A Cliché Christmas (13 page)

“I’
m . . .
” I shook my head. “It sounds crazy.”

“You’re in good company, then. Say it.”

“What i
f . . .
what if there was someone who could do something with this old theater? Make it great again? Bring a passion back to the arts? Not just something for Lenox, but for the surrounding communities, too.” I spun in a circle, taking it all in. “It just sits here, Wes. And Josie’s mom said it’s been on the market for several years.”

“Yeah, it has.” His words were careful, hesitant even, but my pulse was like a runaway stallion.

“What if
I
could do that? What if
I
could be that person?”

Weston’s mouth fell open, and shock veiled his handsome face.

“Maybe it’s not even possible.” I shook my head as something like a giggle raced up my throat. “Tell me it’s crazy, Weston. I mean, I already have a career—a
successful
career—but thi
s . . .
I don’t know, this just feels
right
somehow.”

“You’re not crazy, Georgia.” He seemed to be measuring his words, but his eyes gleamed with tenderness.

He held my hand, intertwining our fingers, as I looked around the room, visualizing the updates and repairs. I could easily imagine the plays and performances, recitals and readings, but most of all, I could see the faces that walked through the lobby doors.

Faces looking for a place to belong.

C
HAPTER
T
WELVE

D
ecember 14—otherwise known as “practice-free Saturday”—was upon us.

I climbed into Weston’s truck in my borrowed snow gear—
thank you, Misty
—and a thrill of childish excitement rushed through my veins. I hadn’t been tubing for nearly a decade. I looked up at the mountain ahead of us; another layer of fresh snow slept atop it.

“We should probably head home by early afternoon,” Weston said, shutting his door. “They say the storm is headed our way late this evening.”

I chuckled and clicked my seat belt. “I’ve heard that for three days now. And last night I finally broke down and ate the stash of Cocoa Puffs I’d been saving for this big storm.”

“Well, as much as I’d love to get stuck in a snowstorm with you, I’d like to make sure that you and Nan are well secured tonight in a warm house, with or without Cocoa Puffs.”

Tilting my head to the side, I grinned at him. “Thanks, by the way, for carrying in all that wood for the stove. I worry about her doing that by herself when I go home.”

“Then don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Leave.” Weston took my hand and kissed the top of it.

A fluttering erupted inside me.

“Oh, guess what I found out last night? You’ll never believe it!” I nearly jumped out of my seat as I remembered my online discoveries the night before.

“What?” Weston mocked me by bouncing in his seat. “Please tell me before you combust.”

“Nan knows the realtor who listed the theater. She called him this morning, and he said I definitely have a chance, Weston. There’s been no offers on it in a year! I can’t help but feel like it’s some sort of sign. I mean, seriously, how cool is
that
?”

I couldn’t help but notice the skeptical flicker of emotion on Weston’s face. “So you’ve talked to your agent in LA about all this? And she doesn’t have any objections to you writing from Oregon if you get the theater?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that exactly. She has some concerns, bu
t . . .
”

I also couldn’t ignore the way Weston rubbed the back of his neck anxiously.

Not exactly the response I was hoping for. Wasn’t he just asking me to stay?

“Why are you acting like that?” I asked.

“Like what?”

“Like you don’t care—like I just told you I wanted to purchase a goldfish and not the town’s community theater.”

“I
do
care. It’s just—”

“Just what?”

He gripped the steering wheel. “Remodeling that theater will be a lot of work, Georgia. Don’t get me wrong, I want you in Leno
x . . .
but I also want to make sure you’re prepared for that kind of commitment.”

Which commitment is he talking about? The commitment to the theate
r . . .
or to him?

I couldn’t deny the hurt that seeped into my heart when I heard his words. I’d daydreamed about us working together on the theater—at least in some capacity.

“Okay,” I said.

“Georgia, don’t do that.”

“Do what?”

“That stupid girl-thing where you pretend you’re fine when you’re obviously not.”

“I’m not pretending.”
Great, now I’m pretending
and
lying.

“I just don’t want you to have unrealistic expectations.”

I turned my head to stare out the window as the snow started to fall on the pass. We were thirty minutes from the mountain, but the closer we got, the more I felt like going back to Nan’s and crying into my pillo
w . . .
not sliding down the bunny slope in a giant rubber tube.

“Georgia?” Weston’s soft voice tugged at the wound in my chest.

I couldn’t answer him, not without shedding unwanted tears.

“I admire your passion and ambition, I always have. I jus
t . . .
I want you to be aware of all that’s involved in this decision.”

Several minutes of torturous silence lingered between us. His words rolled round and round inside my head on a mental spin cycle, tossing around an insecurity so deep, so tender, that I struggled to push it aside. Though I’d been the one to apply the brakes after Weston stated his feelings—requesting that our new relationship move at a slow pace—purchasing the theater would stomp on the accelerator with a lead foot.

But mayb
e . . .
maybe Weston didn’t want to move that fast. Maybe the hesitancy I’d felt from him had less to do with the theater and the work it involved and more to do with
us
.

With me.

My throat tightened with a familiar uneasiness. “I realize we’ve made no commitments to each other. I mean, I was only supposed to be here for a few weeks—it’s not like you signed up for anything long-term.” I exhaled and picked at the hangnail on my thumb. “Nan is reason enough for me to stay and take this project on. So, please understand, I have no expectations for you if you don’t want to be part of this.”
Or me.
But somehow I couldn’t bring myself to say those words.

Weston remained quiet until we pulled into the white-blanketed parking lot of the ski area. The consistent clenching of his jaw ticked like Nan’s piano metronome.

The second he parked, he jumped out of the truck and slammed the door.

U
m . . .
this could be the worst date in history. No wonder he never made it to date number three.

I jumped out of the truck after him.

As my boots sunk into the snow, I watched him lean over his tailgate. And when he glanced up, the pain in his eyes caught me off guard.

“No expectations?” His staccato words were smothered in hurt.

He pushed away from his truck and trudged back toward me, snow crunching beneath his boots with each step.

“I wasn’t talking about
us
, Georgia.” He stood inches away from me, his breath crystalizing in the cold air as he spoke. “I was referring to this life-altering project you want to take on.” He clamped his mouth shut and pulled at the back of his neck with both hands as I stood staring at him, dumbfounded.

“How could you think I only wanted some sort of winter-break romance with you?”

“
I . . .
I just thought—”

He reached for my hips and pulled me toward him, his breath tickling my mouth as he spoke. “Stop it.
Please.
” He shook his head and leaned his forehead against mine. “Stop thinking so much. Stop telling yourself that what I feel for you isn’t real. Because it is, Georgia. There are so many things I want to say to you, but I can’t because you’re not ready to hear them. Not yet.” Weston’s deep breaths warmed my face.

My body was limp with an emotion I couldn’t quite identify. Weston let go of me and took a step back, giving me space that I neither needed nor wanted at that moment.

“Why not?” I asked, the snow falling harder, making small piles on my shoulders, hood, and boots.

He studied my face and shook his head as a snowflake landed on his cheek and melted instantaneously. “Because you don’t trust me.”

I forced my next words out, hoping I believed them. “Yes, I do.”

“Do you?” he asked, his eyebrows pulling together. “Then stop worrying about having too many expectations for me—stop wondering if my feelings for you are going to last.”

Had he been reading the script written on my soul?

“I care about you, Georgia.” His breathy whisper cut through my many layers of self-preservation and doubt.

Tears blurred my vision, and he reached for me again, his cool gloves brushing against my cheeks.

“I want to believe that.” And I did.

“Good, because someday I won’t be able to hold back what I really want to say.”

His lips covered mine a second later. And our kiss opened up a rhythm inside me that I wasn’t sure existed until now.

Something was happening to m
e . . .
something as achingly wonderful as it was devastatingly uncertain.

I was falling in love with Weston James.

For the second time.

Despite the intense start to the day, tubing proved to be the stress reliever we both needed. We’d ridden the lift to the top of the tubing hill a dozen times, but my legs ached from the little bit of snow-walking we’d done—and from the fact that I was completely out of shape.

Cara would be griping at me right now for my lack of endurance.

Weston warmed my frozen cheek with a kiss as we rode up the side of the mountain.

“Remember that time we came up here with the youth group? I think it was sophomore year?”

“It was. That was my last time here.”

“Are you serious? Willa and I came up here at least ten times a winter. Our parents love to ski.”

I smiled and shrugged. “Nan’s not a big fan of snow.”

“Your mom, either?”

I shook my head. “Nah.”
Actually, she wasn’t a fan of much—until she met Brad, anyway.

Weston squeezed me closer to him, not commenting.

“I love it, though,” I said, dreamily.

“Love what?”

“The mountains. Sometimes I think it’s easier for God to hear us from way up here.”

Weston kissed my temple as the ski lift came to a stop. “I think He hears you just fine, Georgia. Whether you’re on the beaches of California or in the Himalayas. He hears you.”

I grinned at him, my chest exploding with a kind of satisfaction I hadn’t felt i
n . . .
maybe forever.

We hopped off the lift, and Weston dragged our tubes alongside him. As I watched his caveman-like stride, I caught a dose of the giggles. A big dose.

“What’s so funny back there?” He stopped his trek and turned.

“You look like you’re dragging a dead animal behind you after a hunt.”

Before I could blink, my back was flat against the snow, and Weston was standing over me, gloating like a third grader who won in a game of Red Rover.
Had he really just pushed me?

“I may be small town, sweetheart, but I can hold my own pretty wel
l . . .
Wouldn’t you agree?”

He held out a giant gloved hand to me, but I had no intention of getting up. If I was going down, so was he. As I faked a hold on him, I swept my leg behind his knee and rolled to the side. He came down hard.

“Did I mention that Cara teaches yoga
and
self-defense?”

Weston army crawled toward me as I squealed and tried to crab walk away from him in the snow. I needed to get away from his path of revenge.
Too late.

With one quick pounce, Weston wrapped his arms around my legs.

“No! No! No!” I couldn’t breathe between my eruptions of giggles.

“You started this, O lover of all things winter.”

I tried to wrestle my way out of his grip, but my efforts were futile. As I sunk farther into the fresh layers of powder, large snowflakes fell from the sky, wetting my face.

“Sto
p . . .
wiggling,” Weston wheezed.

“Never!”

And then we were rollin
g . . .
rollin
g . . .
rolling.

I heard several people shout at us, but we were a nonstop wheel of snow gear and childhood rivalry. As we separated, I knew exactly what he was going to do. Race me!

I pushed myself to keep rolling, even when the tubing slopes came into view on my right.

I didn’t care.

Neither did he.

I wasn’t going to be the first to stop.

Neither was he.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity being stuck on the teacup ride at the state fair, we both came to a stop.

We lay on our backs panting as the world spun above us. Weston crawled toward me slowly. He looked as dizzy as I felt.

When he was next to me, his heavy, snow-encrusted arm snaked its way across my midsection.

“Did I win?” he asked, breathlessly.

I closed my eyes, smiling as I tried to control my vertigo.

“I think so.”

“Yeah?” he whispered. “What did I win?”

My heart.
“I’m not sure you’re ready to hear it yet.”

Weston’s laugh was winded. “Touché. You’ve always had such a smart little mouth on you, Georgia.”

“Yes, but you like it.”

“Mmm. That I do,” he said. “That I do.”

When his mouth crashed onto mine, I knew his goal: to show me just how much he liked it. Unfortunately, our make-out session lasted only as long as it took for the snow in our coats, pants, and boots to start to melt, which wasn’t long at all. It turns out that when one rolls down a giant hill of snow, one takes in quite a bit of the stuff.

“Come on, Miss Mistletoe.” Weston reached a hand down to me as he stood. “We need to get back to town.”

Wet, cold, and completely exhausted, we made it to the bottom of the hill, my smile never fading.

And just maybe it never would.