black slacks and a matching coat over a white button-down shirt, open at the collar. A lot spiffier than his earlier jeans and shirt, although C.J. hadn’t seemed to mind his attire. When he hit the button for the elevator, he possessed far more zeal for this reunion than he had when he’d entered the hotel a couple of hours ago.
He passed through the lobby and went downstairs, following the thumping bass of a band. A folding table sat outside a ballroom door, and two women sat chatting with partygoers and checking in late arrivals. One of the ladies working the door was Lilah Baum-he never forgot a pretty redhead-who’d dated the same varsity football player all through high school. Next to Lilah was a dark-haired woman who’d outdressed everyone else in a one- shouldered sparkling white dress.
As he approached, the brunette glanced up from the clipboard in front of her, her mouth curving into a feline smile when she spotted him. “Why, Dylan Echols. I heard rumors you were coming. I’m sure I speak on behalf of the entire female student body when I say we’re glad to see you.”
She looked almost exactly the same, but even if she hadn’t, he would have recognized the drawl. It was like syrup when she was flirting, but it quickly developed a razor’s edge if you were fool enough to displease her-the entire baseball team had overheard her dump Nick Zeth, alternately laughing at her colorful word choices and wincing on their teammate’s behalf. Until Dylan had seen her just this second, he hadn’t remembered much about her other than her being a dark-haired cheerleader. The vague past hadn’t been nearly as compelling as the present with a beautiful lady in red. Now that he’d laid eyes on Candy, details about her rushed back. One thing remained wildly unclear, though.
If this was Candy, who the hell had he been kissing upstairs?
“Candy. Long time, no see.”
She fluttered her lashes. “You remember me. I’m flattered.”
“Surprised you’re not in there being the life of the party,” he said lightly, resisting the urge to storm into the ballroom and get answers from a certain mystery woman.
“The volunteers are working in shifts,” she explained. “Mine will be over in about fifteen minutes. Look for me inside, and I’ll check to see if there’s any room left on my dance card.”
He smiled noncommittally. “Hey, weird question for you. By any chance, are you an interior decorator?”
She laughed. “No, why? Is this leading to some cheesy line about how I beautify my surroundings?”
“Sorry.” He shook his head. “Must have you confused with someone else. Did we go to school with another Candy? Who was also a cheerleader with dark hair?” In a high school as small as theirs? That was so statistically unlikely that he felt ridiculous just asking.
“No. I’m a one and only,” she said with an indignant toss of her hair.
“Right.” People were now standing in line behind him. He should go, but he took one last futile stab. “You don’t happen to remember a girl we went to school with named C.J., do you?”
Candy narrowed her eyes. “What’s with you? Get beaned one too many times in the head with the baseball?”
Lilah Baum-who was probably no longer Baum, judging from the ring on her left hand-was much kinder but no further help. “We had a linebacker named J. C. Delgorio,” she told him, “but I don’t remember any C.J., male or female.”
“Thanks,” he said weakly, officially feeling stupid. A distantly familiar and much-loathed sensation.
With Candy glaring after him-apparently it was bad form to be obsessed with some lesser brunette when she’d offered
Wrong line of thought. He hardened at the memory of how she’d felt in his hands.
Okay, no touching this time. But “C.J.” definitely owed him an explanation. After a purposeful circuit of the room, he was forced to conclude she wasn’t there. Natalie was, though. The blonde danced with a tall man Dylan didn’t remember. As the song ended, he started toward them. Natalie could give him answers, but he didn’t get anywhere near her.
“Echols!”
Nick Zeth, known in years past as Z-Man, and former outfielder Shane McIntyre intercepted him. Shane had on a suit and tie; Nick had opted to pair his old baseball jersey with black slacks. Both men wore name tags that featured yearbook photos. Dylan found that he was suddenly a rabid supporter of name tags; people should be required to wear them at all times.
The guys insisted he have a drink with them. They grabbed a couple of beers and sat at a table far enough away from the speakers to have a normal conversation. Shane said he’d caught one of Dylan’s broadcasts when he was in Atlanta on business, and Nick, now a local firefighter, revealed that he’d divorced his college sweetheart last year, although he seemed more rueful than bitter. Eventually talk turned to Coach Burton’s retirement dinner, which they were all attending.
“He was the best,” Shane said.
“He was like a dad to me,” Nick reminisced. His own father, also a fireman, had died rescuing a civilian when Nick was in middle school.
It seemed wrong for Dylan to add that Coach B. had been like a dad to him, too, since Michael Echols had been alive.
“Everything okay, man?” Shane nudged his arm. “You keep looking around the room.”
“Looking for a woman,” he admitted.
Nick grinned. “Dude, they’re nothing but trouble. You’re better off with us.”
“Not my type.” Dylan grinned back.
“You still got a thing for redheads?” Shane wanted to know.
“This one was brunette. But she
“Oh, so you’re not just looking, you’ve already found one?” Nick scanned the crowd curiously.
“She temporarily got away,” Dylan said. “I’m trying to figure out who she was.”
“You could always check the table over there,” Shane suggested. “Where the name tags are? Someone on the reunion committee put together a book, a ‘where are they now’ thing that has pictures and info about everyone.”
Dylan got to his feet. “Great. You guys don’t mind if I…?”
“Nah.” Shane waved his hand. “I was thinking about asking someone to dance. You’re not my type, either.”
“We’ll catch up with you at the coach’s banquet if not tonight,” Nick said. “Go get her, bro.”
There were only a few unclaimed name tags on the long table, Dylan’s among them. He winced at the picture of himself, the cocky smile that said he knew what his ticket out of here was and that he was off to bigger and better things. Far away from the struggles he hadn’t liked people to see and, more important, away from Michael Echols.
Chloe Ann Malcolm? Her middle name wasn’t even Jane!
Squinting, he double-checked, comparing the wide-eyed teenager in black and white to the temptress who’d kissed him on the balcony. Not the best picture, but that was her, all right. Chloe Malcolm. He couldn’t remember anything about her, but his recollections were probably clouded by his time with her tonight.
On the corner of the table was the green binder Shane had mentioned. Someone had printed out a label and stuck it on the front:
Dylan ground his teeth. She was a braniac, one of those people who’d effortlessly earned A’s when he’d struggled for C’s. What had possessed her to tell him she was a cheerleader and an interior decorator? Instead of correcting his mistaken impression that she was Candy, she was having a laugh at the dumb jock’s expense.
