Mistletoe Cinderella

Before she could answer, the doors chimed and parted.

“This way.” He gestured to the left and waited gallantly for her to precede him. Less gallantly, he noticed that she had a fantastic butt beneath the filmy red skirt.

That observation, combined with the act of unlocking his hotel room door, temporarily cast a different light on the moment. Normally if he was returning to a room with a lady…No, they were having dinner. He hadn’t seen C.J. in ten years and unlike his newscasting colleague, there was a limit to Dylan’s presumptuous ego.

Trying to think of something innocuous, he cleared his throat. “What do you do for a living?” His preference was always to discuss other people’s careers, rather than his aborted one.

“I design—” From the way she broke off as they entered the room, he first assumed there was more to the statement. But after a beat, she simply reiterated, “I’m a designer.”

“Fashion? Interiors?”

She laughed out loud, the musical sound making him smile even though he wasn’t in on the joke. “Fashion, me?”

He lowered his gaze meaningfully over her dress. “Is it that hard to believe?” Then again, despite the stylish red garment she wore, it was indubitably the woman beneath the clothes who provided the va-va-voom.

His eyes met hers, which were bright with appreciation. Heat leaped between them, enough to prompt him to cross the room to the air-conditioning unit and lower the temperature. When he turned around, he noticed that she was studying her surroundings. He found himself relieved that he’d stopped by for only a few moments earlier, just enough to check in and drop off his suitcase. Not that he was a slob, but boxer briefs over the back of a chair or dirty socks in the corner did not a romantic evening make.

“So.” He rocked back on his heels. “Room service. The menu should be here somewhere.”

The leather-bound menu turned out to be on a walnut-stained round table between two armchairs. He leaned against one seat, and C.J. took the other. He couldn’t help glancing at her legs as she settled against the upholstery. Whatever exercise had replaced cheerleading in her adult life, her calves were smooth and well toned.

Thumbing through the menu, he asked, “Anything particular you’re in the mood for tonight?”

He wouldn’t have thought twice about the question except that she flushed a deep, rosy pink. His grip tightened on the room service folio as arousal filled him. She was so damned expressive, responsive.

She averted her gaze for a second, then grinned at him, appearing somehow both shy and mischievous. “Is this where I’m supposed to say, ‘Oh, you decide’?”

“It’s probably best if you don’t,” he said. “But I do have a few ideas.”

Chloe was shocked by the blatantly suggestive teasing—mostly because she was actually participating. It appeared that “C.J.” had a naughty streak. Does that make me my own wicked stepsister? Natalie was never going to believe any of this. Nobody in Mistletoe would.

“Should I order up a bottle of wine?” Dylan asked, scanning the list. “Or maybe a carafe?”

She gave a quick shake of her head. “No more for me, thanks.” As it was, she felt drunk on Dylan’s proximity and ten years’ worth of finely aged fantasies—not to mention two glasses of hastily quaffed chardonnay. What she needed now was to get some food in her system. She’d barely eaten today, distracted by primping and wanting to make sure the dress didn’t bulge in the wrong places.

“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.

Chapter Five

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.