A Cliché Christmas (11 page)

“I don’t really want to talk about this, okay?”

“Hmm.” He was doing it again, that scrutinizing thing he does when he thinks he knows me better than I know myself.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Nothing.” He shrugged diplomatically. “I’m just analyzing you is all.”

“Well, you can stop. I don’t need a shrink.”

“Maybe not a shrink. But maybe someone to talk to?”

I shook my head and pulled my hand from his. “Let’s talk about your shop class.”

Weston slowed his truck as we turned off the highway toward Lenox. “Let’s talk about why you make a living writing about clichés that are nothing like your life.”

“How do you even know
what
I write?” I shot back, my heart pounding.

“I’ve read every script you’ve published, Georgi
a . . .
not to mention the cheesy Christmas specials I’ve watched on TV.”

The intimacy meter in the truck skyrocketed to the “Approach with Caution” level.

“And that makes you an expert on me?”

His gaze roamed my face. “Well, am I right? Are you obsessed with clichés because you feel some sort of pent-up resentment about your own life and childhood?”

I swallowed, my palms starting to sweat.
No. Yes. Maybe.

“I remember the relationship you had with your mom growing up was sort o
f . . .
strange. She seemed pretty controlling.”

“She just wanted the best for me. You don’t know her.”
Am I seriously defending her?

“No, I don’t. But I do know you.”

“You keep saying that, Weston. But seven years can change a person a great deal. We grew up. We had experiences apart from each other. We’re not who we were in high school anymore.”

He was quiet as we pulled into Nan’s driveway.

He put the truck in park. “I don’t want to fight with you, I’m sorry. I just want to understand yo
u . . .
to know what I’ve missed.” He leaned over the seat and touched my chin, tilting my face to his. “You’re right. I knew Georgia the gir
l . . .
but the stunning woman sitting next to me now is no longer a girl.”

I let out a tension-filled breath and inhaled Weston’s fresh scent of wood chips, ocean, and leather—a scent so distinguishable it could make even a dead heart beat again. He brushed his lips across mine and kissed me gently.

“I want you to know her, too,” I whispered.

He kissed me again.

I didn’t need a new pair of slippers to go cloud walking anymore.

I only needed Weston Jame
s . . .
and his kisses.

C
HAPTER
T
EN

B
y the second week in December, everything was on schedul
e . . .
except for the snowfall. Though the temperature had dropped below freezing, precipitation remained elusive. There had been slush on the streets when I first arrived in Lenox, but no new snow had fallen.

The enormous mountain range to the east glistened with white, having experienced a fresh dousing of winter’s finest blessing over the weekend. And I secretly hoped it would come our way soon. I might love the year-round sunshine of California, but standing in a fluttering of snowflakes was one childish indulgence I’d never give up.

I drove down Main, noting the lights woven through every tree and bush that lined the street. Wreaths and garlands, sleighs and reindeer, Nativities and baby Jesuses filled the town. Lenox was one giant holiday show.

After turning onto Maple, I pulled into Weston’s driveway. He’d asked for my final approval on some of the smaller set pieces and props at his workshop. The larger pieces were still at school for his class to finish prior to winter break. It sounded like they were making great progress.

But my stomach plummeted when I saw a familiar SUV parked across the street. Tugging my coat tighter, I stepped out of my car. I was three steps outside his shop when I heard an unmistakable blend of voices. I pressed my ear to the door and strained to hear.

Why is Sydney Parker here?

Just then, the high-pitched scream of a saw blade pierced my eardrum, and the door jerked open. I stumbled forward, steadying myself on the massive Louis Vuitton bag slung over Sydney’s shoulder. Once I righted myself, I forced a tolerant smile—though the disdain I felt for her at that moment was hardly smile worthy.

“Georgia?” Her eyes widened briefly before shrinking to two tiny slits.

What was she talking to Weston about?

Although we’d never been friends, I’d never considered her an enemy—until now.

Her jealous little prank had cost me seven years without Weston.

Seven years!
That was hardly a forgivable sin.
Right, God?

I didn’t wait around for an answer.

Pulling the door closed behind her, she guarded the entrance to the shop with her surgically enhanced and artificially tanned body. She flashed me a phony grin, nearly blinding me with the shade of her Chiclet-white teeth.
What I wouldn’t give for a black light right now.

“Why are
you
here?” Her words were clipped, dipped in candy-coated poison.

I wanted nothing more than to ask the same of her.

“Weston asked me to come over,” I said, hoping to shock the snotty expression off her face. Didn’t happen.

“Old flames rarely rekindle, Georgia.”

“It seems I could say the same to you, Syd.”

She sucked in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you’re implying—”

“Oh, yes, you do.” Three blinks and two shallow breaths later, I knew exactly what I wanted to say to Sydney Parker. “You may have driven me out of this town once by blaming Weston for your jealous deceptions, but I can assure you, it won’t happen twice. Whatever game of intimidation you’re bent on playing to make this town bow to your every whim, you can count me out. I don’t care who your ex-husband is, or where you live, or how much money is in your bank account. This isn’t high school anymore, Sydney. Mean girls don’t win.”

For a moment, all she could do was blink and swallow and blink again.

“Be careful, Georgia. This may not be Hollywood, but Lenox is going somewhere, and I’m the one blazing the trail. You don’t want me as an enemy. Trust me.”

Then, with a single huff, she marched down the driveway. Taking in a deep breath, I tried to dispel the toxic aura she had left behind.

I stepped inside Weston’s shop, and the shrill sound of the saw blade ceased. I watched as Weston hunched over his desk, studying a set of blueprints and pushing his hand through his shaggy dark locks. An uneaten sandwich lay beside him. Lord only knows how old
that
was.

“Should I come back later?”

He jumped. It only took him a half second to steady himself, and once he did, his gaze roamed over me lazily, from my feet to my face.

“You look nice.”

A bubble of laughter escaped me. “I’m in yoga pants.”

“Yes, well, not quite as nice as you looked in the towel but still.” He shrugged, his eyes teasing.

I picked up a pencil from a shelf and threw it at his chest. He caught it easily before it could make contact.
Dang those reflexes.

“S
o . . .
I just talked to Sydney in the driveway. Are you two friends?” I hoped my tone was casual, but as soon as I spoke her name, a bitter taste filled my mouth.

“I wouldn’t call us friends. She was just dropping off some plans for me to look over.” His eyes searched mine. “There’s no reason to feel jealous, Georgia.
I promise.
”

A rush of sweet relief washed over me. “I’m not jealous.”

He laughed. “Good.”

As he brushed sawdust off his blueprints, I glanced around his workshop—a converted garage with tables, saws, workbenches, and more tools than I could name. It was quite impressive.

“I’m glad you came. I’ll have my students start painting these tomorrow if you sign off on them.”

“Wow, I feel so important.”

His arms encircled my waist as he leaned his chin on my shoulder. “You
are
important.”

His touch had always made me feel invincible—at ten, at seventeen, and even now at twenty-five. Age wasn’t a factor. The security and comfort I found in Weston’s touch would never change.

“Yes, well, the jury’s still out on that.”

He spun me around and kissed me while I giggled.

“Stop laughing,” he scolded, as he continued to plant soft kisses all over my face. “I’m doing something very wrong if you find my skills so hilarious.”

I just laughed harder. Then something caught my eye, and I gave Weston’s chest a hefty push.

“Oh my gosh.”

I knelt in front of the most beautiful dollhouse I’d ever seen. It was amazing. No, it was incredible. I blinked away the tears filling my eyes.

“The tiny furniture at the schoo
l . . .
it goes with this?” I asked, touching the porch steps. Weston appeared behind me, carefully spinning the house around so I could see inside. The details were so intricate. The staircase, the windows, the bedroom
s . . .
all of it—breathtaking.

“It’s for Savannah. For Christmas.”

I ran my fingers along the textured roofline. “You’re so talented.”

As his eyes locked with mine, heat flooded my face. Holding his hand out to me, he pulled me into a standing position. My chest contracted, like I was suddenly breathing through an accordion. I could feel my pulse thrum hard in my neck and wondered if he could see the way his presence affected me. Toe to toe we stood, staring at each other as if the last seven years had passed in a single blink. His finger traced my jawline, dipped to my chin, and came to rest under the curve of my bottom lip. “You’re no amateur yourself, Queen of the Red and Green.”

He leaned in, his lips grazing my cheek as his breath tickled the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “I always knew you’d blow this town away.” He exhaled into my hair, and my legs trembled.

A thousand words flittered through my mind, yet I couldn’t catch even one.

Weston pulled back slightly and scanned my face in a way that both touched my soul and seared my heart.

“I’m so proud of you—of all you’ve accomplished,” he said.

My throat burned with unshed tears. “Thank you, Weston. That mean
s . . .
so much.”

He kissed my forehead and then gently tilted my chin to his. Our lips connected for several seconds of head-dizzying perfection. He pulled back. “I should probably show you the sets, huh?”

“Probably,” I said, hoping he couldn’t detect the disappointment in my voice.

I could have stayed in his arms the rest of the evening.

“I just don’t think it fits,” Misty whispered to me.

“I know.” I scratched my head. “I’ll take care of it.”

She nodded, but she expressed her lack of confidence in my people skills in the way she scrunched her nose at me.

Though I handed Betty full rein of all musical aspects of the production, I now regretted that decision the way one regrets wearing suede in a rainstorm. I had expected Christmas classics to be sung intermittently throughout the production: “The First Noel,” “Angels We Have Heard on High,” “Silent Night.”

I had
not
expected ‘N Sync’s 1998 Christmas album. Apparently, we had different interpretations of the term
modern
.

I approached her with caution. “Um, Betty?”

She pounded away on the piano, not hearing me.

“Betty?” I tried again.

More pounding.

I tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped, her sheet music falling to the ground.

“Oh, I’m sorry.” I knelt down and gathered up the pages, cringing at the titles.

“Were you trying to get my attention?” Betty asked sweetly.

“Yes, actually. Can we talk for a moment, please?”

“Right now? We’re just about to start ‘Kiss Me at Midnight.
’
 ”

“Yea
h . . .
I think we should probably talk before that.”

It didn’t go well.

“Was that Betty who just left? She almost plowed me over in the parking lot.” Weston sat down next to me.

I put my head in my hands as Misty stood up. “Want me to tell the kids to run it again from the top, Georgia?”

I nodded.

Weston’s face was open with curiosity. “So, what happened?”

“I suck as a human being is what happened.”

He laughed. “Okay?”

“Betty quit.”

“
What?
Why? Isn’t she doing
all
the music?”

I raised my head and stared at him. “
Was
—as in
past tense
. Again, I suck as a human being.”

“I’m sure we can fix it.”

I shook my head. “Somehow she translated
Modern Mary
to mean nineties pop music and not the traditional Christmas carols I had envisioned.”

His mouth opened and closed twice before he finally said, “U
m . . .
wow, how did that happen?”

“Again, I suck—”

“As a human being. Got it. So, you didn’t communicate your expectations to her?”

I shook my head, ashamed at such a rookie mistake. “We have no music now. None.”

He put his arm around my shoulders. “Don’t fret, my cute little elf. We’ll figure this out.”

“Do you have a list of annoying Christmas nicknames to call me?”

“Who needs a list when one is gifted with such an astounding brain?”

I sighed, the reality of our predicament taking its toll. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Well, I have someone in mind, but you should probably make peace with Betty before we ask that person to fill her place, this being a small town and all.”

True
. “Who?”

He winked. “Someone you know quite well, actually.”

My hope surged.

Of course. Nan.