reunion? She would have loved
you.”
He squeezed her shoulder. “I love you. Chloe.”
That brought a smile to her face. “I never get tired of hearing you say my
name,” she admitted.
Whatever response he would have made tapered off as they greeted Nat and Barb
and then Shane and the coach. But even as Dylan talked to his friends, Chloe’s
words stayed at the back of his mind. Fairy godmother? A few months ago, he
would have scoffed at that kind of fanciful notion. He’d been embittered by his
shoulder injury and the loss of a career he loved and by the loss of his father.
Even though they hadn’t been close, Michael’s death had cemented the fact that
they’d never have a chance to repair their relationship. But now Dylan was too
content to be bitter.
Natalie helped him find a small duplex to rent. Lilah and Tanner Waide had been
living there while they waited for their house to be built and were now moving
out. And for all his previous doubts about whether he’d make a good coach, Dylan
was anxious to get started, to have the chance to live up to Coach Burton’s
example and Chloe’s faith in him. The only time he’d ever felt life was a fairy
tale was when he got called up to the majors, and that had been a short-lived
euphoria. This, though—this felt solid and permanent.
He looked around the table at the faces of people he’d known all his life,
people he loved. He knew they’d gorge themselves on chicken-fried steak and,
later, key lime pie. They’d talk about ball and local events and laugh together,
then he’d take Chloe home and make love to her until they fell asleep holding
each other.
Dylan had never shared Chloe’s enthusiasm for books and had preferred sports
biographies to fairy tales, but maybe she was onto something. He had to admit,
this felt a hell of a lot like happily ever after.
ISBN: 978-1-4268-3167-6
MISTLETOE CINDERELLA
Copyright © 2009 by Tanya Michna.
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