A Cliché Christmas(33)

“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, but . . .”

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 Lenox . . . 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 theater . . . 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 pillow . . . 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 just . . . 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 maybe . . . 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.

Um . . . 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.