Mistletoe Cinderella. Tanya Michaels

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      Chloe sighed. “Our former classmates fall into two groups. Those who had no clue who I was and those who ragged me about who I was.”

      “A-hem.”

      “Not counting you,” Chloe amended. “You are a true friend.”

      Although it had been Natalie’s idea senior year to give Chloe highlights, neither girl knowing that Chloe’s dark brown hair had natural red undertones. The proposed blond touches intended to make Chloe glamorous had become clownish orange streaks that sent Candy and others into fits of giggles. Fairy godmothers were supposed to transform pumpkins for you, not give you pumpkin-colored hair.

      “You’re a successful self-employed woman who can seriously work that slinky red number you’re wearing,” Natalie said. “Don’t you want to stick it to everyone who heckled you by showing up and looking hot?”

      She hated to think she was insecure enough to need that kind of validation. “Stick it to them? It’s been ten years. I don’t care that much about anyone’s opinion. Especially at seventy-five dollars a ticket.”

      “Well, that includes a sit-down dinner and dessert buffet. Don’t forget the great band. And it goes without saying that the floral arrangements will be phenomenal.” Natalie smiled beseechingly. “Come on! There have to be some people from our graduating class you want to see.”

      “Most of the people I care about still live here in Mistletoe.”

      Natalie’s blue eyes took on a wicked gleam, but she ducked her gaze, making a point of studying her French manicure.

      “What?” Chloe demanded. “What ace do you think you have up your sleeve?”

      “I got an unexpected RSVP today. From Dylan Echols.”

      Dylan? An all-too-clear picture of his sexy grin and deep green eyes flashed through Chloe’s mind. “He’s really coming home?”

      After college, the former Mistletoe High baseball star had become a local celebrity when he worked his way through the “farm system,” pitching two and a half seasons in the minors before being called up to play for the Atlanta Braves. As far as Chloe knew, he’d been back in Mistletoe only once, for his father’s funeral this past January. That had to have been a dark period for him, coming on the heels of a highly publicized early retirement. He’d torn a rotator cuff last season. After surgery, time off and physical therapy, he’d attempted to return but it was clear his pitching arm would never be the same. Just when Dylan had, according to sports journalists, “hit his stride,” his dreams of becoming the next Nolan Ryan or Greg Maddux were snatched away.

      “I’ll bet Dylan would love that dress,” Natalie added. “You could really wow him. A little red lipstick, we could do something special with your hair…”

      “I prefer my usual gloss,” Chloe said. Natalie had given her a gift certificate two birthdays ago for a fancy cosmetics Web site, and she’d developed a fondness for their line of high-end flavored glosses. “Remember what happened the last time you got big ideas about my hair?”

      Natalie had the grace to blush. “Well, maybe someone at the salon could help you with it this time.”

      “Yes, but why? What’s the point of spending three hours trying to convince a guy who doesn’t remember me that I’m someone I’m not?”

      While Chloe had adored Dylan from the back of civics class, he’d given no sign of reciprocating the sentiment, which would have first required him to notice her existence. He’d been preoccupied with either baseball or whichever girl he’d been dating that week. Dylan Echols was the kind of guy who’d held court in high school, a student-body Prince Charming who made peers and teachers alike laugh during discussion and led his baseball team to state championship.

      “Are you sure you know who you are?” Natalie asked skeptically. “Jane saw that there was a lot more to you than just a quiet straight-A student. I do, too.”

      Chloe remembered the way she’d felt at the memorial service, the vague sense of having let down Jane. I could be more, couldn’t I? Suddenly she found it difficult to recall why she was so set against going to the reunion. After all, it was just one night. Seventy-five dollars wouldn’t break the bank.

      Still, she worried about Natalie’s plans for the evening getting too grandiose. “I’ll go. But stop imagining some movie where the formerly mousy heroine shows up, impresses everyone with her poise and scintillating conversation and wins her man. Get real. Dylan’s only going to be here for the weekend, and he doesn’t even know me.”

      Natalie smiled, undeterred. “Then we’ll have to find the perfect opportunity for you to introduce yourself.”

      Chapter Two

      Dylan Echols muttered a word under his breath that network censors would definitely frown on. Since the broadcast had just gone to commercial, however, he felt free to express his irritation.

      And Grady Medlock, seated behind the anchor desk, was free to snicker. “The scores may not be as important as world politics,” Grady said, “but viewers still expect you to get them right.”

      Dylan didn’t bother responding. The newscaster had been insufferable ever since Dylan was hired, and had become even more so since Liza Finnell—the object of Grady’s unrequited affections—had hinted at the station’s spring picnic last month that she was attracted to the newest addition to the Channel Six team. Dylan had ducked her interest by politely reminding her that he was seeing someone.

      At the time, anyway.

      As of Friday’s e-mail, his brief relationship with Heidi was over. Dylan wasn’t sure what bothered him the most: that she’d jilted him for a Braves first baseman he himself had introduced her to, that she’d jilted him via an impersonal e-mail or that he’d only recognized in hindsight that she’d used him as a stepping stone to better-paid guys who were still in The Show.

      Dumb. Much like the mistake he’d just made in his broadcast.

      For the majority of Dylan’s reports, he had plenty of time to prepare beforehand, but he’d flubbed some incoming college scores on the teleprompter. Falling back on adolescent habits, he’d made a joke to cover his unease reading aloud. Why had he thought this local sportscaster position was a good idea? Because you didn’t have a Plan B.

      He’d known what he wanted to do with his life ever since he pitched his first elementary school baseball 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.”

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