after a date, gushing about her hand meeting some man’s, it would have sounded clichéd or exaggerated, but the lightning Chloe had experienced earlier just from looking at him now magnified and sizzled through every cell of her hyperalert body. A body that’s going to pass out soon if you don’t breathe, you dummy.
The unreality of the situation hit her, and she couldn’t help smiling. “Thank you,” she told him, her voice lower than she was used to hearing.
He grinned back. “You’re very welcome. Here. Let me help.”
There was no graceful and feminine way to get back into the shoes, and she gladly accepted his assistance, leaning on him as she stepped into the first, lifting her foot to wiggle the strap into place, then the other. Dylan Echols had his arm around her waist. I can die happy. The thought reminded her joltingly of Aunt Jane, but Chloe could easily imagine her aunt laughing at this entire turn of events. A wistful sense of envy edged through Chloe—her aunt had seized life even as a teenager, while Chloe had mostly survived hers by making safe, predictable choices. Well, not tonight.
She glanced from the elevators, which seemed like a portal to the deliciously unknown, to Dylan, who was just plain delicious. Smiling up at him with a flirtatious instinct she hadn’t even realized she possessed, she asked, “Shall we?”
DYLAN HAD WITNESSED plenty of great comebacks in baseball—a team that was seemingly down for the count, turning it around in the eighth or ninth inning—but even he was amazed by the way his luck had turned tonight. Once C.J. worked past her initial timidity, everything had changed. She’d gone from looking terrified at the prospect of a meal with him to suggesting dinner alone in his room. Plus, she’d once again fallen into that sexy rasp he’d first noticed. Some guys were primarily visual creatures. Dylan himself had always been very tactile. He liked hands-on activities—his libido tried to suggest several—but he couldn’t remember the last time he’d reacted so viscerally to just a woman’s voice. It would be an actual pleasure to spend the rest of the evening listening to C.J. talk.
They headed for the elevators, falling into step, and she shook her head at him when he pressed the button for the fifth floor.
“You’ve probably stayed in some glamorous high-rises,” she said. “Must be hard for the Mistletoe Inn to compete. Not a lot of penthouse suites here.”
He chuckled wryly, thinking of some of the ratty places he’d slept when he’d played in the minors. “Trust me, I wasn’t spending all my nights in five-star hotels. That kind of luxury is for guys who last more than a few seasons.” And signed lucrative endorsement deals.
“Oh. Right.” She bit her bottom lip, and he found himself staring. “Still, at least you’ve been places.” She said it with admiration.
“Does that mean you stayed in Mistletoe?” he asked. Maybe that’s what she’d meant about not needing to catch up with Natalie. Both women could still be local.
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
