Tanya Michaels: Mistletoe Cinderella

“Can I see that menu?” she asked, extending her hand.

“Absolutely.” He passed it to her. “I think I know what I want.”

Her heart thudded faster. Since when did everything sound like a double entendre? Since someone as sexy as Dylan Echols is the one saying it. The man could read aloud from programming manuals and make them sound hot.

After she’d decided on the steak salad and he chose the prime-rib dip, he called down to the kitchen.

He hung up the phone and smiled that same grin she remembered from civics class. “They said about twenty minutes. Can I get you something to drink in the meantime? I’ve got bottled water and colas.”

“I could use a water, thanks.” She closed her eyes for a moment. While the room wasn’t quite spinning, it wasn’t as stationary as she was used to, either.

Leaning into the minifridge, Dylan reverted to his earlier questions. “Just to clarify, did we establish that you’re in interior design or-”

“Uh-huh.” Interior design sounded like a far more sophisticated profession than computer nerd, even if it was absurdly out of character. “Interior designer. That’s me,” she said wistfully.

“You like what you do?”

She took a chilled bottle from him, nodding. “It might not be everyone’s cup of tea, but yeah. I started out helping friends like Natalie, and word of mouth spread. I size up new clients, try to understand how they see themselves and how they want others to see them. Then I figure out the best way to capture them visually, to help them present that image.” She put a lot of thought into which fonts, graphics, color schemes and page layouts conveyed the most effective mood and brand.

“You must really be a people person to have that kind of insight into strangers and help them express themselves.”

A people person? “I never thought of it that way. Of course, this is Mistletoe. There aren’t that many true ‘strangers.’”

“So you did stay local, then.”

“Yes.” Thinking of Jane’s memorial service-all the things her vivacious aunt had done with her life and all the things Chloe had not-she added emphatically, “But I have plans to travel. Big plans!”

He chuckled. “You don’t have to convince me. I believe you.”

You shouldn’t. Half of what had come out of her mouth tonight was big fat lies. “Dylan…”

“Yes?” His voice slid down her spine, full of promise.

She shivered, whatever she’d been about to say evaporating.

Fresh air, that’s what she needed. Fresh air and an enormous do-over where this evening was concerned.

Chloe nodded toward the sliding-glass door. “Mind if we step out on the balcony while we wait?”

“Great idea.” He opened the door for them, and a pleasant breeze rippled into the room.

It was a beautiful spring evening, the night soft against Chloe’s bare arms, but the balcony itself was incredibly small. She hadn’t realized when she suggested coming out here that it would force her and Dylan even closer-not that she was complaining exactly. The heretofore undiscovered brazen part of her wanted to lean into him.

“Pretty night,” Dylan murmured, his profile to her. He glanced at the stars, then out at a landscape she imagined was worlds homier than Atlanta. “Nice view, too…even if we are only five stories up instead of looking down from one of the many penthouses to which I am accustomed.”

Chloe smirked. “You’re mocking me.”

He turned. “Maybe just a little.”

Smoothing a hand over her hair, he tucked a few strands behind her ear, out of reach of the light wind. His hand rested against her cheek. They stood motionless, so still that Chloe doubted she was even breathing. If asthma attacks felt like this, she wouldn’t mind them so much. What was oxygen compared to a moment like this, staring into those amazing deep green eyes and seeing herself-a more exotic, more sensual version of herself-reflected?

A mere week ago, she’d been chiding herself at Jane’s memorial service to start seizing the day, to take risks and reap the rewards. Now here she was, practically in the arms of the most alluring man she’d ever known. All it would take was a step forward…She stretched up to press her lips to his, although she might have lost her nerve if he hadn’t leaned down to meet her.

After one stunned second of paralysis, she closed her eyes and gave herself up to the moment, the once-in-a-lifetime chance to live out cherished fantasies. Wrapping her hand around his neck, she stood on tiptoe and kissed him back, dizzy with sensation.

Carpe Dylan .

In the past, Dylan had prided himself on having finesse and being in control, but now he found himself reacting with pure instinct and enthusiastic need. C.J. tasted like woman and chocolate and wine, addictive, her mouth smothering his soft groan. It was the kind of kiss a man wanted to crawl inside, losing himself. Everything that had been eating at him lately, all his doubts and frustration, melted away.

Dropping one hand to her waist, he threaded the other through her hair, tilting her head back and deepening the kiss. But he was restless, craving more of the tantalizing contact, not content to keep his hands still when there was so much of her waiting to be explored. He skimmed over the smooth warmth of her shoulders, curving up to the straps of her red dress, letting his fingers slide slightly beneath the fabric. He heard her breath hitch and pulled away slightly.

“Let’s go back in,” he said with an involuntary glance at the king-size bed just beyond.

“’Kay.” She looked shell-shocked, in an adorably feminine way, her bourbon eyes dazed and her lips swollen.

“You taste like chocolate,” he heard himself say, a bit dazed himself.

She raised a finger to her bottom lip. “It’s my gloss.”

Which he’d no doubt kissed off of her by now-or would in the immediate future. Grinning, he reached for her again.

They were interrupted by a rap on the door and a cheerful male voice calling, “Room service!”

Dylan groaned. The intrusion was his own damn fault-after all, he’d been the one to order the food-but right now the only thing he hungered for was C.J.

She, however, had sprung back at the sound of the knock, guilt stamped all over her features as if she and Dylan were Mistletoe High students again, caught by the principal making out. Would it make her feel self-conscious if Dylan hollered out just to leave the food in the hall?

With a sigh, he opened the door. A guy in a dark suit and his very early twenties was beaming behind a silver cart. “Mr. Echols? It’s an honor to meet you, sir. Several of us flipped a coin to see who’d get to bring up your dinner.”

Dylan managed not to grimace at the sir, feeling much older than the hotel employee even though they were probably only separated by half a dozen years. “Well, it’s nice to meet you, too-?”

“Artie. My brother plays catcher over at the school. I made the team when I was there, but mostly warmed the bench. We think he could go all the way. Pro, like you.” At Dylan’s polite but cool nod, Artie stopped gushing. “Um…where would you like the food, sir?”

As Dylan turned to indicate the table and two chairs, he realized that C.J. had disappeared-into the restroom, he suspected, to freshen her lipstick and smooth her mussed hair.

“Over here is fine,” Dylan said, signing for their dinner. “Tell your brother I said good luck.”

Artie’s youthful grin flashed again. “Will do. Thanks, Mr. Echols!”

It wasn’t that Dylan was completely bitter about baseball-he still loved the game and always would-but it continued to sting when people referenced his baseball career. His dream had been to be remembered as truly great at the game, and now there was no way of ever knowing how close he could have come.