Tanya Michaels - Mistletoe Cinderella

Her knee-jerk reaction was to insist that there was no way his father had been ashamed of him-the man would have to have been crazy. Half the town of Mistletoe was glowingly proud of Dylan. How could his own flesh and blood be so unnaturally different? But beneath Dylan’s neutral expression was a gravity that made it clear he believed his words and hadn’t arrived at the conclusion lightly.

Her second reaction was to pronounce his father an idiot, but it seemed wrong to speak ill of the dead.

“I’m dyslexic,” Dylan said by way of explanation.

“I didn’t know that!”

He smiled wryly. “Is there any reason you should have?”

“No, of course not.” It had been a silly response to his declaration, but it seemed bizarre when she knew so many details about him-his favorite dessert, his baseball stats, even what his bedspread looked like-not to know something that had obviously been a defining factor in his life.

“School was a struggle for me,” he said.

She experienced a surge of guilt, recalling her own feelings of adolescent inadequacy and her misplaced certainty that people like Dylan Echols had it easy. If nothing else, tutoring Natalie and seeing her friend’s tears of frustration over math should have disabused her of that notion.

“If you were struggling, it didn’t show. Other students, even teammates of yours, had noticeable difficulties in some of their classes. Or with girlfriends. Or with their parents divorcing or losing jobs or whatever. You always seemed to have everything so together.”

His laugh was hollow. “Then I’m definitely not who you thought I was.”

She caught her bottom lip between her teeth. Was now the time to tell him she wasn’t who he thought, either? It seemed tactless to interrupt what he was trying to share with her to make her own revelation. She was incredibly touched that he would tell him about his dyslexia and his father, which were both clearly difficult subjects for him.

“You think your dad was bothered by your dyslexia?”

Dylan pushed his plate away. “I think my father saw me as an extension of himself. Mom said he was so proud for the first three years. He had his own boy, a strapping lad! When I pitched a no-hitter, he lived vicariously. But any time I got in trouble or flunked a spelling test or got sent to the principal’s office in grade school because I was making jokes, I was an embarrassment to him.”

“Then I feel sorry for him for the way he screwed up having a decent relationship with you.” And now, with Michael Echols dead, it was too late. She suddenly felt motivated to call her parents on the way home tonight, just to say she loved them.

“As I get older and look back with more perspective, I try not to take it personally. I don’t think he was kind in general,” Dylan said. “He ran roughshod over Mom, but she mostly learned to let him have his way and keep the peace. I wasn’t so diplomatic.”

Recalling his earlier question about her own youthful rebellions-of which there were none-she hazarded a guess. “You sought out trouble?”

“Until seventh-grade baseball,” he affirmed. “I knew that if I got suspended, no more playing. After middle school was high school and Coach Burton, who kept me on the straight and narrow. He’s the one who told me the great Nolan Ryan was dyslexic.”

Even if Dylan’s career had been cut short, it sounded as though baseball had saved him. It gave her a new appreciation for organized sports.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you all this,” he said. “It sounds like a poor-me sob story, doesn’t it?”

“No! And I’m honored that you’re confiding in me.” Everything he said made her admire him even more.

“You just really impressed me with what you said over breakfast the last time I saw you, about how teaching kids depends on finding the right way to get through to them. That a student isn’t stupid simply because he doesn’t digest information the same way other pupils do. I wish more people had expressed that sentiment to me when I was younger.”

So did she. “People can be cruel in what they say, even if it’s not intentional.”

He shrugged. “More than people insinuating I was dumb, what really bothered me were the times I actually felt that way. Making bad judgment calls, stupid mistakes. But I guess everyone has their share of those, right?”

Lord, yes.

She wrestled with the desire to tell him about her own lapse of judgment when she’d let him believe she was someone else. But juxtaposed with her desperation to own up was the dawning realization of how she might make him feel. Would he blame himself for not seeing through her pitiful attempts at deception? He’d called himself “brain-dead” for not seeing Heidi more clearly. Chloe had seen the banked pain in his eyes when he talked about his father. She never wanted to do anything that brought him that same pain.

She’d thought tonight was going to be her downfall, and she was partially right. After a day of joking with him and sharing opinions at the decorating warehouse and an intimate evening of dinner and conversation, she had fallen for him completely. But she couldn’t tell him the truth. Chloe would rather finish this “job” and walk away from him than do anything that made him doubt his own intelligence and self-worth.

“It was such a nice surprise that you called last night and were able to join us for Sunday brunch,” Rose Malcolm said, smiling at Chloe from the sink. “We haven’t seen much of you in the past couple of weeks.”

Chloe carried the last of the plates to the counter and reached for a sponge so that she could help her mother wash the dishes while her father read the Sunday paper in the next room. The Malcolms’ new place included a dishwasher, but Rose never used it since it didn’t get rid of every spot on the glasses and silverware, failing to meet her exacting standards.

“I’m sorry I haven’t been around, Mama. I’ve been busy with work, but also some other things.” She cleared her throat. “In fact, I’ve been meaning to ask you…is it all right if I make some changes to the house? Nothing big! I’m not planning to knock down any walls or anything. I just thought maybe I could do some redecorating.” Ferreting out information and studying color groups for Dylan had inspired her.

Rose tilted her head, looking confused. “Your father and I gave you that house permanently, dear. You may do with it as you please. Fix it up, sell it, anything you deem acceptable.”

“Thank you, Mama.”

“If you want to pick out some new colors and textures, I’m sure you’ll do a lovely job. June Albright had me over for tea yesterday and showed me that Web site you did for her grandson. I don’t understand any of what you actually do, but you have a good eye.”

Gratitude swelled within her, not just for her mother’s words of praise but for having two loving, healthy parents. In all those moments when she’d longed to be someone other than she was, she’d lost sight of just how many blessings Chloe Ann Malcolm actually had.

“You know,” Rose added with a sidelong glance, “June has another grandson who’s in his early thirties and is still single. Beau, I believe his name is. She said she’d be happy to introduce you sometime.”

Chloe had discovered that this was the biggest drawback to her parents moving into the community at the seniors’ complex-lots of retired people with time on their hands who all wanted grandchildren and great-grandchildren. It was a matchmaker’s colony. “I know who Beau is. Our paths haven’t crossed directly, but he seems like a nice man.”

He just wasn’t Dylan Echols.

Rose beamed. “Does this mean I should tell June to set something up?”

“Oh, no. I’m flattered she thought of me, but…”

“Is this because you’re too ‘busy’? Or is it just because you’re shy? I know meeting people hasn’t always been easy for you.”

“Actually, Mama, I have met someone. Just recently. We’re not dating, but I care about him.”

Her mother’s expression lit up. “Well, don’t stop there! Tell me more about him, dear.”

“He’s my age, successful, takes good care of his mother. We may never be more than friends,” Chloe warned, “but it probably isn’t fair to go out with Beau until I know more.”

“I see.” Rose dipped a plate in the soapy water. “And if a relationship does develop, you will bring him over so that we can meet this young man, won’t you?”

“Absolutely.” Not that she could ever bring Dylan to meet her parents if she were operating under an assumed name.

She thought of yesterday, how much fun they’d had shopping and pointing out why they liked or disliked certain items, how he’d taken her breath away with his candor over dinner.

With their relationship progressing, what choice did she have other than to tell him the truth? They could never go any further if she didn’t. Three weeks ago, she never would have believed she could have a relationship with Dylan Echols. But now she knew they were far more compatible than she had ever imagined, knew how special he was. She might even be falling in love with the proud, imperfect man he’d become, not the boy she’d hardly known.

She began drying the plates and bowls that were already clean. “Mama? When you married Daddy, how did you know for certain that you loved him?”

“Love?” Rose stopped what she was doing, glancing covertly at the doorway into the den before looking back at Chloe. “Now don’t take this the wrong way, dear, because I definitely love your father and vice versa, but we cultivated those feelings over decades together. It was never in my personality to get married on an impetuous romantic whim. That was Jane’s style, God rest her soul.”

Not wanting to be argumentative, Chloe refrained from pointing out that she didn’t think her aunt had ever regretted her impulsive elopement. Chloe understood that her mother had always been slightly alarmed by the reckless way her younger sister had lived her life. Rose was speaking more out of that habitual fear than criticism.

“Your father and I met through our families. We were both living in Mistletoe with no plans to go anywhere else, eventually joined the same church. He had a steady job at the carpet plant and was on track to go into management there. I married him because he was a decent man and showed every sign of being a stable provider.

“Romantic love can be fleeting, deceptive. People shouldn’t act on that alone as motivation,” Rose cautioned. “It was always a great comfort to me, when you were in high school and other teenage girls were spending their Friday nights doing who-knows-what out at Mistletoe Cove, that you were too practical to get carried away.”

The fact that so few boys had been interested in dating her also had something to do with it. “That’s me, practical Chloe.” Yes, she’d been the smart girl with straight A’s, but on rare occasions, late at night, she’d wondered what it would be like to be the exciting girl with the illicit hickey.

Rose patted her cheek. “Don’t worry about falling in love, dear. Just do what you’ve always done and follow your brain. I rest easier knowing you’re too sensible to make the kind of spur-of-the-moment mistake other people spend so much time regretting.”

Chloe managed a feeble smile but kept her mouth shut. Practical Chloe she may well be, but her mom had evidently never met C.J.

CHLOE’S PARENTS had raised her to fear consequences. As a girl, she’d believed that in life, as in fairy tales, wicked deeds were punished and the true-hearted heroine would always get her happy ending. It was one of the many reasons she had never liked Candy Beemis, who proved a glaring exception to the rule. But now Chloe’s universe had gone topsy-turvy. She’d performed the single most duplicitous act of her life and was being rewarded at every turn.

Monday morning, she woke up to a brief but entertaining e-mail from Dylan. He recounted an anecdote about a run-in with Grady, exaggerated for comedic effect, and how much he was dreading a PR event with the man later in the week. He also mentioned that he would be having lunch in Atlanta with Coach Todd Burton and that he’d been thinking about her. Then he left a message on her answering machine Tuesday to say that he’d scheduled a pickup for some of the furniture they’d decided he should replace, that he was looking forward to seeing the “new and improved” apartment when the pieces they’d ordered started to arrive later in the week, that he’d had a really inspiring lunch with Coach B…and he was still thinking about her. A lot.

On Wednesday evening, she hit the treadmill, showered and put on her pajamas early. She grabbed her laptop and decided to spend the rest of the night working from the comfort of her bed-one of the major perks of her job. First she checked her e-mail, experiencing an irrational twinge of disappointment when there was no further correspondence from Dylan. Get a grip. Was she so needy that she had to hear from him every day? Of course not! She was a modern independent woman.