Mistletoe Cinderella Page 3

  “Nat, you did such a darling job on the flowers,” Candy interjected with a toss of her sleek, shampoo-commercial hair. “One of these days I’m going to have to develop an actual skill. And, Chloe! I hear you’re quite the entrepreneur. If I had it to do all over again, I’d go the computer-nerd route myself.”

  No, you wouldn’t.

  Even though Candy’s tone was playful, no overt malice, Chloe bristled. It was one thing for Natalie to call from the shop, freaking out because the computer had crashed and she needed the help of a “professional geek.” Yet being reminded of all the times Candy had indeed made Chloe feel like a socially awkward nerd—and encouraged others to treat her as such—was different.

  Behind her polite smile, Chloe ground her teeth. She gestured toward a table covered with a green cloth and Mistletoe High memorabilia. “I think I’m just going to stroll down memory lane.”

  As the reunion committee finished their conversation, Chloe idly studied framed pictures from pep rallies and school plays. Gold and resplendent, the trophy from the state baseball championship sat in the center of the table; the Academic Decathlon first prize she’d helped win sat off to the side. Still, she grinned at the unlikely parallel of her and Dylan Echols, school superstars. And here I thought we wouldn’t have much in common to discuss.

  Beyond the mementos Natalie had convinced the high school to let them borrow sat rows of name tags. Leaning over for a closer look, Chloe realized that each tag was printed with a black-and-white yearbook photo and identity: Chloe Ann Malcolm. Period. She hadn’t flown high enough on the social radar to earn the Most Popular, Most Likely to Succeed or Most Likely to Make You Laugh labels that accompanied some of the other names.

  Natalie had not warned her that she’d be walking around all night with that awful senior portrait pinned to her chest. Eek. In Chloe’s junior picture, she’d removed her glasses and squinted, so she’d overcorrected the next year. With her wide eyes, lopsided formal drape and mouth caught between forced smiles she couldn’t hold long, she looked surprised and frightened of the photographer. Not flattering.

  The silver lining had been that shortly after Chloe’s parents had seen the picture, they’d finally allowed the contact lenses she so desperately wanted.

  Surveying the photos of her classmates, she stifled a laugh. She wouldn’t be the only one regretting her senior photo. In his shot, Brady Callahan sneered at the camera, his hair teased into short spikes and his eyes rimmed with black eyeliner; he’d long since outgrown his Goth phase and was a deacon for a local church. A few students who’d been into grunge at the time proved that what looks trendy one day merely looks like an aversion to hygiene the next. Of course, Natalie, blond and smiling, looked perfect in her picture. All the cheerleaders did.

  If it weren’t for Nat being her best friend, Chloe would have suspected the squad of making some sort of demonic pact. It seemed statistically unlikely that not one of a dozen teenage girls had blinked, had a bad hair day or had a zit.

  Chloe found herself studying the row of E’s, telling herself she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. But she knew that was a lie even before her gaze landed on Dylan’s photo. Though the black-and-white photo didn’t do justice to his green eyes, there was the promise of sexy intensity he’d later grow into, and that one left dimple made visible by his cocky grin. Seeing that smile in class had turned her knees to jelly. Their civics teacher had once called on Dylan, who’d clearly been flirting with a redheaded volleyball player instead of listening; when he’d floundered for a response, Chloe had blurted the answer, bringing the moment to a quick close. The teacher had frowned but returned to the lecture. Dylan had turned slightly, sending a smile in Chloe’s direction and a bolt of lightning straight through her.

  Emotions were often exaggerated for teenagers, though, distorted through a hormonal lens. She was an adult now, not an overreacting adolescent. If she happened to glimpse Dylan’s smile in the crowd tonight, she doubted lightning would strike again.

  “You ready for that drink?” Natalie asked from beside her.

  Chloe jumped. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

  “Too preoccupied with—” Natalie smirked at Dylan’s name badge “—memory lane?”

  “Watch it, smart aleck. I may decide to go home early—like now.”

  “I have the keys, remember?”

  “So your whole ‘let’s do makeup at my house and ride over together’ suggestion was a trap?” She’d been wrong—this wasn’t Cinderella at the ball, it was a hostage situation. Technically Chloe could call a cab, but they both knew curiosity would keep her here until she saw him.

  Chloe sighed. “What do you suppose it is about our teenage years that we never quite shake?” Even her more recent memories from the nearby college she’d attended weren’t as vivid as the day her team won the Decathlon or the day she’d realized Natalie, a teacher-assigned tutoring pupil, had become a true friend. Thinking about how much she valued Natalie, she smiled. “Tell you what, the drink’s on me.”

  There was a private bar in the corner of the ballroom, but it wasn’t staffed yet. They turned toward the doorway, Chloe’s ankle momentarily twisting in the unfamiliar shoes. Wincing at the brief flare of pain, she regained her balance before she fell. You can lead me to the Manolo box, but you can’t make me walk gracefully in three-inch heels. She made sure to hold the stair rail on the way up to the lobby.

  The recessed lounge was an elongated rectangle a few steps down from the main entrance. Natalie gestured to a row of four high tables against the wall. “Grab us a spot, and I’ll order.”

  “But I said I’d buy,” Chloe reminded her.

  “Well, I said it first. Besides…”

  Chloe raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want me pushing my luck balancing in these shoes, do you?”

  “So, um, white wine? Or has the red dress inspired you to have something crazy and bold like shooters?”

  “What do you think?”

  “Two chardonnays coming right up.”

  Chloe pivoted toward a table at the far end, near an unmanned baby grand piano. She pulled herself up onto one of the two padded chrome stools at the tall table, taking the opportunity to slide off the red high heels. Her feet were wider than Natalie’s and the shoes pinched slightly. Also, Chloe was surprised she hadn’t suffered a nosebleed from the extra height. She rotated her ankles and flexed her toes, closing her eyes in blissful relief. Now all she needed was a hot, sudsy bubble bath and the assurance that she wouldn’t have to go anywhere near her senior yearbook photo ever again.

  Her skin prickled, and Chloe opened her eyes, discomfited by the sudden sensation that she was being watched.

  She saw him in the lobby, knew who it was immediately even though she couldn’t quite believe he was really standing there in jeans and a green shirt. Dylan’s gaze locked with hers, and electricity gathered, heavy and crackling. Sizzling energy ribboned through her.

  Definitely lightning.

  Chapter Three

  Dylan had returned to the hotel depleted. Following an afternoon of physical labor—fixing a leaky pipe in his mom’s kitchen, repairing the screen door—and emotionally taxing guilt that he didn’t visit more, he’d walked into the lobby unmotivated to shower and change for the reunion. Suddenly, however, he felt pretty damn alert.

  The shapely brunette in the bar area was a splash of vivid color among the black tables and chairs. She’d kicked off a pair of red shoes—he noticed them as his gaze traced over her long legs—and there was something invitingly uninhibited about her sitting barefoot in an evening dress. From what he could see, everything about her was inviting.

  She had her head tilted back, eyes closed, a half smile playing about her full lips as if grinning at some secret only she knew. The neckline of her gown plunged just low enough to expose the shadow of cleavage and made his fingers itch to touch her. The thick mass of loose curls spilling past her shoulders looked as soft as her creamy skin. Then h
er eyes opened.

  Although he couldn’t tell their shade from where he stood, her startled expression as she caught sight of him was unmistakable. He was used to women doing double takes because they either admired him or recognized him. He was not accustomed to the alarm he saw on her features.

  Because you were staring at her, Einstein.

  The woman had opened her eyes to find a total stranger gaping at her from a few yards away. No wonder she was unnerved—although a lady who looked like that obviously got her fair share of appreciative glances. Now that she’d caught him ogling, he should go introduce himself as a nonpsycho, apologize with charm and offer to buy her a drink. This plan also meant he could look at her some more, up close. Bonus.

  Then a blonde entered his line of vision, carrying two wineglasses. So much for buying the dark-haired beauty a drink. But he could still go say hi. The lighter-haired woman looked familiar, so maybe the ladies were from his graduating class, also here for the reunion. The women were holding whispered conference, and as he walked down the few steps that led into the bar, the blonde glanced over her shoulder. He definitely knew her.

  Nancy? Nadia?

  Natalie!

  Natalie Young, he thought, recalling her name on the reunion literature he’d received in the mail. She’d been a cheerleader. He smiled, feeling a nostalgic warmth for the short-skirted green uniforms, each emblazoned with a sparkly gold M. The brunette had been a cheerleader, too, hadn’t she? He’d been more interested in redheads back in the day, but he seemed to remember the other head cheerleader had been dark-haired and gorgeous.

  Her name started with a C, didn’t it? He struggled to recall it but was distracted. At this distance, he saw her eyes were an intoxicating whiskey color.

  She leaned forward on the bar stool, toward him. “Dylan.” His name rolled off her tongue in a husky voice weaker men called 1-900 numbers to hear.

  For a moment he forgot Natalie stood there, almost between them. “Hi.”

  Natalie cleared her throat a little, sounding as if she were trying not to laugh. “Dylan Echols. Welcome back to Mistletoe. You might not remember me, but—”

  “Sure I do.” With effort, he took his eyes off the brunette. “Natalie Young. I remember both of you very well.” They probably wouldn’t appreciate his reminiscences over cheerleading outfits and the effect thereof on seventeen-year-old males.

  “You do?” The brunette’s sexy contralto had somehow become a squeak of disbelief—a damn shame.

  “Absolutely.” His smile was deliberately rueful. “A guy doesn’t just forget two stunning women.”

  The dark-haired woman frowned at him over her wineglass. Did she think he was coming on too strong? Calling her stunning wasn’t flattery, merely a statement of fact.

  Natalie picked up her own wine. “Well, I hate to take my drink and run, but duty calls. I should get back downstairs and make sure my other committee members don’t need anything. I’ll see the two of you later!”

  “But we just…” The brunette trailed off when it became clear her friend, already striding toward the stairs, wasn’t listening. Then she—Connie? Caren?—turned back to him with a weak smile. Was it his imagination or had she paled? “You’ll have to excuse Natalie. She lacks subtlety.”

  He grinned. “Not a problem. I’ve never been a big fan of subtle, anyway. To tell you the truth, I was going to take the straightforward approach myself, march down here and ask if I could buy you a drink, but—” Startled, he watched as she gulped down her wine in a manner he’d previously associated with keg parties.

  She was either apprehensive or really thirsty.

  Or perhaps she wanted the chance to take him up on his offer. Dylan signaled for a waiter. “May I join you?”

  “Uh…sure. Suit yourself.”

  Well, there was an enthusiastic invitation if ever he’d heard one. Not quite a swing and a miss, but maybe a foul ball. Hang in there, ace. You’ve come back from worse odds than this. The waiter stopped at their table, and Dylan placed an order for a beer and a second glass of wine.

  Once they were alone again, Dylan glanced down at the discarded heels beneath their table. “Nice shoes, but I—”

  “I didn’t want to fall down,” she blurted before he could tell her that the barefoot look suited her.

  Okay.

  This wasn’t going quite the way he’d envisioned. Maybe a smarter man would apologize for intruding, take his drink upstairs and get ready for the reunion, where there could be dozens of women interested in conversation. But it was suddenly, irrationally important to win over this one. Heidi’s face flashed through his mind, followed by Grady’s snickering. Dylan sought assurance that, in at least some way, he was still the guy he’d been before surgery, that he hadn’t lost all his talents.

  Besides, while he might tell himself that another man would walk away, he wasn’t sure he had the willpower to do so. Not before he tried to cajole that husky tone from her again and bring a little heat to those skittish amber eyes.

  THIS WAS LIKE a sick joke.

  Which makes me the punch line, Chloe thought, drinking in Dylan’s profile as he tipped the waiter. At first this had seemed exactly like one of Natalie’s far-flung scenarios, a modern update of the fairy tales Chloe herself had loved to read as a girl: former geek, all dolled up, former athletic god walks into the room, their eyes meet…

  And geek proceeds to trip over her tongue as if she’s a fifteen-year-old on her first date.

  She groaned at the unfortunately accurate analogy. All she needed to do now was crash into a refreshments table and this could be her first date all over again. What was wrong with her? Chances to live out long-held fantasies didn’t come along every day. They barely came along once in a decade! But as much as she might admire Aunt Jane’s brazen fearlessness or Natalie’s extroverted ease, Chloe couldn’t wipe away a personality years in the making and replace it as simply as if she were applying a new flavor of lip gloss.

  “Everything okay?” Dylan asked. While she’d been lost in thought, he’d turned back to her, looking even more attractive than he’d been in high school. He was still lean and muscled, but his boyish charm had matured into an appeal that was adult and sensual. His black hair was as dark and thick as ever, and while she regretted his career circumstances, the disappointment seemed to have given him an alluring edginess, something he hadn’t had as a seventeen-year-old golden boy.

  And, wonder of wonders, he’d been attracted to her! She’d seen it in his smile when he first approached, before Natalie the Traitor had fled, abandoning Chloe to the butterflies in her stomach. It felt like she had enough in there for her own million-monarch migration.

  “Ev-everything’s fine,” she said. Wow, repartee just didn’t get any wittier than this.

  There was no way Dylan had trouble getting women, so why was he still here, seeming…well, grimly determined to flirt with her? The situation had gone from being her wildest dream to her worst nightmare. Except that in her nightmare, she’d also be naked right now and late for a college final.

  As awkward as things already were, why not just go ahead and lay her cards on the table? She took a deep breath—and a fortifying sip of wine. “Honestly? I’m a little nervous.”

  He grinned. “That’s a relief. I was afraid maybe you didn’t like me. Is it the pro-ball thing?”

  “People here do consider you a celebrity,” she said, noting how the brightness of his smile had dimmed when he mentioned baseball. “But no, that’s not it. It’s more the, ah, massive crush I had on you in high school.”

  Cards didn’t get much more on the table than that. Aunt Jane would be proud.

  “Really?” Dylan sat back. “If I’d known, I would have asked you out for a drink back then. The nonalcoholic type, of course. Maybe a milk shake,” he added with a wink.

  Gaping was probably not an attractive look for her, but she couldn’t help herself. Did he seriously expect her to believe he would have dated her? “I did
n’t think I was…your type.”

  He looked sheepish. “It’s true I dated a lot of redheads, but I noticed you, too. Every guy in the student body with working eyesight noticed you.”

  The warm glow she’d developed from thinking that Dylan might have returned her adolescent affections was cooling rapidly. Was he patronizing her?

  “This may be coming ten years too late,” he said, “but would you like to have dinner with me, Candy?”

  She froze, confused. Candy? Oh God. Had he honestly mistaken her for Candy Beemis?

  Under other circumstances, Chloe might have been flattered. Or at least amused. Right now she felt cruelly deflated. How had she let herself think, even temporarily, that he might really have remembered her? Now their stilted encounter was going to become more awkward than it already was. She would correct him, tell him she was Chloe Malcolm; he would frown and ask, “Who?” and she’d be crushed. It was one thing to know the boy of your dreams hadn’t known you existed, it was another to have him verify it.

  Stalling, she downed more of the dry wine.

  Too bad it wasn’t the ex-cheerleader sitting with him now. Candy probably knew how to handle a man’s attention without dissolving into a flustered fool; she certainly would have had the chutzpah to wear the closetful of bold garments Aunt Jane had sent over the years.

  “Is that a no on dinner?” Dylan asked, looking genuinely disappointed by her hesitation.

  Dylan Echols wants to have dinner with me! Sort of.

  Why, oh why, couldn’t she have been someone else? Even if it was just for tonight. Someone comfortable enough in her own skin to wear red dresses and high heels and flirt with a sexy man. The someone Chloe had always longed to become but never quite managed. “No. I mean, it wasn’t a no.”