A Cliché Christmas(22)

Placing my hands firmly on his chest, I pushed against him. He didn’t budge an inch. Instead, he caged me in, pressing his palms to the car on either side of me.

“Don’t act like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I’m an expert in one-sided relationships.” I practically spat the words.

Weston shook his head, and his body inched close, close, closer. “There was nothing one-sided about what we had . . . what I thought we had. You still owe me an explanation.”

I fought against him. “I owe you? Are you kidding me? Do you even remember what happened the night of the Christmas play, when you left me lying on the floor with a ripped dress, gawking at me like you had no idea why I had just flung myself at you?” My voice cracked. “While everyone laughed . . . including you and Miss Perfect!”

Weston’s eyes narrowed as he recalled the memory, a memory that was still near the forefront of my mind. “Why would I laugh at you? I don’t even know what happened that night.”

“You’re unbelievable!” I took a step to the side, struggling to free myself from him. “You and Sydney tricked me. You added that last-minute scene change just to humiliate me. Why? So the two most popular kids in school could have one last laugh at the underdog?”

Weston flattened me against the car door, holding me captive. His breath warmed the side of my neck as I turned my head away. “I made no plans to trick you that night, Georgia—not with Sydney or anyone else. I swear to you.”

I snapped my eyes back to him. “But I saw you wink at me—after Mr. Daniels told you about the scene change. I saw you! You agreed to that kiss and then let me stumble and fall off the stage!”

“No.” His soft whisper caressed my cheek. “No, sweetheart. I never agreed to anything like that. Whatever you saw, it was misinterpreted.”

“But Sydney said—”

“You’re really going to believe her over me?”

Yes. No. Maybe?

“But why . . . why would Sydney do that to me?” My voice was shaky and small.

As I stared at Weston’s painfully handsome face, I could think of a few reasons.

Sydney had always wanted Weston—to be crowned senior-prom queen and king with him, to be Lenox’s little couple of popularity and perfection.

But Weston hadn’t wanted that. He’d been too busy rehearsing for the lead in the winter play to think about that, too busy spending his extra time with me.

“I wish I knew, Georgia.”

A sob caught in my throat. “But you did know how I felt about you . . .”

The weight of his body against mine made my stomach spasm. “Remind me. How did you feel?”

Shaking my head, I closed my eyes for a long second under the scrutiny of his gaze. His lips were a mere millimeter from mine. “It doesn’t matter now. My feelings weren’t real.”

The tip of his nose traced my jaw. As he worked his way past my earlobe, I struggled to breathe.

“Oh, I think they were very real . . . are very real.”

I shuddered as his hands cradled my face.

“You were never my dirty little secret, Georgia.” He studied me, unblinking. “I knew then what I know now. You’re special, unique, and as beautiful on the inside as you’ve always been on the outside. Maybe I never wanted to share you with anyone . . . maybe I still don’t.”

As Weston’s lips feathered against my forehead, all the anger, frustration, and bitter resentment departed from me with a single exhalation.

“You’ve always been more than just a friend to me, Georgia Cole. I only wish it hadn’t taken seven years of silence for you to believe that.”

Weston pulled me into his chest, wrapping his strong arms around me as my fantasy fused with reality.

I snuggled deep into his thermal shirt like it was the shelter I’d spent a lifetime trying to find. “I do, too . . . I’m sorry.”

He stroked my hair softly. “I was a stupid boy to let you walk out of my life so easily, Georgia, but I won’t be a stupid man.” He kissed the top of my head. “I won’t be a stupid man.”





CHAPTER EIGHT

I groggily reached for my phone on the nightstand, ready to press snooze, when I realized it was a phone call, not my alarm. I looked at the clock—it was 5:46 a.m.

My mom.

“Hi, Summer.”

She’d asked me to start calling her by her first name after she had the twins.

“Hey, were you sleeping?”

I yawned. “Well, you are three hours ahead of me.”

She laughed, dismissing her absentmindedness without a second thought. “Nan told me you’re staying there for Christmas?”

“Yes, I am.”

“You should have made up an excuse. I bet you’re ready to be back in LA getting on with your life.”

I felt a prick of defensiveness at her words. She hated it here . . . or maybe just the memories that here held for her. I’d probably never know for sure.

“It hasn’t been that bad.”

She huffed. “Well, you never told me what happened with your last script. The one with the schoolteacher set in the 1940s.”

It was a screenplay I’d written a couple of years ago, one my agent had requested. Although it was still in the holiday genre, it showcased a bit more of my talent than some of the others.