Mistletoe Cinderella

by Tanya Michaels

  She swallowed, then ran her tongue along her lower lip. He was overcome with a need to know what she tasted like tonight. His Chloe was always full of surprises.

  “If it weren’t for that policy of yours about not getting involved with clients,” he began coaxingly.

  “I…” Her gaze was troubled, the internal debate clear in her eyes. “I can’t. I want to, but I can’t. I should go, Dylan.”

  Damn.

  It wasn’t until she’d safely put a few stairs of distance between them that she said, “But I’m looking forward to breakfast tomorrow! We’ll talk more then.”

  He watched her go to her car. It was on the tip of his tongue to call out Wait, Chloe, but if he did, he’d never know that she respected him enough, cared about him enough, to tell him the truth herself.

  HER FIRST REAL DATE with Dylan Echols. Well, date might be too strong a term, but this would be their first meal in public. Chloe’s heart thudded madly in her chest. She’d agreed because it was so early in the day and the restaurant was on Dylan’s route back to the freeway, practically the outskirts of Mistletoe. Statistically this was the least likely place and time for her to run into people she knew. Still, her mouth was dry and her palms were damp.

  How the hell did people commit crimes? If she were even pondering something illegal and happened to pass a police officer, she’d be seized with the uncontrollable urge to turn herself in. What you’re doing to Dylan is a crime. You have to tell him the truth. She realized that. It had been unfair to ever rationalize that he didn’t need to know, even though she’d never dreamed that their acquaintance would continue and evolve.

  But she’d let it go on so long. How could she explain what she’d done in a way that didn’t make her sound pathological? In a way that didn’t make him never want to speak to her again?

  “C.J.! Over here.” He waved from a back booth. Was it her guilty conscience, or did his voice boom extra-loud as he signaled her?

  She hurried to sit across from him, her back to the restaurant’s entrance. “Morning. Before I forget, here are some more URLs I wrote down for you.”

  As he took the sheet of paper torn from a memo pad, his thumb swirled over her palm, pressing gently against pressure points she hadn’t known were there. It shouldn’t have been any more sexual than two kids holding hands, but she nearly trembled at the contact. Sitting with him last night on Barb’s front porch, Chloe had yearned for more physical contact. She’d bolted in part because she didn’t trust herself alone with him. She’d been infatuated with him in high school, but the feelings that had seemed so all-encompassing at the time were nothing compared to the rising desires of an adult woman who’d come to know Dylan more intimately.

  A curly-haired waitress wearing a faded uniform and funky green horn-rimmed glasses took their orders. After she’d gone, Dylan held up the list Chloe had made of sites and brief notations about each.

  “Thanks for these. You sure are going to a lot of trouble.”

  “Not really.” The very fact that Chloe had the time to devote to Dylan and his condo was a glaring neon arrow pointing to her lack of love life. Friends like Natalie spent leisure hours getting ready for dates, going to movies with new boyfriends, shopping for anniversary and Valentine’s Day gifts. Chloe spent her free time watching reruns of House. She suspected, though, that even if her Web site business kept her so busy that she put in sixty-hour weeks, for Dylan she would have made the time. “Besides, I’ve been enjoying myself. The site listed at the bottom of the page is entirely too much fun. You can scan in a photo of your room and mess with colors and stuff. The models are crude, but if you’re at all a visual person—”

  “Oh, I am.”

  “Most men seem to be,” she agreed. “When I did student tutoring—”

  He raised an eyebrow and looked as if he might interrupt. Chloe hastily tried to recall what kind of student Candy had been. Plenty of cheerleaders and varsity athletes had been on the honor roll, but the idea of Candy selflessly helping her peers was laughable.

  She spoke faster, trying to prevent an interruption even though she’d momentarily lost her train of thought. “I found that guys always absorbed the point faster when they had a diagram or map or illustration. I got really interested in the different ways people learn.”

  Dylan’s expression had changed from questioning to thoughtful, and he nodded.

  “It’s about knowing how each person gets the best results,” she continued. “Like, some people do better with music playing in the background while others need the quiet to focus. Some you joke with to cajole results, others…Well, you get the idea. You’d tell me if I was boring you, right?”

  “You’re not. Quite the opposite,” he said. “I was thinking that you did an amazing job with my mom last night.”

  Chloe flushed with pleasure, but didn’t feel she could take credit for Barb. “She was a quick study. Since my parents moved into the senior living complex, I’ve started offering short computer tutorials to the residents there. They’re not exactly part of the Internet generation, but they still want to be able to access digital pictures of the grandkids and look up occasional recipes on the Web. It’s all basic. You could teach it just as well as I could.”

  He shook his head. “I worry that we fall back on what we know. Whether we want to or not.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “For example…” He stared beyond her, collecting his thoughts. “I’ve heard children of alcoholics are more likely to become alcoholics themselves even though that sounds counterintuitive. You’d think that someone who had witnessed that kind of destruction would be the last person to put their own loved ones through it.”

  “A girl who grew up in my neighborhood used to nag her mother to stop smoking. She even got in trouble once for hiding her mom’s cigarettes. Ironically, whenever I see her now, she’s smoking outside the Dixieland Diner. Is that what you mean?”

  “Exactly,” he said grimly.

  But Chloe was still confused. What trait was Dylan concerned that he might have picked up, might pass on? The teacher who’d probably made the biggest impact on him was Coach Burton, who was beloved around these parts. And Barb Echols obviously adored her son. Five minutes in the same room with them confirmed that. Chloe frowned, searching her memory banks for any impression of Michael Echols. When she’d brought up the subject of Dylan’s father previously, he’d shut her down. She’d assumed that was Dylan’s reaction to his father’s death, but now she wondered.

  “With your interest in learning styles,” Dylan asked, “did you ever think about becoming a teacher yourself? Schools can always use good instructors who are attuned to their students and flexible with their teaching styles.”

  “Actually, I was an education major for all of one semester, not that it mattered since I was only getting started with core classes at the time.”

  “What made you change your mind?”

  The reason sounded so lame she hated to say it, but she owed him the truth about something. “Performance anxiety, the idea of standing up in front of an entire class. One-on-one tutoring was a different story. I don’t do well in front of crowds. At least, not alone,” she added quickly, before he asked any questions about cheerleading. “When I was doing something on a team, the pressure wasn’t the same.”

  That was what had appealed to her about the Academic Decathlon, where they all sat onstage together and could confer over the answers, versus the debate team, which involved individual turns standing at a podium.

  “I can understand the comfort of being surrounded by a team,” Dylan commiserated. “I think that’s been affecting me lately. For more than a decade, I had one team or another. Some of the guys who play for Atlanta still call me, but they have crazy schedules and it’s uncomfortable now that I’m a civilian.”

  She tamped down the impulse to offer herself up as his new team. “I know it will probably never be the same, but do you think that after you’ve been at the television
station longer, you’ll develop a similar sense of camaraderie?”

  Frowning, he toyed with a packet of sugar. “Not unless they reassign the lead guy to another solar system. He’s all ego. He likes himself way too much to spare any affection for others, but he specifically dislikes me. On a personal level I don’t care. It’s not that I want to be his new golfing buddy or anything, but knowing I have to deal with his bs on top of whatever else is going on at work just adds an extra layer of frustration to a job that I’m learning as I go.”

  “Do you think he feels threatened by you? There was…a girl like that once, who went out of her way to make me feel like an insignificant bug even though all I wanted was to avoid her.” Chloe thought of last night, when he’d told her he remembered very little about Candy. It had been a relief that Dylan wasn’t attaching any of the woman’s negative qualities from years past to Chloe. Such a hypocrite. She’d wanted him to associate her with Candy’s popularity and charisma, but didn’t want to take the blame for any lesser traits. “Natalie insisted she was jealous.”

  “Maybe. Maybe they’re acting out of insecurity.” He grinned. “Or maybe they’re just asses.”

  She let out a peal of laughter, his matter-of-fact comment helping to exorcise the last ghosts of adolescent insecurity. All through high school, she’d been unable to think of a comeback, to stand up for herself in a memorable manner. For weeks she’d felt herself changing, evolving. Perversely she half wished someone would insult her so that she could test herself. There was a possibility that now she could react with wit, or at least aplomb.

  As long as the person making the cutting comment wasn’t Dylan. That—

  “Well, hey, there.” The friendly female greeting came from mere inches away, and Chloe jumped. “I thought that was you I heard laughing, Ch—”

  “Brenna!” And this is what I get for challenging the universe. Not that the tall redhead was likely to make an insulting comment, but seeing her here definitely shot Chloe’s supposed aplomb all to hell. “Um, have you met Dylan Echols? He’s a new client of mine. We were just having a consultation. Dylan, this is Brenna Pierce. She runs her own pet-sitting business. She’s Mistletoe’s dog whisperer. And cat whisperer. And iguana whisperer.”

  Chloe knew she should really shut up, having already belabored a mediocre joke, but she was worried that as soon as she stopped talking, Brenna would mention the new Web site mock-ups Chloe had done for her.

  Brenna was shaking Dylan’s hand, her gaze frankly admiring. “Nice to meet you. I’ve heard about you, of course. You won’t regret hiring this genius. She—”

  “Does the fact that you’re singing my praises mean you had a chance to look over the design suggestions?” Chloe interjected. She felt rude, panicked and generally nauseous.

  Though Brenna looked surprised by the interruption, she nodded. “They’re so fantastic my only concern is choosing the right one. All of them had—”

  “Positive energy, right? That’s my motto!” Did anyone else notice how manic Chloe sounded? “Brenna, Dylan’s on his way out of town after breakfast, so we’re trying to squeeze this in. Do you want me to call you later about what you’d like me to do?”

  “Sure.” Brenna was eyeing her as if she thought Chloe had started the day with way too much coffee. Still, she took the hint, turning to go. “It was nice to meet you, Dylan.”

  I’ll need to do some damage control later, Chloe thought. She’d cut Brenna off at least three times in a two-minute conversation and had tried too hard to seem bubbly and unconcerned, veering into deranged. She didn’t want to lose Brenna’s account.

  Glancing back at Dylan, she acknowledged with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach that she risked losing something far more valuable.

  Chapter Twelve

  What did a woman wear to her own downfall? Chloe wondered as she scanned the contents of her closet Saturday at dawn.

  Dylan had e-mailed her after his newscast late Thursday night to tell her he was really impressed with some of the notes she’d made regarding his condo. She’d happened to be awake at the time, working on her laptop, so she’d responded immediately. They’d gone from exchanging e-mails to instant messaging—it was almost a little sad how much easier it was for her to express herself through emoticons than face-to-face communication.

  Though she’d enjoyed flirting and chatting during her cyber interaction with Dylan—typing was more deliberate than speaking, protecting her from the nervous babbling she was prone to—the computer screen was a lackluster substitute for the man. The more they’d talked, the more she’d wished she was with him. As a teen, she’d bought into the illusion that he was the guy who effortlessly had it all. The reality of him was far more fascinating, an intoxicating puzzle. She wanted to learn all his edges and pieces; everything he’d revealed about himself so far only attracted her more. As a bonus, when she was with him, she’d also been discovering more about who she was. The only downside to their time together was that she lived in fear of blurting out the wrong thing, clumsily exposing herself as a liar.

  You’re living on borrowed time, C.J.

  When he’d broached the subject of when she could go with him to look for furnishings and decor, she’d agreed to come to Atlanta today. They’d spend the day shopping then have an early dinner before he had to work. She was resolved that, over dinner, she’d tell him everything and hope for the best. She didn’t know if he would forgive her, but if she didn’t rectify the situation, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself. One way or the other, this stressful pretense would be ended by tomorrow.

  She wasn’t sure what they’d be eating, but she hoped it would be good. A girl had high expectations for her last meal.

  DYLAN TRIED to keep his eyes on the road, but it was damn difficult with Chloe right next to him, smiling as she reclined her head against the passenger seat. Some of the shorter strands of her layered hair had escaped the barrette, framing her face in soft tendrils.

  “Enjoying the convertible?” he asked.

  “Mmm. If I had this car, I’d get a job delivering pizzas so I could be driving all the time.”

  He chuckled. “You’d need to make really good tips delivering pizzas if you were going to pay for it, though.”

  She mock-glared at him over the top her sunglasses. “I’m daydreaming over here. Do not bother me with trivial stuff like reality.”

  Reality. Was it as clear-cut as he’d once assumed? He’d been angry at her for lying, but there was more C.J. in her than she realized. Whatever her technical job description really was, she’d thrown herself skillfully into the task of suggesting changes for his apartment. Once, he’d assumed that the reality of his injury was that baseball wouldn’t be part of his life anymore, but maybe he’d been needlessly limiting his opportunities. On a gorgeous spring day like this, spending his afternoons coaching a bunch of eager kids who loved baseball as much as he did sounded far better than spending six nights a week alongside Grady Medlock. Maybe it was time for both him and Chloe to reexamine what was real and what was malleable.

  They reached the interior-decorating warehouse shortly after it opened for the day. While Dylan secured the roof on the car, Chloe fussed with her windblown hair and withdrew a slim tube of lip gloss from her purse.

  “I have to know.” He watched her put on the shiny layer of color, wanting to kiss it off of her before she’d even finished applying it. “What flavor?”

  She blinked, looking startled by the question. “My gloss? Butter pecan.”

  It made him think of ice cream, the cold sweetness of it melting on his tongue. He hardened at the thought of Chloe against his tongue.

  “This cosmetic habit of yours is thoroughly distracting,” he told her. “I never know what you’ll taste like. It’s like dating a woman who wears staid business suits with naughty lingerie underneath. A man could go crazy wondering what’s next to her skin. A whisper of ivory silk or a leopard-print thong?”

  Chloe’s cheeks fl
amed pink. Had he offended her with the analogy?

  After a moment, she smiled. “I’m glad I distract you. Even if it is just my makeup.”

  He echoed what she’d once said to him in his apartment. “It’s not ‘just’ anything. It’s you.”

  “Thank you for asking me to come with you today,” she said. “I…wanted to see you.”

  “Ditto. And I don’t trust myself to decorate the condo by myself. You saw what happened when left to my own devices.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, listing some of the feng shui terms she’d taught him. “Elements in conflict, ‘secret arrows’ every place you look…catastrophe. Save me from myself.”

  “Don’t worry, my assistance is yours as long as you want it.” Opening her door, she added softly, “I plan to see this through.”

  As they crossed the asphalt toward the massive shopping complex, Chloe asked, “So, which of the eight areas do you want to really focus on? Harmonious balance is key, but what are your immediate goals? Wealth? Career? Love? I’ve…been surprised that there’s no girlfriend in your life. There’s not a girlfriend, right?”

  “What the hell kind of guy do you think I am?” Dylan was incensed. He’d kissed Chloe on multiple occasions—not brief pecks of greeting or farewell, either. Deep soul kisses that had shaken him. He knew players who had “girlfriends” in cities up and down the Eastern Coast, but that had never been his style.

  She bridged the gap between them, taking his hand. “I’m sorry. That came out sounding like, I don’t know, an accusation. It was just a surprise.”

  He grunted, not mollified. It was ironic that she suspected him of being untrustworthy, the kind of guy who would nonchalantly cheat on a woman.

  “You’re smart and funny and successful,” she continued. “The best-looking guy I’ve ever seen in real life and not on a movie screen. In short, a man some single women would commit unholy acts to meet.”