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.