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
