A Cliché Christmas(32)
“And he wouldn’t let you give him the cold shoulder like you do every guy here?”
“Well, no.”
“And he doesn’t care that you’re the Holiday Goddess?”
I rolled my eyes. “Cara.”
“Oh my gosh, he loves you!”
“Okay, I’m officially never talking to you about him again.”
“Him who?” a deep voice asked behind me.
I jumped, screamed, and threw my phone to the ground—all within half a second.
Weston put his hands up. “I’m sorry . . . I thought you heard me come in.” He went to retrieve my phone, flicking on the theater lights in the process.
My hand was still gripping my chest when I started breathing again.
“Hello?” Weston pressed my phone to his ear.
Oh no. “Give me that.”
Weston turned around, blocking my futile attempts to knock my phone from his hand.
“Yes, this is Weston. Who’s this?”
This is not going to end well.
“Ah yes . . . Cara—Georgia’s ever-faithful roommate, right? Yes . . . Well, she’s told me a few things about you as well.”
I grimaced as he flashed an evil grin.
“Oh, really? That is very interesting. I’ll have to keep that in mind.”
I will kill her.
“Oh, well, hang on.” Weston grabbed me around the waist, extended my phone in front of us, and snapped a selfie. Then he proceeded to send it to her!
“Weston! Are you crazy?” I smacked his shoulder repeatedly.
“Sorry, Cara, someone is being quite needy at the moment. I think I might have to take a rain check on the rest of this conversation. All right . . . will do. Bye.”
Weston hung up the phone and offered it to me as if all were perfectly normal.
“You are incorrigible.”
“Incorrigible? News flash, this is no longer the 1850s, sweetheart.” His face lit with a smile as he gripped my shoulders. “So, what are you doing over here so late? I saw your car on my way home.”
“I . . . um . . .”
He raised his eyebrows in renewed interest. “You meeting someone? Perhaps a rendezvous with an old stagehand from the past?”
“No, I just had an idea is all.” I strolled toward the stage, touching the worn fabric of the seats as I made my way to the front.
“What sort of idea?”
I bit my lip, hesitating. It might sound insane if I said it out loud.
“How long ago was the drama program cut?” I asked.
“Um . . . it was cut from most of the school districts in the state about four years ago. Why? What’s this about?”
“Nothing yet, I’m just thinking.”
He threaded his way through the seats to where I stood looking around the room.
“How much work would it take to renovate this building?”
“This building?” Weston asked. He seemed taken aback for a moment.
I nodded.
“Well, it needs a new roof, updated bathrooms, and there are some places where the floors are close to rotting out.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Why?”
“I’m . . .” I shook my head. “It sounds crazy.”
“You’re in good company, then. Say it.”
“What if . . . 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 this . . . 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.
CHAPTER TWELVE
December 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.”