Mistletoe Cinderella

Chapter Five

In the past, Dylan had prided himself on having finesse and being in control, but now he found himself reacting with pure instinct and enthusiastic need. C.J. tasted like woman and chocolate and wine, addictive, her mouth smothering his soft groan. It was the kind of kiss a man wanted to crawl inside, losing himself. Everything that had been eating at him lately, all his doubts and frustration, melted away.

Dropping one hand to her waist, he threaded the other through her hair, tilting her head back and deepening the kiss. But he was restless, craving more of the tantalizing contact, not content to keep his hands still when there was so much of her waiting to be explored. He skimmed over the smooth warmth of her shoulders, curving up to the straps of her red dress, letting his fingers slide slightly beneath the fabric. He heard her breath hitch and pulled away slightly.

“Let’s go back in,” he said with an involuntary glance at the king-size bed just beyond.

“’Kay.” She looked shell-shocked, in an adorably feminine way, her bourbon eyes dazed and her lips swollen.

“You taste like chocolate,” he heard himself say, a bit dazed himself.

She raised a finger to her bottom lip. “It’s my gloss.”

Which he’d no doubt kissed off of her by now-or would in the immediate future. Grinning, he reached for her again.

They were interrupted by a rap on the door and a cheerful male voice calling, “Room service!”

Dylan groaned. The intrusion was his own damn fault-after all, he’d been the one to order the food-but right now the only thing he hungered for was C.J.

She, however, had sprung back at the sound of the knock, guilt stamped all over her features as if she and Dylan were Mistletoe High students again, caught by the principal making out. Would it make her feel self-conscious if Dylan hollered out just to leave the food in the hall?

With a sigh, he opened the door. A guy in a dark suit and his very early twenties was beaming behind a silver cart. “Mr. Echols? It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Several of us flipped a coin to see who’d get to bring up your dinner.”

Dylan managed not to grimace at the sir, feeling much older than the hotel employee even though they were probably only separated by half a dozen years. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too-?”

“Artie. My brother plays catcher over at the school. I made the team when I was there, but mostly warmed the bench. We think he could go all the way. Pro, like you.” At Dylan’s polite but cool nod, Artie stopped gushing. “Um…where would you like the food, sir?”

As Dylan turned to indicate the table and two chairs, he realized that C.J. had disappeared-into the restroom, he suspected, to freshen her lipstick and smooth her mussed hair.

“Over here is fine,” Dylan said, signing for their dinner. “Tell your brother I said good luck.”

Artie’s youthful grin flashed again. “Will do. Thanks, Mr. Echols!”

It wasn’t that Dylan was completely bitter about baseball-he still loved the game and always would-but it continued to sting when people referenced his baseball career. His dream had been to be remembered as truly great at the game, and now there was no way of ever knowing how close he could have come.

The creak of the bathroom door was a welcome distraction. C.J. stepped back into the room, and as he’d anticipated, she looked more composed. Except for her eyes. They shimmered with barely banked panic.

“Hungry?” he asked her, gesturing toward the food.

She clutched her purse tightly. “A-actually, I have to go.”

“Now? But the food just…Is something wrong?”

“I’m sorry.” She hurried toward the door, slowing only long enough to thrust a twenty-dollar bill at him. He was so startled by her exit that he took the money automatically.

“Candy, wait.”

She flinched. “I can’t.” Then she hurried out into the hall.

His impulse was to go after her, find out what had prompted her to flee and try to change her mind, but it seemed unchivalrous to pursue a woman so adamant about leaving.

Bemused, he returned to their dinners and slumped into a chair, thinking that it was a whole lot of food for one man with a dwindling appetite. Intriguing woman, C.J. Beautiful, seemingly successful, funny when she wasn’t rigid with anxiety. But she definitely gave some mixed signals. One moment they’d been hot and heavy-

Had he been too aggressive, the way he’d kissed her as if he couldn’t get enough of her? Echols, you ass. She’d admitted earlier that she was a bit nervous, spending the evening with a former crush, had even blushed sitting right here in this chair. And what had he done? Practically fallen on her like a ravenous beast or, worse, a horny teenage boy.

In a lot of ways, Mistletoe was a quaint, old-fashioned place and C.J. was a local girl. She wasn’t a baseball groupie who’d picked him up in a bar or a jaded sophisticate like Heidi. Instead of lobbing her a nice, simple practice ball, he’d brought the heat, scaring off the most promising thing that had happened to him in weeks.

“I AM A BAD PERSON,” Chloe told her reflection in the mirrored elevator panels. She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, trying to figure out what the devil she’d been thinking. You weren’t. Her brain had short-circuited as soon as she’d seen Dylan down in the lobby. That was the only explanation for everything that had transpired.

She’d wanted so badly to kiss him, to take the chance she knew she’d never be given again, but it had quickly spiraled out of control, leaving her feeling shaken and inexperienced. So that’s what lust feels like. With a shiver, she recalled his gentle tug at the straps of her dress, the rasp of his callused fingers against her skin. It was all too easy to imagine those fingers sliding down the bodice of the dress, exploring her. Chloe Malcolm was not the kind of woman who went to a man’s hotel room after a few minutes of conversation and let him feel her up!

Especially when she’d lied to the man in question. She’d let him think she was a cheerleader, for crying out loud! And a decorator? When he’d called her Candy as she made her escape, she’d wanted to throw up from guilt.

Once she stepped off the elevator, she hurried toward the front of the hotel to catch a cab. She’d text Nat on the way home to let her know so her friend didn’t worry. Something casual like “Tired, think I’ll turn in early,” rather than admit that she was fleeing into the night like the proverbial Cinderella at the stroke of twelve. Thank heavens for room service.

If not for the interruption that had broken the sensual spell, would Chloe even now be in the arms of a man calling out another woman’s name?

THOUGH DYLAN MADE a halfhearted stab at eating, he conceded defeat pretty soon and placed the tray in the hall for pickup. He flipped on the television to check scores, but nothing held his interest. Sitting on the bed only reminded him of what he’d rather be doing. Whichis probably why she took off. Get your hormones under control. Had she left the hotel, or had she gone to their reunion after all?

It wasn’t a bad idea, he decided. He was restless, alone in the small room. Why not go downstairs, attend the party as originally planned?

In the back of his mind was the thought that perhaps he’d see her there, that he could apologize if he’d offended her with his amorous enthusiasm and maybe even convince her that it would be safe to go out to eat with him tomorrow. Trying to pretend he didn’t have ulterior motives, Dylan quickly showered. Then he changed into black slacks and a matching coat over a white button-down shirt, open at the collar. A lot spiffier than his earlier jeans and shirt, although C.J. hadn’t seemed to mind his attire. When he hit the button for the elevator, he possessed far more zeal for this reunion than he had when he’d entered the hotel a couple of hours ago.

He passed through the lobby and went downstairs, following the thumping bass of a band. A folding table sat outside a ballroom door, and two women sat chatting with partygoers and checking in late arrivals. One of the ladies working the door was Lilah Baum-he never forgot a pretty redhead-who’d dated the same varsity football player all through high school. Next to Lilah was a dark-haired woman who’d outdressed everyone else in a one-shouldered sparkling white dress.

As he approached, the brunette glanced up from the clipboard in front of her, her mouth curving into a feline smile when she spotted him. “Why, Dylan Echols. I heard rumors you were coming. I’m sure I speak on behalf of the entire female student body when I say we’re glad to see you.”

Candy Beemis.

She looked almost exactly the same, but even if she hadn’t, he would have recognized the drawl. It was like syrup when she was flirting, but it quickly developed a razor’s edge if you were fool enough to displease her-the entire baseball team had overheard her dump Nick Zeth, alternately laughing at her colorful word choices and wincing on their teammate’s behalf. Until Dylan had seen her just this second, he hadn’t remembered much about her other than her being a dark-haired cheerleader. The vague past hadn’t been nearly as compelling as the present with a beautiful lady in red. Now that he’d laid eyes on Candy, details about her rushed back. One thing remained wildly unclear, though.

If this was Candy, who the hell had he been kissing upstairs?

“Candy. Long time, no see.” Happen to know anyone running around the hotel impersonating you?

She fluttered her lashes. “You remember me. I’m flattered.”

“Surprised you’re not in there being the life of the party,” he said lightly, resisting the urge to storm into the ballroom and get answers from a certain mystery woman.

“The volunteers are working in shifts,” she explained. “Mine will be over in about fifteen minutes. Look for me inside, and I’ll check to see if there’s any room left on my dance card.”

He smiled noncommittally. “Hey, weird question for you. By any chance, are you an interior decorator?”

She laughed. “No, why? Is this leading to some cheesy line about how I beautify my surroundings?”

“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Must have you confused with someone else. Did we go to school with another Candy? Who was also a cheerleader with dark hair?” In a high school as small as theirs? That was so statistically unlikely that he felt ridiculous just asking.

“No. I’m a one and only,” she said with an indignant toss of her hair.

“Right.” People were now standing in line behind him. He should go, but he took one last futile stab. “You don’t happen to remember a girl we went to school with named C.J., do you?”

Candy narrowed her eyes. “What’s with you? Get beaned one too many times in the head with the baseball?”

Lilah Baum-who was probably no longer Baum, judging from the ring on her left hand-was much kinder but no further help. “We had a linebacker named J. C. Delgorio,” she told him, “but I don’t remember any C.J., male or female.”

“Thanks,” he said weakly, officially feeling stupid. A distantly familiar and much-loathed sensation.

With Candy glaring after him-apparently it was bad form to be obsessed with some lesser brunette when she’d offered her dance card-he slunk through the doors to the ballroom. Except for the bright stage spotlights, the lighting was dim. Dylan paused, letting his eyes adjust, and scanned the crowd for flashes of telltale red. When I get my hands on her…

Wrong line of thought. He hardened at the memory of how she’d felt in his hands.

Okay, no touching this time. But “C.J.” definitely owed him an explanation. After a purposeful circuit of the room, he was forced to conclude she wasn’t there. Natalie was, though. The blonde danced with a tall man Dylan didn’t remember. As the song ended, he started toward them. Natalie could give him answers, but he didn’t get anywhere near her.

“Echols!”

Nick Zeth, known in years past as Z-Man, and former outfielder Shane McIntyre intercepted him. Shane had on a suit and tie; Nick had opted to pair his old baseball jersey with black slacks. Both men wore name tags that featured yearbook photos. Dylan found that he was suddenly a rabid supporter of name tags; people should be required to wear them at all times. Especially enigmatic brunettes with identity crises.

The guys insisted he have a drink with them. They grabbed a couple of beers and sat at a table far enough away from the speakers to have a normal conversation. Shane said he’d caught one of Dylan’s broadcasts when he was in Atlanta on business, and Nick, now a local firefighter, revealed that he’d divorced his college sweetheart last year, although he seemed more rueful than bitter. Eventually talk turned to Coach Burton’s retirement dinner, which they were all attending.

“He was the best,” Shane said.

“He was like a dad to me,” Nick reminisced. His own father, also a fireman, had died rescuing a civilian when Nick was in middle school.

It seemed wrong for Dylan to add that Coach B. had been like a dad to him, too, since Michael Echols had been alive.

“Everything okay, man?” Shane nudged his arm. “You keep looking around the room.”

“Looking for a woman,” he admitted.

Nick grinned. “Dude, they’re nothing but trouble. You’re better off with us.”

“Not my type.” Dylan grinned back.

“You still got a thing for redheads?” Shane wanted to know.

“This one was brunette. But she was wearing a red dress.”

“Oh, so you’re not just looking, you’ve already found one?” Nick scanned the crowd curiously.

“She temporarily got away,” Dylan said. “I’m trying to figure out who she was.”

“You could always check the table over there,” Shane suggested. “Where the name tags are? Someone on the reunion committee put together a book, a ‘where are they now’ thing that has pictures and info about everyone.”

Dylan got to his feet. “Great. You guys don’t mind if I…?”

“Nah.” Shane waved his hand. “I was thinking about asking someone to dance. You’re not my type, either.”

“We’ll catch up with you at the coach’s banquet if not tonight,” Nick said. “Go get her, bro.”

There were only a few unclaimed name tags on the long table, Dylan’s among them. He winced at the picture of himself, the cocky smile that said he knew what his ticket out of here was and that he was off to bigger and better things. Far away from the struggles he hadn’t liked people to see and, more important, away from Michael Echols. And here I am, back again. Dylan shoved the tag into his coat pocket and studied the remaining female faces on the table.

Chloe Ann Malcolm? Her middle name wasn’t even Jane!

Squinting, he double-checked, comparing the wide-eyed teenager in black and white to the temptress who’d kissed him on the balcony. Not the best picture, but that was her, all right. Chloe Malcolm. He couldn’t remember anything about her, but his recollections were probably clouded by his time with her tonight.

On the corner of the table was the green binder Shane had mentioned. Someone had printed out a label and stuck it on the front: Mistletoe High, Class of 1999. He flipped through the alphabetical entries until he located Chloe. Background information included her graduating with honors, top ten of their class and her superstar status in Academic Decathlon. Since high school, she’d gone to college, where she earned a degree in computer science. She’d ultimately settled in Mistletoe, near her parents, and ran her own business building and maintaining Web sites.

Dylan ground his teeth. She was a braniac, one of those people who’d effortlessly earned A’s when he’d struggled for C’s. What had possessed her to tell him she was a cheerleader and an interior decorator? Instead of correcting his mistaken impression that she was Candy, she was having a laugh at the dumb jock’s expense.

He must really be dumb. Co-worker Liza Finnell was attracted to him, but she didn’t cause even a blip on his radar. If he had half a brain, he’d ask out the sweet, easy-to-read woman. Instead he’d been drawn to Heidi, who’d used him as a rung on her social-climbing ladder but had at least been honest about the basics-say, her name. Then he’d spent tonight flirting with a woman who didn’t respect him enough even to tell him who she was. Everything his old man had ever said about his lack of intelligence circled through Dylan’s mind like a cruel wind. He had noticed inconsistencies in the way Chloe was behaving tonight, but he’d never once dreamed that she might be flat-out lying to him.

It was the second time in a month he’d been left looking like a fool because of a duplicitous female. Before he left Mistletoe, he and Ms. Malcolm were going to have a chat.

THE PHONE RANG at such an unholy hour of the morning that it certainly would have wakened Chloe if she’d actually been able to sleep. She’d gotten tired of staring at the dark ceiling overhead sometime between three and four, tromping in her robe and bare feet to the computer. Might as well get some work done, she’d reasoned. But her mind had been too preoccupied with replaying each second with Dylan-particularly the kissing-to focus on database fields.

“Hello?” As she answered, she experienced a frisson of irrational fear that it would somehow be Dylan on the other end.

Thank heavens it was Natalie instead. “Hey! You took off way too early last night. You had to know I would call first thing for details. What happened that sent you sneaking away without a goodbye?”

Chloe could insist that she hadn’t been “sneaking,” that she’d merely wanted to get home and knew Nat was busy with her reunion responsibilities, but this was her best friend. “I screwed up. You never should have left me alone with Dylan! I was a mess.”

“You’ve always been more critical of yourself than anyone else is. Candy notwithstanding,” Natalie conceded. “Even if you stammered or put your foot in your mouth, I’m sure he didn’t find it as noticeable as you did.”

“He thought I was Candy.”

“Huh?” Nat sounded appropriately flummoxed. In what parallel universe could Chloe be mistaken for head cheerleader and budding socialite Candy Beemis?

“Maybe it was seeing me with you that threw him, but he honestly thought I was Candy. And I…sort of let him go on believing that. I told him to call me C.J., and that I work as an interior designer.”

There was a strangled sound that was either laughter or a gasp. “You’re kidding me!”

“Oh, how I wish I were.”

“So…the two of you talked for a little while, under false pretenses, and you felt so bad about it that you went home?”

“Close. We went up to his hotel room, made out for a while under false pretenses and then when room service interrupted with our dinner, I beat a hasty retreat before I ended up sleeping with him or telling him some other incredible whopper like I was once crowned Miss Georgia, right before I invented the Internet.”

“You made out with Dylan Echols?” Natalie’s voice was full of awe. “You’re my heroine.”

“Nat! Haven’t you heard what I’ve been telling you? I was a disaster. I barely had control of what was coming out of my mouth. He kissed me, then called me Candy.”

“Okay, that part would have been a tad ooky. But the rest of it-”

“Natalie, promise you’ll never leave me alone with another hot guy.”

Her friend’s sigh came through loud and clear. “Honey, your life’s not going to be terribly interesting if you never spend any alone time with guys.”

“I don’t want interesting,” Chloe resolved. “I wasn’t meant for interesting. I tried it last night, and you see how that turned out!”

“You looked stunning and ended up kissing a guy half the women in town have drooled over. Things could have gone worse.”

“Not by much. I felt terrible, running out on him like that.” She pinched the bridge of her nose, reliving her graceless exit. “He probably thinks I’m off my meds.”

This time, the noise Natalie made was definitely a laugh. “If it’s any consolation, it’s Candy he thinks is nuts, not you.”

“And yet I don’t feel comforted by that. The only thing I find comforting about this whole mess is that he’s probably packing up to leave town by now.”

“No way he would miss Coach B.’s dinner tomorrow,” Natalie interjected. “I think he’s even giving a speech or something.”

“Right. I forgot about that.” Even someone as far removed from athletics as Chloe knew about Coach Todd Burton-he was a town institution. Her heart sank. “Wait, do you think Candy will be there?” The last thing Chloe needed was for Dylan to run into Candy.

“Nah. There’s no love lost between her and the coach. He bawled her out once when she dated two baseball players at once, pitting them against each other. She retaliated by whining to her friends that the coach gets too much credit when it’s the guys on the field winning the games.”

So Coach and Candy didn’t get along? Chloe was surprised then that Dylan would cheerfully seek out the former cheerleader. Or maybe, after all he’d been through professionally and personally, he didn’t recall petty squabbles from a decade ago.

She regrouped. “All right, so he’s in town for at least another day or so. But eventually-soon-he will leave. Given his track record for staying away from Mistletoe, I won’t ever have to worry about seeing him again.” More important, she wouldn’t have to dwell on her own asinine behavior.

“At least not until the twentieth reunion,” Natalie teased.

“I’m busy that weekend,” Chloe said flatly. She was done with high school reunions. She was also finished with wine. In vino veritas, my butt. After a minute passed, she stopped obsessing over her own evening long enough to ask, “Tell me you had a good time last night?” Natalie deserved to have fun after all the work she’d put into the event.

“I did, thanks.” Natalie sighed. “I’m just sorry you didn’t get more out of it.”

The memory of Dylan’s kiss tingled through her, and she pressed a hand to her lips. “It was…I have a lot of work to do. Call you later?”

“You busy tonight? I can bring over comfort food and a couple of chick flicks and get my shoes back.”

Chloe knew “comfort food” meant chicken-fried steak and made-from-scratch mashed potatoes from the Dixieland Diner, both topped with white pepper gravy. She was powerless to resist. Good thing I own that treadmill. “Sounds like just what the doctor ordered, thanks.”

After they disconnected, Chloe once again looked at her computer monitor, but lacked the mental energy to pretend she was getting anything done. Instead, she did seven and a half miles on the treadmill, then jumped in the shower. By the time she got out, she’d worked up an actual appetite. She padded to the fridge in a pair of denim shorts and a purple shirt printed with flowers that spelled out GET LEI’D IN MAUI. A gift from Aunt Jane, naturally. It was the least risqué of the bawdy T-shirts, acceptable Saturday wear for bumming around the house.

A quick scan of the shelves reminded her that, with everything else that had happened this week, she’d neglected grocery shopping. Maybe getting out of the house would help her get out of her head, too, putting last night’s absurdities behind her. She would certainly be more productive at the market than she had been at her computer.

She grabbed her car keys and was parking near Mistletoe’s only big grocery store fifteen minutes later. Making a mental list of items she needed, she headed up the sidewalk into the shop. Since Nat was coming over tonight, ice cream was a must-have, but she’d save that for the end of her trip, so it didn’t all melt in the cart. Instead, she rounded the corner toward the produce section and stopped cold at the sight of Dylan Echols examining fresh oranges.

Eek.

Well, who needed fruits and vegetables, anyway? She could live without them for another few days. Executing a stealthy about-face, she retreated to the soft-drink aisle, grabbing several things at random before continuing to speed away, wanting to put as much floor space as possible between her and Dylan. With little more in her cart than lunch for today and ice cream for tonight, she checked out, breathing a sigh of relief as she swiped her debit card. As soon as the kid at the register handed her the receipt, she’d be home fr-

“C.J.?”

Oh God. This was karmic punishment for her dishonesty last night.

Did she dare ignore him? If so, he might call out louder and create a scene. It was in her best interest to get their encounter over quietly-and quickly. Trapped, she turned with a weak wave as Dylan closed the distance between them. A smiling middle-aged woman stepped aside so that he could get in line behind Chloe.

If anything, he looked even better this morning, in a close-fitting T-shirt that did amazing things for his biceps. And he was making the most of the unshaven look that worked so well on some guys, lending a rugged touch.

Chloe was at a loss for what to say. “Hey.” Even that monosyllable strained her current capabilities.

For an instant, Dylan’s expression was inscrutable. Then he gave her a grin so wolfish she almost felt the top of her head to check for a red hood. “It is you. Must be my lucky day.”