Mistletoe Cinderella

For the majority of Dylan’s reports, he had plenty of time to prepare beforehand, but he’d flubbed some incoming college scores on the teleprompter. Falling back on adolescent habits, he’d made a joke to cover his unease reading aloud. Why had he thought this local sportscaster position was a good idea? Because you didn’t have a Plan B.

He’d known what he wanted to do with his life ever since he pitched his first elementary school baseball game, striking out older kids with more practice. He’d known the major leagues were his destiny, but he’d had no idea what to do when the glorious ride screeched to an abrupt halt.

Liza, the divorced hair and makeup artist with a bright smile and a kid, darted forward to give Dylan a powder touch-up. He wondered if he would ever adjust to having to use on-air cosmetics. Pretty boy, his father would have sneered. More looks than brains. Thank God you have a decent throwing arm.

“Great job tonight,” Liza offered.

“Really?” He was careful to keep his tone teasing, not want to take his annoyance out on her. “What broadcast have you been watching?”

“Your recovery was fantastic. Don’t let Grady bother you. He’s a jerk.”

Dylan flashed a quick smile. “That’s nicer than what I usually call him.”

Grady Medlock was an insecure windbag who clung to the hope that covering important events made him important by extension. He’d been none too thrilled when Channel Six hired an ex-Braves player whose minor celebrity status threatened his own. Dylan sympathized with having insecurities, but he had no patience for men who puffed up their own egos by belittling their teammates.

The commercial break ended, and the cameras cut to the weather segment. Dylan could seethe in peace until it was time for the entire Channel Six crew to bid viewers good-night. As he stood, unfastening his lavalier mike, he noticed Liza hovering to his left at the edge of the lights.

He chuckled at her anxious expression. “I’m not that upset. Don’t worry about me.”

“Is that how I look?” She smiled self-consciously. “You’re probably sensing nervousness.”

“About?”

“Asking you to dinner this weekend,” she said in a rush. “My ex has our son for a couple of days, and you’re not on the schedule, so…I heard about you and Heidi.”

Who hadn’t? His spotlight-seeking former girlfriend had thrown her arms around her new beau right in the middle of a postgame interview. Dylan winced. They hadn’t been together long enough for him to be broken-hearted, but he hated to be humiliated. Though Liza’s interest in him might be a soothing balm to the ego, this job was already awkward without adding the complication of dating a co-worker.

“Thanks for the invite,” he said, “but I’m out of town this weekend. Going home.” The word felt clunky and foreign on his tongue. Despite the years that had passed, his mother still called Mistletoe his home, as in when will you be…?

“Town in north Georgia, right?” Liza snapped her fingers. “Christmas? Evergreen?”

“Mistletoe.” For such a small place, it held a vast store of conflicting memories. He’d struggled through his early school years—far worse than the actual dyslexia had been his father’s disdain that Dylan couldn’t read properly—but he’d later developed his fastball and his confidence. Most important, he’d been blessed with Coach Todd Burton’s mentorship. The gruff affection of the high school coach, who was officially retiring this spring and would be honored at a dinner this weekend, had almost made up for Dylan’s uncomfortable home life.

Almost.

Liza nodded. “Well, have a good time.”

“Thanks.” High school had been a good time. He’d set the division record for strikeouts but never struck out with his female classmates. He’d graduated with an indulgent fondness for Mistletoe High, grateful for what had taken place during the four years but knowing he was headed for bigger things.

Now he was returning, a twenty-seven-year-old has-been. Would he enjoy the reunion? He didn’t want to be one of those clichés who stood around all night with a beer in hand, reminiscing over former glory. For a second, he regretted his RSVP.

However, on the heels of his breakup, it seemed like a good time to get out of Atlanta for a few days, and his mom deserved better than to be neglected by her only child. In earlier years, he might have resented that she hadn’t done more to intervene, buffering him from his emotional bully of a father, but it was hard to be angry when she seemed so lost without her late husband. Dylan planned to stay at the reunion hotel, visiting the house to see his mom and find out if there was anything she needed done around the old place. The moment of the weekend he most looked forward to and simultaneously dreaded was presenting the appreciation award at Coach Burton’s dinner. Perhaps more than anyone else in the entire town, Coach had believed in him. Dylan was sorry that two shoulder surgeries hadn’t been able to keep their combined dream a reality.

He grimaced at the weekend that stretched ahead. If he were really lucky, his mother would be in a cheerful, noncloying mood, the reunion band would be loud and the hotel would be filled with pretty alumnae feeling nostalgic.

“I CAN’T BELIEVE you talked me into wearing these!” Chloe stepped out of the car, hyperaware of the towering heels she’d borrowed. She’d accepted Natalie’s red shoes and patient help with a curling iron, drawing the line at crimson lipstick and salon highlights.

Natalie grinned as she handed her keys to the valet. “I can’t believe it, either, but you look great.”

Chloe tottered into the lobby, trying to adjust to Natalie’s expensive pride-and-joy shoes. Natalie had said she was glad someone could wear them tonight since they wouldn’t have matched her sapphire-blue spaghetti-strapped dress. Ironically, the appreciative way the hotel clerk behind the counter followed Chloe with his eyes did nothing to bolster her. Women like her aunt knew how to gracefully handle attention; Chloe always felt breathless and panicky. Why couldn’t she have been more of a “people person” like Jane or Natalie? Even Chloe’s professional contact with clients was done largely through e-mails, rather than face-to-face.

“I tell you what,” Natalie said sympathetically, “let’s check to make sure there aren’t any last-minute glitches with the reunion committee or hotel staff, then I’ll buy you a drink in the lobby bar, okay?”

“Deal.” Chloe followed her friend downstairs, fighting the urge to tug at the top of her dress. She’d never left the house with this much cleavage exposed.

One floor below the main lobby, an elegant corridor led to the ballroom. Waitstaff in white tuxedo jackets were setting tables in the back half of the room. Toward the front, a stage set with sound equipment overlooked a portable dance floor. An archway had been created with tightly fastened helium balloons of green and gold, their alma mater’s colors. Against the entrance wall was a long table covered in a gold cloth and rows of name tags. A man and woman, both in formal attire, stood near it.

Natalie headed in their direction. The man was Jack Allen, who had been their student-body president and was now a married father employed by the planning office of city hall. The striking dark-haired woman next to him was—ugh—Candy Beemis.

Though Chloe had seen her former nemesis around from time to time, they hadn’t spoken since high school. Candy was the personal assistant to one of the town’s wealthiest women and spent most of her time in elite circles. Well, as elite as Mistletoe got, anyway. The brunette’s shimmering white one-shouldered dress looked like a toga as reimagined for the Academy Awards. Annoyingly, she hadn’t gained a visible pound in the past ten years.

“Hi.” Chloe smiled in their combined direction but focused on Jack’s congenial face.

He returned the smile, his gaze apologetic. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m blanking on who you are.”

“Chloe. Chloe Malcolm?”

“Right. Sorry. I’m terrible with names. My wife harasses me about it constantly. I have entire building forms memorized, but can forget our neighbor’s name in the middle of a barbecue.” He turned to Natalie, reporting on the event’s status. “Everything’s well in hand. We had to make a quick appetizer substitution, but they’re not charging us extra. Candy was just on the phone with the band’s lead singer. ETA is about ten minutes for sound check.”

“Nat, you did such a darling job on the flowers,” Candy interjected with a toss of her sleek, shampoo-commercial hair. “One of these days I’m going to have to develop an actual skill. And, Chloe! I hear you’re quite the entrepreneur. If I had it to do all over again, I’d go the computer-nerd route myself.”

No, you wouldn’t.

Even though Candy’s tone was playful, no overt malice, Chloe bristled. It was one thing for Natalie to call from the shop, freaking out because the computer had crashed and she needed the help of a “professional geek.” Yet being reminded of all the times Candy had indeed made Chloe feel like a socially awkward nerd—and encouraged others to treat her as such—was different.

Behind her polite smile, Chloe ground her teeth. She gestured toward a table covered with a green cloth and Mistletoe High memorabilia. “I think I’m just going to stroll down memory lane.”

As the reunion committee finished their conversation, Chloe idly studied framed pictures from pep rallies and school plays. Gold and resplendent, the trophy from the state baseball championship sat in the center of the table; the Academic Decathlon first prize she’d helped win sat off to the side. Still, she grinned at the unlikely parallel of her and Dylan Echols, school superstars. And here I thought we wouldn’t have much in common to discuss.

Beyond the mementos Natalie had convinced the high school to let them borrow sat rows of name tags. Leaning over for a closer look, Chloe realized that each tag was printed with a black-and-white yearbook photo and identity: Chloe Ann Malcolm. Period. She hadn’t flown high enough on the social radar to earn the Most Popular, Most Likely to Succeed or Most Likely to Make You Laugh labels that accompanied some of the other names.

Natalie had not warned her that she’d be walking around all night with that awful senior portrait pinned to her chest. Eek. In Chloe’s junior picture, she’d removed her glasses and squinted, so she’d overcorrected the next year. With her wide eyes, lopsided formal drape and mouth caught between forced smiles she couldn’t hold long, she looked surprised and frightened of the photographer. Not flattering.

The silver lining had been that shortly after Chloe’s parents had seen the picture, they’d finally allowed the contact lenses she so desperately wanted.

Surveying the photos of her classmates, she stifled a laugh. She wouldn’t be the only one regretting her senior photo. In his shot, Brady Callahan sneered at the camera, his hair teased into short spikes and his eyes rimmed with black eyeliner; he’d long since outgrown his Goth phase and was a deacon for a local church. A few students who’d been into grunge at the time proved that what looks trendy one day merely looks like an aversion to hygiene the next. Of course, Natalie, blond and smiling, looked perfect in her picture. All the cheerleaders did.

If it weren’t for Nat being her best friend, Chloe would have suspected the squad of making some sort of demonic pact. It seemed statistically unlikely that not one of a dozen teenage girls had blinked, had a bad hair day or had a zit.

Chloe found herself studying the row of E’s, telling herself she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. But she knew that was a lie even before her gaze landed on Dylan’s photo. Though the black-and-white photo didn’t do justice to his green eyes, there was the promise of sexy intensity he’d later grow into, and that one left dimple made visible by his cocky grin. Seeing that smile in class had turned her knees to jelly. Their civics teacher had once called on Dylan, who’d clearly been flirting with a redheaded volleyball player instead of listening; when he’d floundered for a response, Chloe had blurted the answer, bringing the moment to a quick close. The teacher had frowned but returned to the lecture. Dylan had turned slightly, sending a smile in Chloe’s direction and a bolt of lightning straight through her.

Emotions were often exaggerated for teenagers, though, distorted through a hormonal lens. She was an adult now, not an overreacting adolescent. If she happened to glimpse Dylan’s smile in the crowd tonight, she doubted lightning would strike again.

“You ready for that drink?” Natalie asked from beside her.

Chloe jumped. “I didn’t realize you were there.”

“Too preoccupied with—” Natalie smirked at Dylan’s name badge “—memory lane?”