was an excellent candidate for a wet T-shirt contest.”
“She dumped punch on Candy?” Had Dylan stumbled into some bizarre, grudge-match rivalry?
“Not on purpose. Why d’you think we call her Klutzy Chloe? I remember this one time she-”
“Dude.” Nick interrupted, rolling his eyes so hard his sockets probably had whiplash. “That was over a decade ago. Grow the hell up.”
When Nick stalked off, Dylan and Petey were left staring at each other in surprise. Dylan recovered first, muttering a quick, “I should be going, too.”
He caught up with his friend waiting in line at the open bar. “No one could accuse you of mellowing with age.” But his tone was openly admiring. Grubner had been working his nerves, too.
Nick looked sheepish. “That guy makes me insane. I didn’t like him when we were in school, but he was part of the team. Then he and his wife lived next door to me for a while with these three yappy little dogs. He was the type who complained about everything-say, if a leaf from one of my trees blew into his yard. They moved across town to a bigger place once Petey Jr. outgrew his nursery, and I nearly threw a block party to celebrate.”
“How old is the poor kid?”
“Around seven. With all the pressure his dad puts on him, he’s probably going to hate sports before he even gets into junior high.” Nick asked for two beers, then admitted as they moved away from the bar, “I didn’t like how that blowhard was ragging on Chloe.”
“So you know Chloe?”
“Not well. You remember my grades slipping junior year? Plummeting, really. That’s when Mom started seriously dating again, and I had a tough time dealing with it. You know how strict Coach has always been about no pass, no play. My chem teacher asked Chloe to help me. Nice girl. Maybe a little…awkward, but decent. I see her around town sometimes. She grew up to be a looker, but I’m not sure she knows it.”
So far, Dylan had seen her in a low-cut red dress and a flamboyant purple shirt with a suggestive slogan. It wasn’t a wardrobe that screamed “shy.” Although she definitely had her bashful moments. Hell, maybe she was a split personality.
Grimacing at his inappropriately wayward thoughts, Dylan pushed her out of his mind and focused on socializing with other ball players, some from his time at Mistletoe High and others who had come before or since but shared a mutual respect for Coach Burton.
“I brought my mom with me,” he told Nick, “and I’ve ignored her too long. Why don’t you come say hi. She’d like that.”
“Sure.” Having vented on Grubner, Nick was back to his affable self.
Barb was seated between the coach, who’d lost his wife decades ago to breast cancer and later declared himself married to his job, and the Asburys. She looked like she was having the time of her life, so enthusiastic that it made Dylan wonder if she got out of the house enough. Having lived in Mistletoe since birth, she must have enough friends and neighbors to keep her social calendar filled.
Before long, the waitstaff announced that dinner would be served. People who had been mingling in clumps throughout the hall gradually found their way to their seats.
Over the salad course, Coach Burton asked Dylan, “You nervous about giving the speech?”
Coach Burton chortled. “He’s got you there, Steve.” Lowering his voice, he imitated his assistant’s gravelly tone. “‘Go get some ice on that.’ ‘See the trainer for some ice.’”
At sixteen, Dylan had been led to believe there wasn’t anything that couldn’t be solved with enough ice or some pacing.
Steve Asbury harrumphed, but his gray eyes twinkled with humor as he shook his head at his longtime boss. “You know we’re not going to miss you, old man.”
“Liar,” Coach Burton said confidently. “And good luck replacing me. You ever think about it, Dylan? Coaching?”
Dylan coughed, stunned by the question. As far back as first grade, he’d desperately wanted to get
“No, sir. Can’t say that I have.” Could he stand it, watching young kids with the same dreams he’d once harbored, doing what he was no longer able to? He shuddered.
The coach eyed him. “The biggest requirements are patience and a love of baseball. I used to ask a lot of you guys in ninety-degree practices and during games. This is the last thing I’ll ask of you-think about it? For me.”
Reluctantly Dylan nodded, trying to ignore the way Barb was practically vibrating with excitement in her seat. He’d resolved to come visit her more, but that did
His temples throbbed with the onset of a headache. So far on his weekend away from work, he’d become preoccupied with a woman who viewed the truth as nothing more than a loose guideline, he’d been swamped with guilt over what a bad son he was and now he found himself faced with unexpected career questions. Maybe next vacation, he’d try scaling Everest. It might be more relaxing.
Chapter Eight
Dressed in clothes Natalie had helped her pick out and armed with several books’ worth of theory and tips on feng shui, Chloe felt totally prepared. Until Dylan opened the door. He was wearing a white T-shirt with a pair of dark jeans, a timeless look that she was sure had never worked quite this well on any other man. Ever.
“Hi.” He spoke before she found her voice. “You’re earlier than I expected. I guess traffic was light today.”
It had been easier than she’d anticipated to find her way to his neighborhood. She’d even had a few minutes to grab something to drink at a trendy coffee shop around the corner and study some final crib notes. Learning new things-and learning them well-had always been something she enjoyed, and a certain part of her was eager to apply her newly acquired knowledge.
Dylan backed up to let her in, his warm gaze falling across her body like a sunbeam. “You look nice.”
“Thank you.” The bright pink, sleeveless V-neck blouse was Natalie’s, worn underneath a beige lightweight blazer of Chloe’s. According to Nat, the matching beige skirt was saved from being boring by a pair of cute sandals and Chloe’s “great legs.”
“So this is ‘professional C.J.,’” he said, an odd note in his voice. “You are a woman with many sides.”
She smiled weakly and followed him into the living room. The couch sat with its back to the entryway, and his decorating choices were full of sharp edges.
“Bad chi,” she mumbled.
“Pardon?” Dylan was studying her intently. Very intently. As if looking for something specific.
Or maybe, since she had something to hide, she was paranoid. She set her purse on a shiny black table and passed by Dylan to sit on the far end of the couch. “I should tell you, I’m…not the best decorator out there.”
“I hope that isn’t what you have printed on your business cards.” He cocked his hip against the arm of the sofa, facing her but not exactly sitting with her.
“I just meant that lots of people probably work in this area and have more expertise. I’ll tell you what I know, but you have to decide for yourself what speaks to you. It’s
“Decorating isn’t like math,” she continued. “There’s no set equation or one right answer. Even in feng shui, there are differences of opinion between traditionalists and modern practitioners. So don’t take anything I tell you too seriously. It’s just my opinion.”
“But people pay you for that opinion.”
She wouldn’t let it get that far. “This is just a preliminary consultation,” she reminded him. “You may well decide not to hire me. My feelings won’t be hurt if you go a different direction. At all.”
