Tanya Michaels: Mistletoe Cinderella

Chloe sighed. “What do you suppose it is about our teenage years that we never quite shake?” Even her more recent memories from the nearby college she’d attended weren’t as vivid as the day her team won the Decathlon or the day she’d realized Natalie, a teacher-assigned tutoring pupil, had become a true friend. Thinking about how much she valued Natalie, she smiled. “Tell you what, the drink’s on me.”

There was a private bar in the corner of the ballroom, but it wasn’t staffed yet. They turned toward the doorway, Chloe’s ankle momentarily twisting in the unfamiliar shoes. Wincing at the brief flare of pain, she regained her balance before she fell. You can lead me to the Manolo box, but you can’t make me walk gracefully in three-inch heels. She made sure to hold the stair rail on the way up to the lobby.

The recessed lounge was an elongated rectangle a few steps down from the main entrance. Natalie gestured to a row of four high tables against the wall. “Grab us a spot, and I’ll order.”

“But I said I’d buy,” Chloe reminded her.

“Well, I said it first. Besides…”

Chloe raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want me pushing my luck balancing in these shoes, do you?”

“So, um, white wine? Or has the red dress inspired you to have something crazy and bold like shooters?”

“What do you think?”

“Two chardonnays coming right up.”

Chloe pivoted toward a table at the far end, near an unmanned baby grand piano. She pulled herself up onto one of the two padded chrome stools at the tall table, taking the opportunity to slide off the red high heels. Her feet were wider than Natalie’s and the shoes pinched slightly. Also, Chloe was surprised she hadn’t suffered a nosebleed from the extra height. She rotated her ankles and flexed her toes, closing her eyes in blissful relief. Now all she needed was a hot, sudsy bubble bath and the assurance that she wouldn’t have to go anywhere near her senior yearbook photo ever again.

Her skin prickled, and Chloe opened her eyes, discomfited by the sudden sensation that she was being watched.

She saw him in the lobby, knew who it was immediately even though she couldn’t quite believe he was really standing there in jeans and a green shirt. Dylan’s gaze locked with hers, and electricity gathered, heavy and crackling. Sizzling energy ribboned through her.

Definitely lightning.

Dylan had returned to the hotel depleted. Following an afternoon of physical labor-fixing a leaky pipe in his mom’s kitchen, repairing the screen door-and emotionally taxing guilt that he didn’t visit more, he’d walked into the lobby unmotivated to shower and change for the reunion. Suddenly, however, he felt pretty damn alert.

The shapely brunette in the bar area was a splash of vivid color among the black tables and chairs. She’d kicked off a pair of red shoes-he noticed them as his gaze traced over her long legs-and there was something invitingly uninhibited about her sitting barefoot in an evening dress. From what he could see, everything about her was inviting.

She had her head tilted back, eyes closed, a half smile playing about her full lips as if grinning at some secret only she knew. The neckline of her gown plunged just low enough to expose the shadow of cleavage and made his fingers itch to touch her. The thick mass of loose curls spilling past her shoulders looked as soft as her creamy skin. Then her eyes opened.

Although he couldn’t tell their shade from where he stood, her startled expression as she caught sight of him was unmistakable. He was used to women doing double takes because they either admired him or recognized him. He was not accustomed to the alarm he saw on her features.

Because you were staring at her, Einstein.

The woman had opened her eyes to find a total stranger gaping at her from a few yards away. No wonder she was unnerved-although a lady who looked like that obviously got her fair share of appreciative glances. Now that she’d caught him ogling, he should go introduce himself as a nonpsycho, apologize with charm and offer to buy her a drink. This plan also meant he could look at her some more, up close. Bonus.

Then a blonde entered his line of vision, carrying two wineglasses. So much for buying the dark-haired beauty a drink. But he could still go say hi. The lighter-haired woman looked familiar, so maybe the ladies were from his graduating class, also here for the reunion. The women were holding whispered conference, and as he walked down the few steps that led into the bar, the blonde glanced over her shoulder. He definitely knew her.

Nancy? Nadia?

Natalie!

Natalie Young, he thought, recalling her name on the reunion literature he’d received in the mail. She’d been a cheerleader. He smiled, feeling a nostalgic warmth for the short-skirted green uniforms, each emblazoned with a sparkly gold M . The brunette had been a cheerleader, too, hadn’t she? He’d been more interested in redheads back in the day, but he seemed to remember the other head cheerleader had been dark-haired and gorgeous.

Her name started with a C, didn’t it? He struggled to recall it but was distracted. At this distance, he saw her eyes were an intoxicating whiskey color.

She leaned forward on the bar stool, toward him. “Dylan.” His name rolled off her tongue in a husky voice weaker men called 1-900 numbers to hear.

For a moment he forgot Natalie stood there, almost between them. “Hi.”

Natalie cleared her throat a little, sounding as if she were trying not to laugh. “Dylan Echols. Welcome back to Mistletoe. You might not remember me, but-”

“Sure I do.” With effort, he took his eyes off the brunette. “Natalie Young. I remember both of you very well.” They probably wouldn’t appreciate his reminiscences over cheerleading outfits and the effect thereof on seventeen-year-old males.

“You do? ” The brunette’s sexy contralto had somehow become a squeak of disbelief-a damn shame.

“Absolutely.” His smile was deliberately rueful. “A guy doesn’t just forget two stunning women.”

The dark-haired woman frowned at him over her wineglass. Did she think he was coming on too strong? Calling her stunning wasn’t flattery, merely a statement of fact.

Natalie picked up her own wine. “Well, I hate to take my drink and run, but duty calls. I should get back downstairs and make sure my other committee members don’t need anything. I’ll see the two of you later!”

“But we just…” The brunette trailed off when it became clear her friend, already striding toward the stairs, wasn’t listening. Then she-Connie? Caren?-turned back to him with a weak smile. Was it his imagination or had she paled? “You’ll have to excuse Natalie. She lacks subtlety.”

He grinned. “Not a problem. I’ve never been a big fan of subtle, anyway. To tell you the truth, I was going to take the straightforward approach myself, march down here and ask if I could buy you a drink, but-” Startled, he watched as she gulped down her wine in a manner he’d previously associated with keg parties.

She was either apprehensive or really thirsty.

Or perhaps she wanted the chance to take him up on his offer. Dylan signaled for a waiter. “May I join you?”

“Uh…sure. Suit yourself.”

Well, there was an enthusiastic invitation if ever he’d heard one. Not quite a swing and a miss, but maybe a foul ball. Hang in there, ace. You’ve come back from worse odds than this. The waiter stopped at their table, and Dylan placed an order for a beer and a second glass of wine.

Once they were alone again, Dylan glanced down at the discarded heels beneath their table. “Nice shoes, but I-”