A Cliché Christmas(28)

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.

“So . . . 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 school . . . 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 bedrooms . . . 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 means . . . 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.