Mistletoe Cinderella

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.

He spread his hands in a nonchalant gesture, a horizontal shrug. “You obviously don’t know how superstitious athletes can be. I guarantee I’ve heard far more off-the-wall notions than anything you’re going to say.”

“‘Superstitious’ like lucky socks, or pagan idols in the locker rooms?” she kidded.

“A little bit of both. One guy I knew was dating a woman named Diane Denton when he got called up to The Show. Weeks after they broke up, he was with Amy Ash when he hit his first major league homer. Apparently his high school girlfriend fit the pattern, too. So it’s a rule with him now.”

“You’re not telling me he only gets involved with women whose first and last name start with the same letter? You’re putting me on,” Chloe accused, unable to imagine a rational adult acting that way.

“He proposed to Leigh Ledbetter on their second date because it’s tough to find women that meet the criteria and he had a major contract negotiation on the line.”

“Did she accept?” Chloe asked incredulously.

“No.” Dylan grinned. “She advised him to look into extensive counseling.”

Chloe began to see his point. Rearranging furniture for a more harmonious living environment sounded far more logical than proposing to a near stranger because of her initials. “What about you? Any superstitions?”

All the humor left his face, and she regretted the impulsive question.

“If I had been the superstitious type,” he said, “it wouldn’t matter now, would it?”

“So on-air personalities don’t have their own quirky habits?” she coaxed.

“You drove all this way for a consultation, and I got you off topic. Tell me more about how feng shui works,” he said firmly.

She sighed, then crossed her legs and sat straighter, hoping to project authority. “There’s a ba gua, energy map, for your house as a whole and within each individual room. The terminology varies depending on the source, but essentially the areas are travel, health and family, reputation, career, knowledge, children and creativity, wealth and love.”

“So you can help me improve any of those areas?” he drawled, the gleam in his eyes suggesting that buying tablecloths was not what he had in mind.

“First and foremost,” she said briskly, “is intention. If you want to improve or change something, rather than stressing over specific feng shui rules, picture what you want.” Good advice for him, not her. She needed to stop picturing what she wanted, which was him kissing her again.

Dylan nodded. “Positive visualization. Coach Burton was a big believer in that, too. I have to admit, it worked pretty well for me. Up to a point,” he added softly.

Chloe was glad she was seated too far away to touch him. Every time she saw how much it hurt him not to be playing ball anymore, she wanted to comfort him. She wanted to stroke his shoulder, hold him, kiss him until he forgot his disappointment.

Think platonic thoughts. No stroking the would-be client! Since he’d introduced the coach in conversation, she asked, “How’d the banquet go?”

“It was…surprising.”

When he didn’t elaborate, she teased, “Don’t tell me, a woman jumped out of a cake?”

“Since my mother ended up being my date, I’m happy to say, no, that was not the case. Actually, the coach made some suggestions about what I might do career-wise now that I’m not pitching.”

She tilted her head. “You don’t plan to stay with sportscasting?”

“It’s a good job.” He fidgeted, averting his eyes. “I’m lucky they wanted me.”

There it was again, that latent insecurity that had tugged at her heart in her kitchen when he’d called himself “just a jock.” Didn’t he know he had plenty to offer outside the baseball diamond? She inched closer before she could stop herself.

“Dylan.” Her voice came out low, not much more than a whisper.

He jerked his head up, startled, but his gaze quickly heated. She could feel an answering warmth thrumming through her body. He, too, was clearly remembering the kisses they’d shared the other night. And he was just as clearly planning to do it again.

Her pulse leaped. “I…”

He’d slid down onto the couch cushions, leaning toward her. “Yes?”

I think you’re amazing, fastball or not. I want to hear you say my actual name-Chloe-because you would make it sound so sexy. I can’t remember ever wanting a man like this.

“N-nothing.” She told herself to put more distance between them, but his eyes possessed an almost hypnotic pull. “No, there is something. It might be presumptuous of me to mention this, but I should let you know that I do not get romantically involved with customers.”

He reached out, trailing a finger over her cheek. “I haven’t hired you yet.”

Dylan hadn’t planned to kiss her.

While he had, admittedly, first asked her to decorate because he’d been grimly amused at the thought of watching her hoist herself on her own petard, he would never toy with a woman sexually. But the attraction to Chloe was as potent now as it had been when he’d first glimpsed her sitting in the Mistletoe Inn.

More so in spite of her confusing behavior and his infuriated humiliation when he’d learned she’d lied to him. To his surprise, he genuinely liked talking to her, loved the slow break of her smile. He knew details about her she didn’t even realize, and he hungered for more.

Cupping her face, he bent forward and claimed the kiss he’d wanted ever since she’d bolted from his hotel room. He traced the seam of her lips with his tongue, pulled back just enough to grin down at her. “Tart.”

Her eyes were wide amber pools. “You kissed me,” she protested.

He frowned, then threw his head back and laughed as her meaning set in. “Your lip gloss is tart.”

“Oh. Pink lemonade,” she informed him.

“It’s different.”

“Different, bad?”

When she would have wiggled away, he gently tightened his hold. “Not sure. I’m still forming an opinion.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

She kissed him back thoroughly. Trustingly. It would be so easy to keep going, to lay her down on the couch and explore her delectable body. At the back of his mind was the dim echo of Nick’s words, that Chloe didn’t know how lovely she was. I could show her. Dylan could make her feel every inch a sexy goddess, deserving of lavish adoration.

At least, he could if she ever told him the truth about herself. She owed him that. Now that his initial anger had abated and he was enjoying her company so much, he was starting to genuinely care for her. Did she care enough about him to admit what she’d done? Regretfully he let his hands slide from her shoulders.

“Does this mean you’ve formed your opinion?” she asked, her voice low and entirely too tempting.

“Yes. In my opinion, you’re addictive.” He stood, not trusting himself to look at her because he’d probably reach for her again. “I should probably give you a tour of the rest of the place.”

“Okay.” She rose, too, and he hid a grin when he noticed she seemed a bit wobbly on her feet. Whatever else he might be confused about, he loved the idea that his kisses weakened her knees.

Dylan lived in a four-story building that had been erected in the late 1920s and had been revamped in recent years to make each story its own condo. An elevator from the parking garage led to interior entrances, but there were also back doors to the individual apartments, available by outside stairs. He had the top floor. The view wasn’t that exciting since his windows just looked out at the sides of taller buildings, but he liked not having to worry about upstairs neighbors tromping around overhead.

His apartment was a big space, bisected by a slim foyer. On one side was a huge master bedroom. The kitchen, full bath and living room took up the other half. He led her to the kitchen first, and watched her scrutinize the stainless-steel appliances and gleaming white cabinets and counter.

“I have to hand it to you-you don’t suffer from clutter. But don’t you find it a bit…sterile?” she ventured. “A plant in here would do wonders, even if it was artificial. You know Nat runs the flower shop in town? I’ll bet she could make some great suggestions. Or a few color accents would help. In feng shui, all colors have meanings, usually tied to the five Chinese elements-earth, fire-”

“Wind?”

She frowned at the interruption, looking adorably like a librarian shushing a rowdy patron. All that was missing from the picture were a pair of wire-rim glasses perched on her nose and maybe a pencil behind her ear.

“No,” she corrected. “Earth, fire, metal, wood and water. Also known as the five transformations.”

What the hell had she done? Memorized a feng shui textbook? Four days ago, he would have sworn she didn’t know the first thing about the topic. Irritation flared. She was supposed to be backing down, floundering over her head and confessing her ruse. Once she apologized, he could magnanimously forgive her. Instead, she’d thrown herself wholeheartedly into the charade.

Waxing philosophical about colors, she didn’t realize she’d temporarily lost her audience. “And then there’s red, which is often thought to be the most powerful-”

“I’ll say.” Even annoyed he couldn’t help admitting, “Seeing you in the hotel lobby, in that red dress, stopped me in my tracks. The fact that we were both there for the reunion was sheer luck. I would have been compelled to come talk to you even if I’d never seen you before in my life.”

She swallowed, her throat rippling with the motion. His eyes trailed downward. Had he ever found a woman’s collarbone sexy before Chloe? He didn’t let himself dwell on any of the tantalizing places lower. He wanted this woman. But not until she owned up to what she’d done. Growing up with a learning disability, with Michael Echols for a father, Dylan had been made to feel like a fool far too many times. Chloe had deliberately deceived him, made him feel stupid, and there had to be some kind of consequence for that.

“No one’s ever been moved to cross a room just to get to me,” she said.

He would have pegged her words as more guile than truth if not for that jackass Petey Grubner’s comments. Klutzy Chloe? A book nerd who never left her computer monitor? Was the male population of Mistletoe freaking blind?

“Men have noticed you,” he told her, thinking of his friend Nick. “Maybe you just weren’t sending the right signals to encourage their approach.”

“Signals?” She cast him a dubious smirk. “You mean like tight tank tops or asking a guy what his sign is?”

“Please. Has anyone actually used a line like that since the seventies?” Although he wouldn’t necessarily complain if she wanted to wear a skimpy top. “I meant body language. It’s not that different from feng shui. You have to decide what your intentions are, what you’re open to, and put that energy out there.”

Instead of mocking what had sounded far lamer out loud than it had in his head, she nibbled at her lower lip, pondering his advice. Funny. He’d never been the type of person people came to for personal guidance. Jokes, yes. Pitching tips, maybe. Anything resembling wisdom, no.

“Your body language right now?” He met her eyes. “Very inviting.”

“How so?”

“An open stance, angled ever so slightly toward me. Parted lips. Frequent eye contact, dilated pupils.”

“Could just be the lighting,” she quipped.

His mouth quirked in a half grin. “Could be.” He lowered his gaze briefly to the rise and fall of her chest. “A change in your breathing.”

“Could be a respiratory condition.”

He shook his head at her even as he chuckled. “And you wonder why some guys might not have the courage to pursue you?”

“Point taken. But didn’t we establish that, as a client, you-”

“Potential client. You know, just to keep the boundaries clear, we should settle that once and for all.” He reached for a kitchen drawer, pulling out the checkbook he kept there. Time to take this up a notch. “How much is your retainer fee or whatever decorator’s call the initial deposit?”

Alarm flared in her eyes. “Oh, it’s too soon for that. What if you hate my ideas? You-”

“I insist. Like you said, my space, my decision. So what’s the name of your company? Or do I just make this out to Candy Beemis?” he challenged.

“C. W. Designs.” Since she said it without a trace of hesitation, he figured it really was the name of her self-owned business.

“Not C.J. or C.B.?” he pushed. Or C.M., Ms. Malcolm?

“It’s C.W.,” she repeated, seeming unaware of the faint sarcasm in his voice.

“So what’s the W stand for?”

She looked past him, her gaze unfocused as she smiled. “Wheezy. I actually did have a respiratory condition. I was born premature and had several lung problems and childhood asthma. So my aunt called me Wheezy.”

“That’s horrible!” Right up there with an adult calling a dyslexic kid an idiot. His free hand fisted involuntarily.

“No, you don’t get it. It wasn’t insulting.” Chloe shook her head adamantly. “It was more…I don’t know. I hated having asthma. I felt different from the other kids. Limited. And I dreaded being teased about anything. By turning it into a term of endearment, Aunt Jane took the sting out of it. It was liberating.”

“Oh.” He relaxed his fingers against his side, realizing he must have looked foolish, wanting to ride to her rescue years after the fact and pummel anyone who’d wounded her feelings. He half wished Petey Grubner was handy just so he could slug him. “That sounds like a healthy attitude.”

“Yeah, maybe.” She took a sudden keen interest in her manicure. “Not all of my coping strategies have been quite that well-adjusted, I’m afraid.”

“Such as?” He lowered the pen and stared at her, trying to radiate empathy and understanding. Tell me. You can tell me.

He was angry that she’d lied to him last weekend, but he was beginning to see a bigger picture. Her favorite aunt had just died, and Chloe was acting out; she’d been at a reunion with people who’d apparently mocked her throughout high school while he’d been too busy with baseball-okay, and redheads-to notice the social angst of people around him. It was an unscrupulous thing she’d done, pretending to be Candy, and he’d never had any tolerance for cheaters.

Yet the more he learned about Chloe Malcolm, the more he unwillingly sympathized. How had she felt when he’d mistaken her for Candy? Had he somehow cemented Chloe’s fear that people saw her first and foremost as a nerd and not as the lovely woman she’d become?

Shifting her weight, she nodded toward the checkbook. “I’m here on your dime. We’re supposed to be talking about what you want to do with your place, and I’m treating it like a free therapy session. Why don’t you show me the other rooms.”

He gestured toward the microscopic hallway. “Not much else to show. The bathroom and bedroom are both right through there. With me, it’s ‘what you see is what you get,’ C.J.”

Since she was already moving ahead of him, he couldn’t tell if she had any reaction to his comment.

His bathroom was modestly sized but equipped with all the basics. Chloe poked her head in, muttered to herself for a moment, then withdrew. Next, they walked into his room. He flipped on the light, and her gaze went immediately to the king-size bed. He could have sworn he saw a slight tinge of pink color her cheeks.

She glanced upward, pointing at the ceiling. “You have an exposed beam over where you sleep.”

It ran the length of the room. “What does that mean?” he wanted to know.

“Sha chi, bad energy. Could be problematic.”

“You sure? I’ve never had problems in the bedroom,” he said, completely straight-faced.

Her blush deepened. “Still. There are things you can place to offset sha chi. Mirrors, for instance, are supposed to be pretty powerful.”

He grinned. “You want me to put a mirror on my bedroom ceiling?”

“No! I mean, you could if you-No, that’s not what I was suggesting. You could also affix a, um, bird figurine to the beam.”

He followed her gaze skeptically. “A bird?” Frankly, the mirror idea had sounded more intriguing. “Not really me.”

“Or a string of miniature lights,” she babbled. “Bamboo flutes. You know what? Now that I’ve seen the place, I should take some time to think everything over. Write up some suggestions for you. I’ll e-mail you!”

“Or we can get together next time I’m in Mistletoe,” he said, mentally running through his work schedule. He had next Tuesday off and could stay at his mom’s before heading back to Atlanta on Wednesday. While he’d tackled a couple of maintenance issues around his mom’s house, there was more that needed to be done. “I’ll be back in town next week.”

“But you never come home!”

He arched an eyebrow. “You pay attention? I’m moved.”

“Everyone does,” she backpedaled. “You’re a big deal in Mistletoe.”

“Was. I was a big deal. Now I’m just-”

“Please don’t do that.” She touched his arm. “You’re not ‘just’ anything. You’re Dylan Echols. You’re…” She trailed off, but the expression in her eyes made him very glad to be himself, to be on the receiving end of a look like that from a woman like her.

He knew better than to kiss her again, but he couldn’t help running his thumb across her bottom lip. “Thank you.”

If only she’d been so clear about who she was.