Mistletoe Cinderella

by Tanya Michaels

  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.