A Cliché Christmas(20)

Weston shifted his gaze to me, and a spasm rocketed through my core.

No! Stop that! Why was my body always defying me when it came to him?

“I’d love to take whatever you have for her, Nan.”

“Great.”

Weston’s phone buzzed, and his brow furrowed.

“Hang on.” He stood and walked toward the window. I couldn’t help but watch him. Weston James was like a piece of fine art, one I hadn’t allowed myself to fully appreciate until now. But with his eyes fixed outside and my pride momentarily banished, I surreptitiously studied the masterpiece in front of me.

“Maybe you should just take a picture—you know, with that fancy phone of yours,” Eddy muttered as she sat down with us.

Flames crept up my cheeks to the tips of my ears. “I . . . I was looking out the window.”

“Ha! Sure you were. That backside of his was discussed at length during my book club a few months ago.”

Oy. I did not need to know that. “Okay, then.”

Eddy’s voice grew shriller. “What? I’m just saying—”

“We need to go,” Weston said, taking my arm and pulling me up.

“What? Where?”

Was that Willa on the phone? Had something happened to Savannah? Weston’s stride was quick, my arm tucked under his. I didn’t even say good-bye to Nan. Not that I had a clue what was happening.

“I need your keys.”

“Why?”

“I’ll fill you in on the way. Hand them over.”

I rolled my eyes and placed them in his palm.

After adjusting every single custom seat setting I had, Weston started my car, and we were on our way. Where? I still had no clue.

“Weston, what’s going on?” I buckled my seat belt.

“We’re rescuing Prince Pickles.”

I belted out a cough-like chuckle. “Who?”

“Savannah’s dog. The neighbor called. I guess he dug out of the backyard again. I swear, that mutt is the bane of my existence—yippy and annoying—but Savannah loves him for some reason.” He shook his head.

“Hmm . . .”

“What?” he asked, glancing over at me.

“Nothing,” I said in a sing-song voice.

Weston poked my thigh with his finger. “Tell me.”

I squirmed in my seat as he repeated the gesture. “It’s just that Savannah seems to have a knack for loving exasperating creatures . . .”

His mouth fell open in mock offense. “Oh. No. You. Didn’t.”

Swallowing the giggle in my throat, I pushed my door open the second Weston parked in front of Willa’s house. In no time, he was trotting up the porch stairs after me.

“Take it back.”

I shook my head. “No way.”

“Georgia Cole, I’ll have you know, I’m perfectly lovable—”

A shrill bark interrupted Weston’s rant.

“Weston? That you?” An older man rounded the corner holding a dog that looked like the end of a dirty mop. The mutt squirmed in his arms, wagging his tail as Weston reached for him.

Apparently, Weston’s feelings toward the dog weren’t mutual.

“Thanks, Mr. Murphy. Sorry he got out . . . again.”

Mr. Murphy waved him off. “No problem. I know what he means to that girl. You should tell your sister to keep better track of him.”

Weston frowned at the animal now licking his cheek with unabashed pleasure. “I will, thanks again.”

I laughed and shoved my frozen hands into my pockets. I waited for Weston to open the front door as Mr. Murphy walked away.



Prince Pickles went crazy the second Weston set him down. He spun in circles, his cottony hair a magnet for every piece of lint it encountered. No wonder he looked like a Q-tip dipped in soil. He ran to a room down the hall and then back out, barking at Weston’s feet.

“She’s not here, buddy.”

The dog sobered instantly, as if that were the only explanation he needed.

I took a tentative step forward. “He understands you?”

“He has some weird doggy ESP with Savannah. I think he knew she was sick even before Willa realized it. He wouldn’t leave Savannah’s side for weeks . . .” Weston looked out the window as Prince Pickles laid his head on the linoleum floor.

I glanced down the hallway, fighting to squelch the uncomfortable burn at the base of my throat. I was much better at writing dialogue than saying it. While Weston filled Prince Pickles’s water and food bowls, I studied each picture on the wall. Most were of Savannah, but a few were of Willa and Weston.

The wall of photographs was a timeline of memories, and one in particular twisted around my heart like barbed wire. I paused in front of it, taking in every detail. The background, the faces, the costumes—it was the night of the Christmas play seven years ago. There Weston stood, his arm around his sister’s shoulders, beaming at the camera . . . while I was weeping alone in the playground, nursing a broken heart.

Suddenly, my skin burned with fury. How dare he—

“Whatcha thinking about?”

I started at the sound of his voice. My heart flung itself against the brick wall I just rebuilt.

“Can we go back now?” I asked.

“Are you okay?” Concern edged his voice.