Tanya Michaels - Mistletoe Cinderella

I’ll need to do some damage control later, Chloe thought. She’d cut Brenna off at least three times in a two-minute conversation and had tried too hard to seem bubbly and unconcerned, veering into deranged. She didn’t want to lose Brenna’s account.

Glancing back at Dylan, she acknowledged with a sinking sensation in the pit of her stomach that she risked losing something far more valuable.

What did a woman wear to her own downfall? Chloe wondered as she scanned the contents of her closet Saturday at dawn.

Dylan had e-mailed her after his newscast late Thursday night to tell her he was really impressed with some of the notes she’d made regarding his condo. She’d happened to be awake at the time, working on her laptop, so she’d responded immediately. They’d gone from exchanging e-mails to instant messaging-it was almost a little sad how much easier it was for her to express herself through emoticons than face-to-face communication.

Though she’d enjoyed flirting and chatting during her cyber interaction with Dylan-typing was more deliberate than speaking, protecting her from the nervous babbling she was prone to-the computer screen was a lackluster substitute for the man. The more they’d talked, the more she’d wished she was with him. As a teen, she’d bought into the illusion that he was the guy who effortlessly had it all. The reality of him was far more fascinating, an intoxicating puzzle. She wanted to learn all his edges and pieces; everything he’d revealed about himself so far only attracted her more. As a bonus, when she was with him, she’d also been discovering more about who she was. The only downside to their time together was that she lived in fear of blurting out the wrong thing, clumsily exposing herself as a liar.

You’re living on borrowed time, C.J.

When he’d broached the subject of when she could go with him to look for furnishings and decor, she’d agreed to come to Atlanta today. They’d spend the day shopping then have an early dinner before he had to work. She was resolved that, over dinner, she’d tell him everything and hope for the best. She didn’t know if he would forgive her, but if she didn’t rectify the situation, she wouldn’t be able to forgive herself. One way or the other, this stressful pretense would be ended by tomorrow.

She wasn’t sure what they’d be eating, but she hoped it would be good. A girl had high expectations for her last meal.

DYLAN TRIED to keep his eyes on the road, but it was damn difficult with Chloe right next to him, smiling as she reclined her head against the passenger seat. Some of the shorter strands of her layered hair had escaped the barrette, framing her face in soft tendrils.

“Enjoying the convertible?” he asked.

“Mmm. If I had this car, I’d get a job delivering pizzas so I could be driving all the time.”

He chuckled. “You’d need to make really good tips delivering pizzas if you were going to pay for it, though.”

She mock-glared at him over the top her sunglasses. “I’m daydreaming over here. Do not bother me with trivial stuff like reality.”

Reality. Was it as clear-cut as he’d once assumed? He’d been angry at her for lying, but there was more C.J. in her than she realized. Whatever her technical job description really was, she’d thrown herself skillfully into the task of suggesting changes for his apartment. Once, he’d assumed that the reality of his injury was that baseball wouldn’t be part of his life anymore, but maybe he’d been needlessly limiting his opportunities. On a gorgeous spring day like this, spending his afternoons coaching a bunch of eager kids who loved baseball as much as he did sounded far better than spending six nights a week alongside Grady Medlock. Maybe it was time for both him and Chloe to reexamine what was real and what was malleable.

They reached the interior-decorating warehouse shortly after it opened for the day. While Dylan secured the roof on the car, Chloe fussed with her windblown hair and withdrew a slim tube of lip gloss from her purse.

“I have to know.” He watched her put on the shiny layer of color, wanting to kiss it off of her before she’d even finished applying it. “What flavor?”

She blinked, looking startled by the question. “My gloss? Butter pecan.”

It made him think of ice cream, the cold sweetness of it melting on his tongue. He hardened at the thought of Chloe against his tongue.

“This cosmetic habit of yours is thoroughly distracting,” he told her. “I never know what you’ll taste like. It’s like dating a woman who wears staid business suits with naughty lingerie underneath. A man could go crazy wondering what’s next to her skin. A whisper of ivory silk or a leopard-print thong?”

Chloe’s cheeks flamed pink. Had he offended her with the analogy?

After a moment, she smiled. “I’m glad I distract you. Even if it is just my makeup.”

He echoed what she’d once said to him in his apartment. “It’s not ‘just’ anything. It’s you.”

“Thank you for asking me to come with you today,” she said. “I…wanted to see you.”

“Ditto. And I don’t trust myself to decorate the condo by myself. You saw what happened when left to my own devices.” He gave an exaggerated shudder, listing some of the feng shui terms she’d taught him. “Elements in conflict, ‘secret arrows’ every place you look…catastrophe. Save me from myself.”

“Don’t worry, my assistance is yours as long as you want it.” Opening her door, she added softly, “I plan to see this through.”

As they crossed the asphalt toward the massive shopping complex, Chloe asked, “So, which of the eight areas do you want to really focus on? Harmonious balance is key, but what are your immediate goals? Wealth? Career? Love? I’ve…been surprised that there’s no girlfriend in your life. There’s not a girlfriend, right?”

“What the hell kind of guy do you think I am?” Dylan was incensed. He’d kissed Chloe on multiple occasions-not brief pecks of greeting or farewell, either. Deep soul kisses that had shaken him. He knew players who had “girlfriends” in cities up and down the Eastern Coast, but that had never been his style.

She bridged the gap between them, taking his hand. “I’m sorry. That came out sounding like, I don’t know, an accusation. It was just a surprise.”

He grunted, not mollified. It was ironic that she suspected him of being untrustworthy, the kind of guy who would nonchalantly cheat on a woman.

“You’re smart and funny and successful,” she continued. “The best-looking guy I’ve ever seen in real life and not on a movie screen. In short, a man some single women would commit unholy acts to meet.”

It was difficult to stay angry after praise like that. She thinks I’m smart? Rationally he’d known for years that dyslexia was a reading disorder and no reflection of actual intelligence. He was not stupid, but he had to remind himself of that routinely.

He held open the heavy glass door for her. “You asked about the area I’m most interested in? Knowledge. With the right knowledge, the information and wisdom to make good decisions, it seems like a lot of the other areas would fall into place.”

For instance, should he play it safe and keep his lucrative job in Atlanta, the city that had become home over the past few years? Or throw that away on Coach B.’s whim and return to the place that held some of his ugliest memories?

“Good thinking,” Chloe said approvingly. “Of course, some people feel that too much knowledge can be dangerous. Just ask Adam and Eve.”

“I’ll take my chances. Ignorance gets good PR, but I don’t think it’s as blissful as people say.”

Chloe had pulled a little memo pad out of her purse. He watched over her shoulder as she jotted down colors that he assumed were applicable to wisdom: yellow, brown and other earthy tones, blue.

“You have that small bookshelf in your living room. We could move it to the knowledge area. And we should find you a great lamp while we’re here.” She tapped her temple. “For enlightenment.”

“It disturbs me that I can’t tell if you’re being sincere or if you’re just making bad puns.”

She gave him a cheeky smile. “Can’t I do both? Oh, we should go down that aisle. Vases!”

“I hear vase and my only two associations are priceless Ming, which is not in our budget, and girly bud vases. I’m evolved enough that I don’t think I have to decorate in leather and moose heads to prove anything, but-”

“Nothing pink and curvy and filled with flowers?” Chloe rolled her eyes. “Duh. Trust me, Echols.”

Paradoxically, he did.

AFTER DYLAN’S wholehearted appreciation last time, Chloe had briefly considered bringing another key lime pie with her to dinner at his place. Instead, she’d opted to make the drive to Atlanta with a bottle of white wine. She was going to need a little liquid courage for after they’d eaten, and there was the hope that wine would mellow Dylan before she dropped her bombshell.

While he sautéed the shrimp, she found a corkscrew. Chardonnay helped get me into this mess, chardonnay can help get me out.

“Can I pour you a glass of this?” she asked.

“Yes, thanks, but just one. I still have to do my broadcast later.” He sounded endearingly disgruntled. “Trust me, I would much rather be here with you than delivering the sports news alongside Grady Medlock.”

She clucked her tongue sympathetically. “He’s still being a jerk?”

“At this point, jerk would be a step up. He disliked me from the word go, but the hostility’s gotten more personal.”

“How so?” She settled on a stool, observing him cook for the sheer joy of watching his body move. Poetry in motion had always sounded like a cheesy cliché no one but professional ballroom dancers could ever live up to, but Dylan made her rethink her cynicism.