lightning.
Chapter Three
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—”
“I didn’t want to fall down,” she blurted before he could tell her that the barefoot look suited her.
Okay.
This wasn’t going quite the way he’d envisioned. Maybe a smarter man would apologize for intruding, take his drink upstairs and get ready for the reunion, where there could be dozens of women interested in conversation. But it was suddenly, irrationally important to win over this one. Heidi’s face flashed through his mind, followed by Grady’s snickering. Dylan sought assurance that, in at least some way, he was still the guy he’d been before surgery, that he hadn’t lost all his talents.
Besides, while he might tell himself that another man would walk away, he wasn’t sure he had the willpower to do so. Not before he tried to cajole that husky tone from her again and bring a little heat to those skittish amber eyes.
THIS WAS LIKE a sick joke.
Which makes me the punch line, Chloe thought, drinking in Dylan’s profile as he tipped the waiter. At first this had seemed exactly like one of Natalie’s far-flung scenarios, a modern update of the fairy tales Chloe herself had loved to read as a girl: former geek, all dolled up, former athletic god walks into the room, their eyes meet…
And geek proceeds to trip over her tongue as if she’s a fifteen-year-old on her first date.
She groaned at the unfortunately accurate analogy. All she needed to do now was crash into a refreshments table and this could be her first date all over again. What was wrong with her? Chances to live out long-held fantasies didn’t come along every day. They barely came along once in a decade! But as much as she might admire Aunt Jane’s brazen fearlessness or Natalie’s extroverted ease, Chloe couldn’t wipe away a personality years in the making and replace it as simply as if she were applying a new flavor of lip gloss.
“Everything
