Mistletoe Cinderella

by Tanya Michaels

  She began drying the plates and bowls that were already clean. “Mama? When you married Daddy, how did you know for certain that you loved him?”

  “Love?” Rose stopped what she was doing, glancing covertly at the doorway into the den before looking back at Chloe. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, dear, because I definitely love your father and vice versa, but we cultivated those feelings over decades together. It was never in my personality to get married on an impetuous romantic whim. That was Jane’s style, God rest her soul.”

  Not wanting to be argumentative, Chloe refrained from pointing out that she didn’t think her aunt had ever regretted her impulsive elopement. Chloe understood that her mother had always been slightly alarmed by the reckless way her younger sister had lived her life. Rose was speaking more out of that habitual fear than criticism.

  “Your father and I met through our families. We were both living in Mistletoe with no plans to go anywhere else, eventually joined the same church. He had a steady job at the carpet plant and was on track to go into management there. I married him because he was a decent man and showed every sign of being a stable provider.

  “Romantic love can be fleeting, deceptive. People shouldn’t act on that alone as motivation,” Rose cautioned. “It was always a great comfort to me, when you were in high school and other teenage girls were spending their Friday nights doing who-knows-what out at Mistletoe Cove, that you were too practical to get carried away.”

  The fact that so few boys had been interested in dating her also had something to do with it. “That’s me, practical Chloe.” Yes, she’d been the smart girl with straight A’s, but on rare occasions, late at night, she’d wondered what it would be like to be the exciting girl with the illicit hickey.

  Rose patted her cheek. “Don’t worry about falling in love, dear. Just do what you’ve always done and follow your brain. I rest easier knowing you’re too sensible to make the kind of spur-of-the-moment mistake other people spend so much time regretting.”

  Chloe managed a feeble smile but kept her mouth shut. Practical Chloe she may well be, but her mom had evidently never met C.J.

  CHLOE’S PARENTS had raised her to fear consequences. As a girl, she’d believed that in life, as in fairy tales, wicked deeds were punished and the true-hearted heroine would always get her happy ending. It was one of the many reasons she had never liked Candy Beemis, who proved a glaring exception to the rule. But now Chloe’s universe had gone topsy-turvy. She’d performed the single most duplicitous act of her life and was being rewarded at every turn.

  Monday morning, she woke up to a brief but entertaining e-mail from Dylan. He recounted an anecdote about a run-in with Grady, exaggerated for comedic effect, and how much he was dreading a PR event with the man later in the week. He also mentioned that he would be having lunch in Atlanta with Coach Todd Burton and that he’d been thinking about her. Then he left a message on her answering machine Tuesday to say that he’d scheduled a pickup for some of the furniture they’d decided he should replace, that he was looking forward to seeing the “new and improved” apartment when the pieces they’d ordered started to arrive later in the week, that he’d had a really inspiring lunch with Coach B.…and he was still thinking about her. A lot.

  On Wednesday evening, she hit the treadmill, showered and put on her pajamas early. She grabbed her laptop and decided to spend the rest of the night working from the comfort of her bed—one of the major perks of her job. First she checked her e-mail, experiencing an irrational twinge of disappointment when there was no further correspondence from Dylan. Get a grip. Was she so needy that she had to hear from him every day? Of course not! She was a modern independent woman.

  She was working on a dummy sample home page for Rachel Waide’s photography business when the phone rang. Tearing her attention away from an annoying spacing error, she reached for the phone. “Hello?”

  “Hey.” His voice came through the line, putting him right there in the room with her. “It’s Dylan.”

  A wide smile had spread across her face as soon as he’d said the first word, the kind of grin that was so big it threatened to make her face hurt. “This is a nice surprise.”

  He laughed, a touch self-consciously. “Is it? I don’t see how it could be all that surprising since I feel like I’ve been stalking you.”

  “It’s not officially stalking until you’ve started keeping a journal of details about the other person. And, of course, the all-important collection of candid photos and/or news clippings,” she teased.

  “Ah, good to know.” He paused, his tone less flippant when he spoke again. “I have to go to work soon, but I wondered if you had a few minutes to talk?”

  “Absolutely.” She set the laptop to hibernate and put it aside, wiggling around until she was more comfortable against the pillows.

  “Great. Because I’d value your opinion on something.”

  “Decorating issue?” She eyed the stack of feng shui books on her nightstand.

  “Career advice,” he corrected. “I told you that I had a very informative lunch with the coach yesterday. I keep tossing it over in my mind. He wants me to interview for the coaching position at the high school. I have my bachelor’s degree, but to work at a public school, there are some extra courses I’d need to take. If they were interested in hiring me, I’d probably start as an assistant to Asbury while I worked on rounding out my teaching qualifications, then I’d take over when he retires.”

  “Sounds like you and Coach B. have given this substantial thought,” she said.

  “That’s a nice way to describe my obsessing over it. I have to tell you, going back to school in any way, shape or form does not fill me with joy.”

  “I can see where that would be one of the cons for you,” she empathized. “On the pro side, you should see yourself when you talk about what baseball meant to you as a teen. I know most of the kids who play ball here in Mistletoe are never going to get a shot at it professionally, but it can still make a major difference in their lives while they’re part of the program. You could make a major difference.”

  “You sound so sure of that.” He, on the other hand, did not. “I worry about my father’s legacy. I still hear his voice in my head. I don’t want to pass that on to some other poor kid, lashing out at him because he can’t even hit a meatball pitch or because he went for the glory of tagging out a runner instead of tossing it to a closer teammate. Everyone makes mistakes, and I’m not sure I have Coach Burton’s tolerance and patience. He always made you want to try again and do better, to prove he was right to believe in you, but there are bad coaches out there, too, who can really sap your will to play.”

  She hesitated. Giving the pat assurance that he’d do a great job would be easy for her to say, but it wouldn’t really address his fears. “I understand why you’re worried, but I think you’re overlooking an important factor. You’re not fully taking into account Coach B.’s legacy. You have so much respect and affection for him that you’re far more likely to follow in his footsteps than your father’s. And because you’re already hyperaware of the importance of being firm without being cruel, I suspect you’ll be extra vigilant, weighing all your words and actions more than most do.”

  “Thank you.” He exhaled, relief clear in his voice. “That was exactly what I needed to hear.”

  Her heart thumped with excitement. “So you think there’s a chance you might really do it?”

  “I’m going to set up an interview with the school board,” he decided. “What happens after that, we’ll just have to see.”

  Dylan might be moving back to Mistletoe! She could conceivably see him every day. Chloe hung up the phone and tucked her knees to her chest, grinning in the lamplight as she hugged herself. She was euphoric.

  For all of two seconds.

  If he lived here, he’d know who she was. The only reason she’d been able to keep her secret was because it had been a long-distance fib. She’d worried about hurting him, but at
this point, it was inescapable. All that she could control was whether he found out because she herself took deliberate action, rather than his finding out from someone else. She had to tell him. The sooner, the better.

  So how was she going to do it?

  She’d been aware for years that she was a nervous babbler around people she didn’t know well—it was one of the reasons she tried to keep her mouth shut whenever possible. Better a stranger judge her aloof than think of her as the Crazy Woman Who Can’t Shut Up. Could she make Dylan understand that, when she’d seen him that first night, her mouth and brain had disconnected from each other and stuff had just started spilling out?

  Yeah, that was going to make up for lying to the man for weeks on end. She’d just tell him her mouth had gone on autopilot, and he’d tell her he understood completely. People invented new identities all the time. In the witness protection program!

  Disgusted with herself, she whipped back the covers, unbuttoning her pajama top as she crossed the room. Whatever she told him, he deserved to hear it face-to-face. And the drive to Atlanta would give her time to figure out what to say.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Surprised to hear anyone knocking at this hour, Dylan went to the front door. More than once the easygoing but chronically forgetful tenant from the second floor had locked himself out and come up here to call friends who had a spare key. The guy owned a cell phone but often neglected to keep it charged. Dylan glanced through the security hole and found not his goateed neighbor but Chloe. She must have jumped in her car scant minutes after they’d hung up.

  He opened the door and as soon as he got a good look at her tearstained face, ravaged with grief and guilt, he knew exactly why she was there. Thank God. She was confessing! He sent up a heartfelt prayer of gratitude. The ludicrous game that had spun out of control was at an end. He itched to pull her to him and rain kisses over her. He’d held himself in check until now, and his control was strained to the breaking point.

  Her presence here couldn’t have happened at a better time. Earlier tonight, she’d been the only person he wanted to turn to, the person who’d given him the exact input he’d needed, and he’d realized just how much he’d fallen for her.

  “Dylan.” She took in his partially dressed state of slacks and undershirt. “I hope I’m not bothering you, but—”

  “C.J.” Chloe. He tugged her into his arms, tilting her face up to him. She cared about him enough to share the difficult truth, had driven all this way in the middle of the night. He was delirious with the need to touch her, the need to comfort her.

  What seemed like a lifetime ago, he’d wanted to see her break down. Now all he wanted to do was kiss away her tears.

  “I am so glad to see you,” he breathed, letting go of her just long enough to shut the door behind her.

  “You might not be for long,” she warned.

  “No, don’t say that.” He shook his head. “I’ll always be glad to see you. My heart does this stutter like it’s suspended in time for that second when I first lay eyes on you. It happened when I saw you in that hotel lobby and every time since.”

  Unable to stop himself—not wanting to stop himself—he drew her back to him and kissed her. He was better at articulating his feelings that way. At the last minute, he made an attempt to slow down, softening the kiss so that he didn’t pounce on her like a starving man presented with a buffet.

  Instead, he nipped at her lower lip, sucking gently. She hadn’t bothered with makeup before her late-night drive, and it was the first time he’d ever kissed her when she wasn’t wearing lip gloss. She tasted like…Chloe, the most erotic flavor he’d ever sampled.

  Fingers meshed in her hair, he speared his tongue into the soft heat of her mouth. She whimpered, but it was clearly not a sound of protest since she was frantically wriggling closer. He kissed his way down the column of her throat, murmuring against her skin. “You are so beautiful. And I want you so badly.”

  Joining their mouths once again, he cupped her breast through the cotton of her T-shirt, and she arched into his palm. Then he lowered his hand beneath the hem, skimming over the sensitive skin of her midriff.

  Although it had never been a question he felt compelled to ask anyone before, he heard himself say, “Do you want me, too?” Even with all the physical evidence before him, there was the faintest note of uncertainty in his tone.

  She swallowed. “God, yes. You…I…”

  When the tenderness in her expression gave way to apprehension, he laid a finger over her deliciously bare lips. Now that they were finally body to body and he knew without a doubt he could trust her, he couldn’t bear to lose this moment. “Shh. It’s okay, you don’t have to put it into words.” He might not be able to throw his best fastball anymore, but physical therapy had left him more than able to scoop her up and carry her toward the bedroom. Since a charitable organization had come by to collect some of the pieces he’d be replacing, such as his nightstand, the bedroom was starker than it had been before, making the bed such a focal point of the room that it might as well have neon flashing arrows over it.

  But, of course, arrows angled at him would be negative chi, and Dylan was feeling extremely positive about life right now.

  As soon as he’d set her on the foot of the bed, he tugged off his shirt. Then he reached for hers, removing it so quickly it was as if the fabric obligingly disintegrated. She sucked in a breath, causing her chest to swell in the lacy cups of a pale pink bra. Her skin was pale, too, smooth and exquisitely delicate. Pressing her against the mattress, he dropped kisses across her shoulder and collarbone, his fingers tracing circles over her abdomen.

  “I came here to tell you something,” she said.

  He glanced up, meeting her gaze. “If it was to tell me that you think you’re falling in love with me, the feeling is mutual.”

  She froze, her eyes widening. “It is? You are?”

  Feeling far shier than he had when he’d first done this at sixteen, he nodded. She plunged her fingers through his hair, pulled him closer and kissed him fervently, putting her whole heart into it. He kissed her back, realizing that for the first time in his life, he had his whole heart to give. He’d always dated, but baseball had been his first love, demanding so much time and concentration. And after confiding in her the other night about his childhood, he felt he’d cleared out emotional cobwebs that had kept him from experiencing everything so vividly before.

  His previous encounters with women had been grainy and blurred; Chloe was hi-def.

  Kissing the slope of her breast, he was pleased to discover that her bra had a front clasp. He flicked it open with the enthusiastic awe of a boy unwrapping a long-awaited birthday present. Propping himself on an elbow, he simply admired her for a second.

  She wiggled, and he wasn’t sure if she was trying to press their bodies closer because she missed the contact or because she was trying to shield herself from his gaze. “I’m not going to be able to talk to you naked,” she fretted.

  “Excellent, then we’ll talk later.”

  “But, I—”

  “It will be okay.” He rubbed a thumb over one pebbled nipple. “It will be more than okay, I promise.” Then he lowered his head to take her in his mouth, and her words faded to gasps.

  He managed to get them both undressed, although it was difficult to concentrate on the button and zipper of his slacks with Chloe raking her nails lightly over his chest and running her tongue across his earlobe. The shell-pink panties she wore were silky, but she was far silkier beneath them, hot and wet to his touch. He pressed his thumb against her, almost lost control himself when he slid his finger into her. Her head dropped back, her breathing erotically ragged. Watching her climax was humbling.

  “You are magnificent,” he whispered, kissing her and tasting salt on her skin.

  It wasn’t until he’d rolled on a condom that he realized the fundamental flaw in his interrupting her earlier. As he sheathed himself in the welcoming tightness of her
body, he regretted not being able to call her by name. But if they had to stop now for questions and explanations…So her name became a wordless chant in his mind as he pulled back and slowly thrust. He slid his hands over the sleek muscles of her toned legs, which she’d wrapped around his hips.

  Dylan lost himself inside her. Inside her eyes and her touch and the way she quivered around him. When she came a second time, she locked her arms and legs around him and cried his name. It sent him over the edge.

  Afterward, he felt dazed and dumbstruck. He wasn’t even sure how much time had passed, although he knew it was late, when Chloe prompted, “Dylan?”

  He yawned, his eyes feeling as heavy as two-ton weights. “Hmm?”

  Her own voice sounded sleepy but determined. “Are you awake?”

  “Definitely not. Best dream of my life,” he said, hugging her.

  “Can we talk?”

  “In mornin’,” he mumbled. His last waking thought was of how lucky he’d been to go to that reunion.

  CHLOE WOKE INSTANTLY, jolted from a dreamless sleep. She felt as if she’d been unconscious for years—a naked and slightly sore Rip Van Winkle. Sunlight spilled around the edges of a window shade in an unadorned window. They’d picked out new window treatments Dylan planned to install this weekend. Dylan!

  Emotion spasmed through her, intense joy at what had taken place between them and daunting trepidation that she still hadn’t told him who she really was. Last night she’d said she couldn’t talk to him in the nude, a tactical error on her part. Perhaps she had a better shot of helping him work through his understandable anger if there weren’t a lot of clothes between them.

  “Hello?” She listened for the sound of water running or rummaging in the kitchen. “Dylan?”

  Her voice echoed in the empty apartment. Confused, she wrapped the sheet around herself, trailing it behind her as she explored the place. No mistake about it, he wasn’t here.