awkward as things already were, why not just go ahead and lay her cards on the table? She took a deep breath—and a fortifying sip of wine. “Honestly? I’m a little nervous.”
He grinned. “That’s a relief. I was afraid maybe you didn’t like me. Is it the pro-ball thing?”
“People here do consider you a celebrity,” she said, noting how the brightness of his smile had dimmed when he mentioned baseball. “But no, that’s not it. It’s more the, ah, massive crush I had on you in high school.”
Cards didn’t get much more on the table than that. Aunt Jane would be proud.
“Really?” Dylan sat back. “If I’d known, I would have asked you out for a drink back then. The nonalcoholic type, of course. Maybe a milk shake,” he added with a wink.
Gaping was probably not an attractive look for her, but she couldn’t help herself. Did he seriously expect her to believe he would have dated her? “I didn’t think I was…your type.”
He looked sheepish. “It’s true I dated a lot of redheads, but I noticed you, too. Every guy in the student body with working eyesight noticed you.”
The warm glow she’d developed from thinking that Dylan might have returned her adolescent affections was cooling rapidly. Was he patronizing her?
“This may be coming ten years too late,” he said, “but would you like to have dinner with me, Candy?”
She froze, confused. Candy? Oh God. Had he honestly mistaken her for Candy Beemis?
Under other circumstances, Chloe might have been flattered. Or at least amused. Right now she felt cruelly deflated. How had she let herself think, even temporarily, that he might really have remembered her? Now their stilted encounter was going to become more awkward than it already was. She would correct him, tell him she was Chloe Malcolm; he would frown and ask, “Who?” and she’d be crushed. It was one thing to know the boy of your dreams hadn’t known you existed, it was another to have him verify it.
Stalling, she downed more of the dry wine.
Too bad it wasn’t the ex-cheerleader sitting with him now. Candy probably knew how to handle a man’s attention without dissolving into a flustered fool; she certainly would have had the chutzpah to wear the closetful of bold garments Aunt Jane had sent over the years.
“Is that a no on dinner?” Dylan asked, looking genuinely disappointed by her hesitation.
Dylan Echols wants to have dinner with me! Sort of.
Why, oh why, couldn’t she have been someone else? Even if it was just for tonight. Someone comfortable enough in her own skin to wear red dresses and high heels and flirt with a sexy man. The someone Chloe had always longed to become but never quite managed. “No. I mean, it wasn’t a no.”
“Good.” The grin he shot her was devastating; he should be required to carry a permit for using that on unsuspecting women. “I know we’re both here for the reunion, but…I’m not in a crowd sort of mood. Were you looking forward to catching up with Natalie and the other girls from the squad?”
“Not as much as you might think.”
“Would I be a jerk if I asked you to ditch the reunion and join me somewhere quiet where we can talk over a meal?”
“Sounds perfect!” For many reasons, including that it would only take him about two seconds downstairs to spot the actual Candy Beemis. Then he’d learn that Chloe had been the nerdy girl in the back row who’d just admitted to being infatuated with him. Pathetic.
“So, do you still go by Candy or is it Candace now that we’re all grown-up?” he asked.
She bit down on her lower lip so hard she half expected to taste blood instead of her chocolate-flavored gloss. “Actually…call me C.J.”
Chapter Four
On the outside, Chloe was still smiling—she could feel it on her face, frozen like a mask. On the inside, she was screaming, What did I just do?
“What’s the J stand for?” Dylan asked.
“Um…Jane?” Very smooth. With quick thinking like that, she’d missed her calling in some kind of undercover career. Luckily he was finishing his drink, which spared her the follow-up question about why she was unsure of her own middle name. Hopefully he would attribute her uncertainty to the already confessed nervousness. Get a grip. C.J. is not the nervous type.
Whoever the hell C.J. was.
Out of the corner of her eye, she glimpsed a married couple she knew walking through the lobby—the man was another Mistletoe grad, and his wife had been toying with the idea of hiring Chloe to do a site advertising her homemade-cake business. Chloe ducked her head, letting her hair fall in a curtain across her face as she tried to monitor their progress surreptitiously. The longer she sat here with Dylan, the more she chanced one of their fellow alumni coming over to say hi. Of course, anywhere she went in Mistletoe…
“Dylan, do you have a room here at the hotel?”
He blinked at the breathless question, but his look of surprise faded into a slow grin. Oh Lord, had she just unintentionally propositioned the most eligible bachelor of her graduating class?
“Because I was thinking,” she added in a rush, “about how you said you’d like to have dinner someplace quiet. Where we could talk. With you being a local celebrity, I thought our best chance at that might be room service. Unless I’m being too forward.”
“No, I like a lady who speaks her mind,” he assured her. “Room service is a great idea. That saves us the whole ‘what are you in the mood for, what’s good around here, no, you decide, I don’t care’ rigmarole.”
Good point. If she was stumbling over questions like what her name was, she probably wasn’t up for discussing where they should eat. She pushed her chair back, trying to seem cheerfully eager rather than desperate to flee. “I’m ready when you are.”
He stood, but bent abruptly. “Don’t forget your shoes.” When he straightened, all the air around Chloe seemed to disappear. Natalie’s red high heels had never looked as sexy as they did at this moment, dangling from their straps on one of Dylan’s large hands.
Chloe tried to inhale, but her lungs must not have got the memo. When she reached out to take the designer shoes, Dylan’s fingers brushed hers. A perfectly innocent touch. If Nat had called 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.
