Tanya Michaels: Mistletoe Cinderella

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.

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.