Tanya Michaels - Mistletoe Cinderella

“What is it?”

“Don’t take this the wrong way, but your parents? They could be really protective. I know you were sick a lot when you were a kid, but that was a long time ago. Don’t let their good intentions smother you. You don’t have to be perfect for them.”

“Last night, I went up to a hotel room with a guy I barely know and I’m losing count of the lies I’ve told him. I don’t think we need to worry about me being perfect.”

“I just meant-”

“I know what you meant.” Chloe just wasn’t sure how she felt about it. Her parents had tried to do right by her, and she loved them a lot. But she had to admit, there had been times she’d chafed under their sheltering strictures.

Natalie stood. “Come on, then.”

“Ice cream time?”

“No, let’s hit the Web and see what we can find out about feng shui.”

“I hate that you’re helping,” Chloe said. “I feel like I’ve made you an accessory, like I’m taking you down with me.”

Natalie waved a hand. “Are you kidding? This is exciting stuff. Besides, you know I’d help with anything in my power. I owe you. You’re the only reason a bubble brain like me passed math.”

“You’re not bubble brained!” Chloe protested vehemently.

“Math sure made me feel like I was. Until I met you.”

“You just had some bad teachers.” Though Chloe herself had never had trouble in school, she knew that some instructors weren’t flexible enough to account for different learning styles. “Look at you now! Taking care of the books for a profitable retail operation. You rock.”

“Back atcha,” Natalie said with a smile. “I was serious about helping you. If you want to make changes, I’m happy to lend advice. Or shoes. Or alibis.”

Chloe laughed. The fact that the person who knew her best thought she might need an alibi showed that, for better or worse, Chloe was changing already. Here goes nothing.

“You’re such a good son,” Barb Echols said from the hallway.

No, he wasn’t. Finished in the closet, Dylan descended the ladder, thinking that his afternoon sounded like the beginning of a joke. How many ex-baseball players does it take to screw in a lightbulb?

Just one, but it took him months to get around to the job. They both knew he’d done the bare familial minimum for years-mailing tickets to games and the occasional Mother’s Day card-but it was just like Barb to content herself on scraps of affection. He’d watched her settle throughout her marriage; an ugly thought chilled him. Was he no better than his father?

“Hey, Mom?” Dylan folded the collapsible ladder and shoved it to the back of the closet, wishing it were as easy to push aside his burgeoning self-disgust. “Would you like to go with me to dinner tomorrow night?”

She blinked the green eyes that he’d inherited. “But you have that important banquet at the KC Hall.”

“I know. I’m asking you to come with me as my date.”

“Me?” She looked shocked by the small gesture.

Why shouldn’t she be? He hadn’t even come home for the holidays, citing his busy new work schedule covering college football games. He hadn’t known then that it would be his father’s last Christmas. Would I have done anything differently? He wasn’t honestly sure, but his relationship with the man was now a moot point. His mom was a different story.

“Come with me,” he reiterated. “Unless you have other plans already? A lady scolded me just earlier today that it’s bad manners to ask at the last minute.”

Chloe had tried to sound mock-indignant at his eleventh-hour invitation, but he could tell she’d been anxious about the idea of going somewhere in public with him. Still, she’d exhibited plenty of nerve when, instead of wisely backing down, she’d brazenly agreed to come to his condo for a decorating consultation! As if he wouldn’t be able to tell she was a fake. What kind of moron did she think he was, to be duped by spluttered nonsense like “a philosophy of the placement of stuff”?

Please. A layman could pick up better specifics than that during a thirty-second HGTV commercial. Chloe was playing him for a fool, but she couldn’t keep it up forever.

“Earlier today?” Barb echoed, pursing her lips. “I’m not the first person you’ve invited to this dinner, am I?”

Oh, hell. Sensitivity was not his strong suit. “Sorry, Mom, I-”

“Are you kidding?” She beamed. “I’d love you to start dating a nice Mistletoe girl!”

She’s not that nice. Despite himself, he recalled the self-deprecating way she’d admitted to her high school crush on him-had that part been true?-and the pain in her voice when she spoke of the aunt she’d obviously adored. Plus, she’d blushed last night in his hotel room, hardly seeming a jaded woman of wiles. She had her parents’ picture displayed on her fridge as proudly as his mother had once hung his kindergarten drawings and, later, his baseball cards. Chloe had even asked how his mother was faring after his dad’s death, showing more compassion than Dylan himself, who avoided thinking about home.

The truth was, he didn’t know what to make of the woman.

He considered asking his mother if she knew anything about her, but Barb already looked entirely too delighted by the prospect of his seeing a local girl, probably imagining his being around more and chubby-cheeked grandchildren. He didn’t want to get her hopes up, especially since his association with Chloe Malcolm was going to be short-lived and would no doubt end badly once he exposed her as the shameless fraud she was.

AS SOON AS Dylan escorted his mom into the hall, his eyes went to Todd Burton, standing amid a throng of well-wishers. Whether the older man was actually stooped with age or Dylan was taller now than he’d been as a high school freshman, Coach B. seemed smaller than he once had, but he was still just as imposing, just as solid. He’d already been losing his red hair when Dylan had played for him; now, only a circle of faded orange and silver remained around his mostly bald head. Dylan was startled to see that the man had gotten rid of the matching mustache. He’d never seen Coach Burton clean shaven before.

The last time the two of them had seen each other was when Dylan had been in the hospital after the first shoulder surgery. Coach had come to visit him. Michael Echols had not.

When Dylan’s father had died right after the new year, Coach Burton had been visiting his daughter in Colorado before the school’s spring semester started. He’d ordered an arrangement of flowers for the funeral and later visited Barb to tell her he was here if she needed anything. Dylan wondered if his mother had ever taken the man up on his offer. Barb could be borderline passive-aggressive, depending completely on others while constantly fretting that she didn’t “want to be a bother.” She’d adopted an apologetic attitude with her own husband, instead of grabbing him by the collar, reminding him that she was half of the marriage, too, and demanding his respect.

In spite of himself, Dylan grinned at the mental image. He would have paid damn good money to see tiny Barb, five foot nothing in her stocking feet, give Michael Echols a piece of her mind. Since leaving home, Dylan had avoided timid women as if they were a curse, gravitating instead toward females who did whatever they wanted. Of course, that practice had netted him women like Heidi. There must be a middle ground he was missing.

“Echols!” The coach had looked up from the people talking to him and spotted his one-time protégé. With a quick nod of dismissal to the people surrounding him, he covered ground in the exact manner Dylan remembered. How many times had he seen that purposeful stride as Coach headed out to the pitcher’s mound to confer during practice or a game?

Nostalgia bubbled up, forming a lump of emotion in Dylan’s chest. Being a guy, he hadn’t cried when he lost his major league career-although, dear God, he’d wanted to at times, wondering if it would help him purge any of the frustration, fury and loss-and he hadn’t shed a tear over his father’s grave. Barb had sobbed enough for both of them, and Dylan had played the part of the stoic son, holding her and thanking everyone who’d come to pay their respects, knowing that many of them were there out of obligation to his mother not affection for Michael. Now, Dylan’s vision blurred for just an instant, his eyes stinging.

Then he blinked, and the world righted itself again. “Coach.” He clapped the man’s shoulder, leaning into it and making it a half hug. “It’s good to see you.”

“You, too.” Coach Burton squeezed him hard, strong as an ox despite his advancing years. Speaking low enough that only Dylan could hear him, he added, “I’m sorry I couldn’t get back in time to be here for you in January, son.”

Dylan swallowed and nodded.

Coach Burton moved back, turning to Barb. “Mrs. Echols, you’re looking as lovely as ever. I’m glad you made him bring you. It’s good to see you again.”

“I was glad he asked! You’ve been such a special person to our whole family.” A cloud passed over her face. “I’m just sorry Michael couldn’t be here for this.”

Taking the diplomatic path, Coach patted her arm and said nothing. During his summers off, he’d attended some of Dylan’s pro games. They’d gone out for beer afterward once, and Coach Burton had let slip the opinion that any man who routinely made himself feel more important by belittling his kid should be horsewhipped. As Dylan approached thirty, he found himself wondering if he’d ever settle down and if, assuming he ever became a parent himself someday, he’d be a decent dad. After all, his own father hadn’t provided a shining role model. But I had Coach. That was more than some kids ever got.

Other guys were coming through the doorway now, including Nick and Shane, who was accompanied by a very pretty girl with golden hair. Both men hailed Dylan with loud greetings.