Tanya Michaels: Mistletoe Cinderella

“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.

But on the otherwise tidy kitchen counter sat a gold key on a Braves keychain and a note. It took her a second to adjust to his handwriting, definitely the kind described as chicken-scratch.

C,

Had to leave early-damn PR thing. Couldn’t wake you. Stay as long as you want. Lock up when you go.

Call you,

D.

For no good reason, despair filled her. She had next to no experience with mornings after, but while some of them had been awkward, this was the only one that had featured a jotted memo instead of the actual guy. What were you expecting, a sonnet? Well, no. But “last night was the most magical experience of my life” would have been nice. Or at the very least, “love, Dylan.” Even “fondly” would have been an improvement to the terse letter.

She found herself chewing on her thumbnail and she impatiently dropped her hand. Had he really tried to wake her? Sneaking off in the light of day with a vague promise of calling later sounded like the horror stories she’d heard from girlfriends on the unreliability of guys. Stop being so insecure. He’s never given you any reason not to believe him. In point of fact, she was the liar in this relationship.

Oh God. She’d slept with a man under false pretenses. How had she let it get that far? Images played through her mind-the way he’d looked at her, spoken to her, touched her. Okay, she knew how she’d let it happen; she just wished she’d told him the truth first. Now it was going to be doubly hard. She wasn’t even sure when he would be back. Earlier in the week he’d mentioned a publicity function at Turner Field, some sort of all-day event each of Channel Six’s personalities were expected to attend. Should she-

The phone cut into the silence, making her jump. She didn’t answer, figuring that if Dylan wanted to talk to her, he would have tried her cell. A moment later, his voice filled the condo as he told the caller no one was available right now and instructed them to speak at the beep.

“Hey, dude, it’s Nick. Ran into Coach at the bakery and he said it looks as if you’re gonna apply. It will take someone special to fill his cleats-you’d be perfect. And I called ’cause my curiosity is killing me-what happened with Chloe? Next time you’re in town, holler. You, me and Shane will hang out.”

What happened with Chloe?

Nausea swamped her so hard she almost fell, grabbing the edge of the counter to steady herself. He knew! She’d racked her brain trying to figure out how to tell him, and he knew. Had known, last night when he’d made love to her. When he’d interrupted her multiple times as she tried to spit out the truth. Not only did he know, he’d told his buddies about it.

She pressed her hands to her eyes. Had this been a lark for him, or something more sinister like revenge?

While she had been dying a thousand deaths over her deception, had he been planning all along to seduce her and teach her a lesson? Boy, did you let yourself get seduced! They’d gone from first base to scoring pretty damn quickly. She was ashamed of herself. I should have told him sooner, should have tried harder…

True. But did that excuse his yukking it up with friends? Nick wanted an update. Would Dylan give him one? Would she become the grown-up equivalent of locker-room talk? She’d considered Nick a friend once, or at least a friendly acquaintance. Then again, he’d dated Candy Beemis, hung out with a lot of the same popular kids who’d sneered at her and called her Klutzy Chloe. Were they all laughing again? She knew she’d screwed up, but she hated that instead of just calling her a liar, Dylan had turned her into the butt of an old joke that hadn’t been funny ten years ago and wasn’t now.

The difference was, she was no longer a mild-mannered seventeen-year-old who lacked the backbone to stand up for herself. She was furious. What would C.J. do?

Looking around the kitchen with the strategic gaze of a woman scorned, she glimpsed the business card they’d picked up from the decorating warehouse, where Dylan had introduced her as his decorator. The card was pressed to the fridge with a magnet from a local Chinese delivery place. She retrieved it, staring at the promise that they provided the essentials for every design taste and philosophy. With an idea beginning to take shape in her mind, she slid the card into her purse-which also contained the uncashed check she’d planned to return as a symbolic gesture once she’d told him who she wasn’t.

Chloe scanned her mental library of everything she’d read about feng shui. She’d promised to help Dylan use the guidelines for more positive energy, after all, and she’d always excelled at book learning. Now she was going to take a bunch of suggestions and get Dylan Echols all the good chi he deserved.

IF GRADY MEDLOCK HAD made one smart-ass comment about how goodwill events didn’t involve being abrupt with the public…well, he would have been absolutely right. Dylan tried to tamp down his impatience, but he was dying to get out of there. It had nothing to do with being in this stadium, where he’d once played and hadn’t been able to imagine anything more thrilling than the roar of the crowd and the certainty that came with the perfect pitch that the batter would miss. Instead, it was all about the woman he’d kissed goodbye that morning. Although she’d snored through that, he recalled, grinning inwardly.

When he’d first awakened, a naked Chloe in his arms, he’d entertained calling in sick. But if his interview with the school board went well, he was about to spit in the faces of those who had pulled strings and lobbied for him to have the Channel Six job. The very least he could do was honor his final commitments.

Then he would be free to go home to Mistletoe, to baseball and to Chloe.

The day passed in an eternity of small talk and autographs. He stole a fifteen-minute break for a late lunch and tried Chloe’s cell number, but there was no answer. Since all the words that came to mind seemed inadequate, he didn’t bother with a message. Finally, he was free to go…and sit in Atlanta traffic. He glared at the cars moving so slowly they might as well be parked. What sadistic fan of irony had deemed this “rush” hour?

When he got home, he raced up the stairs two at a time, knowing even as he did so that it was foolish. There was a good chance she wouldn’t even be there. It had been a gift that she’d shown up last night, but he couldn’t expect her to put her life on hold and sit around waiting for him all day. It was a sweet fantasy, though, the idea that he would come home to find Chloe.

Maybe even in bed? He had dyslexia and a bum rotator cuff. A naked Chloe reclining on his mattress would be the perfect way for karma to make it all up to him.

“Hello?” He was calling out even before he had the door fully open. “Is any-”

What in the name of all that was holy and good had happened to his apartment?

His gaze was bouncing around like a caffeinated preschooler, moving so quickly that he couldn’t really process everything he was seeing. Such as that one section of the room where there was so much purple and gold that it looked like Mardi Gras had thrown up in the corner.

Purple and gold. She’d said that those colors were associated with wealth, hadn’t she? In the “romance” area were fuzzy pink heart-shaped pillows resting on his couch. And a red throw rug with hideous naked cavorting cupids!