Mistletoe Cinderella. Tanya Michaels

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Mistletoe Cinderella - Tanya Michaels


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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 returned the smile, his gaze apologetic. “You’ll have to forgive me, I’m blanking on who you are.”

      “Chloe. Chloe Malcolm?”

      “Right. Sorry. I’m terrible with names. My wife harasses me about it constantly. I have entire building forms memorized, but can forget our neighbor’s name in the middle of a barbecue.” He turned to Natalie, reporting on the event’s status. “Everything’s well in hand. We had to make a quick appetizer substitution, but they’re not charging us extra. Candy was just on the phone with the band’s lead singer. ETA is about ten minutes for sound check.”

      “Nat, you did such a darling job on the flowers,” Candy interjected with a toss of her sleek, shampoo-commercial hair. “One of these days I’m going to have to develop an actual skill. And, Chloe! I hear you’re quite the entrepreneur. If I had it to do all over again, I’d go the computer-nerd route myself.”

      No, you wouldn’t.

      Even though Candy’s tone was playful, no overt malice, Chloe bristled. It was one thing for Natalie to call from the shop, freaking out because the computer had crashed and she needed the help of a “professional geek.” Yet being reminded of all the times Candy had indeed made Chloe feel like a socially awkward nerd—and encouraged others to treat her as such—was different.

      Behind her polite smile, Chloe ground her teeth. She gestured toward a table covered with a green cloth and Mistletoe High memorabilia. “I think I’m just going to stroll down memory lane.”

      As the reunion committee finished their conversation, Chloe idly studied framed pictures from pep rallies and school plays. Gold and resplendent, the trophy from the state baseball championship sat in the center of the table; the Academic Decathlon first prize she’d helped win sat off to the side. Still, she grinned at the unlikely parallel of her and Dylan Echols, school superstars. And here I thought we wouldn’t have much in common to discuss.

      Beyond the mementos Natalie had convinced the high school to let them borrow sat rows of name tags. Leaning over for a closer look, Chloe realized that each tag was printed with a black-and-white yearbook photo and identity: Chloe Ann Malcolm. Period. She hadn’t flown high enough on the social radar to earn the Most Popular, Most Likely to Succeed or Most Likely to Make You Laugh labels that accompanied some of the other names.

      Natalie had not warned her that she’d be walking around all night with that awful senior portrait pinned to her chest. Eek. In Chloe’s junior picture, she’d removed her glasses and squinted, so she’d overcorrected the next year. With her wide eyes, lopsided formal drape and mouth caught between forced smiles she couldn’t hold long, she looked surprised and frightened of the photographer. Not flattering.

      The silver lining had been that shortly after Chloe’s parents had seen the picture, they’d finally allowed the contact lenses she so desperately wanted.

      Surveying the photos of her classmates, she stifled a laugh. She wouldn’t be the only one regretting her senior photo. In his shot, Brady Callahan sneered at the camera, his hair teased into short spikes and his eyes rimmed with black eyeliner; he’d long since outgrown his Goth phase and was a deacon for a local church. A few students who’d been into grunge at the time proved that what looks trendy one day merely looks like an aversion to hygiene the next. Of course, Natalie, blond and smiling, looked perfect in her picture. All the cheerleaders did.

      If it weren’t for Nat being her best friend, Chloe would have suspected the squad of making some sort of demonic pact. It seemed statistically unlikely that not one of a dozen teenage girls had blinked, had a bad hair day or had a zit.

      Chloe found herself studying the row of E’s, telling herself she wasn’t looking for anyone in particular. But she knew


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