Mistletoe Cinderella. Tanya Michaels

      THIS WAS LIKE a sick joke.

      Which makes me the punch line, Chloe thought, drinking in Dylan’s profile as he tipped the waiter. At first this had seemed exactly like one of Natalie’s far-flung scenarios, a modern update of the fairy tales Chloe herself had loved to read as a girl: former geek, all dolled up, former athletic god walks into the room, their eyes meet…

      And geek proceeds to trip over her tongue as if she’s a fifteen-year-old on her first date.

      She groaned at the unfortunately accurate analogy. All she needed to do now was crash into a refreshments table and this could be her first date all over again. What was wrong with her? Chances to live out long-held fantasies didn’t come along every day. They barely came along once in a decade! But as much as she might admire Aunt Jane’s brazen fearlessness or Natalie’s extroverted ease, Chloe couldn’t wipe away a personality years in the making and replace it as simply as if she were applying a new flavor of lip gloss.

      “Everything okay?” Dylan asked. While she’d been lost in thought, he’d turned back to her, looking even more attractive than he’d been in high school. He was still lean and muscled, but his boyish charm had matured into an appeal that was adult and sensual. His black hair was as dark and thick as ever, and while she regretted his career circumstances, the disappointment seemed to have given him an alluring edginess, something he hadn’t had as a seventeen-year-old golden boy.

      And, wonder of wonders, he’d been attracted to her! She’d seen it in his smile when he first approached, before Natalie the Traitor had fled, abandoning Chloe to the butterflies in her stomach. It felt like she had enough in there for her own million-monarch migration.

      “Ev-everything’s fine,” she said. Wow, repartee just didn’t get any wittier than this.

      There was no way Dylan had trouble getting women, so why was he still here, seeming…well, grimly determined to flirt with her? The situation had gone from being her wildest dream to her worst nightmare. Except that in her nightmare, she’d also be naked right now and late for a college final.

      As 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