A Cliché Christmas(38)

“Oh heavens! Did it go out? Georgia, I’m so sorry!”

“Nan, I’m a big girl. I’ll be okay.”

“Is your beau there? Put him on the phone.”

I rolled my eyes. “Nan.”

“Don’t sass me. Put him on.”

Weston crouched in front of the open stove, adding more wood to the crackling fire. His striking features glowed in the light of the flames as I made my way over to him.

“Here.”

I held the phone out to him without further instruction, but his grin indicated he knew what Nan was going to tell him.

After a few pleasant exchanges, Weston listened, gave a couple of short replies, said good-bye, and hung up.

“What did she say?”

He laughed and wrapped his arms around me. “She said you should stop being so uptight.”

“That’s not what she said.”

He brushed my temple with his lips. “She told me that I wasn’t to leave here without making sure you were going to stay warm for the night—and then she told me where her secret snack collection is . . . since someone already ate through her box of storm Cocoa Puffs.”

I rested my head on his shoulder as he kneaded my back with his strong fingers.

“So . . . you want me to stick around for a while tonight?”

More than anything. “Hmm . . . well, we’ve already had one scandalous sleepover in the not-so-distant past. I don’t know if we should push our luck. It’s a small town.” My smile curved with mischief as our eyes met.

Weston’s throaty laugh caused my heart to cartwheel. “Then let’s not sleep. Show me where the candles are, and we’ll stay up, keep the fire going, listen to the wind, and talk. I’ll be a perfect gentleman.” He kissed the tip of my nose. “I promise.”

“This is turning into the longest date in history.”

“Correction—this is turning into the best date in history.”

“I think it should count for dates three, four, and five.”

Weston pulled me in closer and whispered huskily into my ear, “I think we should just stop counting.”



Through the glow of ten votive candles and one heavy-duty flashlight, Weston and I chowed down on Nan’s secret stash of sugar. It was snowing hard again. We sat on the floor, legs outstretched, backs against the couch, each with a ratty afghan across our laps, as we watched the flakes fall.

It was past three in the morning, but being with Weston invigorated me. My head rested against his shoulder. He lifted our connected hands to his mouth and kissed my fingertips, each gentle caress singing through me like a personal melody.

“I used to watch you at the park. From my bedroom window,” he said.

I tilted my chin, meeting his gaze momentarily.

“I always wondered what went on in that head of yours.” He chuckled. “Although now I’m convinced you were plotting screenplays under that old oak tree, while the rest of us struggled to complete our math story problems.”

I suppressed a yawn and nuzzled into his shoulder. “You never struggled in school. You got straight As—always had the right answers to your story problems.”

“Not always. There was one story problem I could never figure out . . . a story that kept me awake at night and gnawed at me for years.”

Weston’s finger traced a pattern onto my open palm, and my pulse skipped.

“We’ve always been intertwined, Georgia. Our pasts are impossible to separate from one another. It would be like trying to extract salt from the ocean.” He shifted his body, and his hand cupped the side of my face, his fingers sliding easily into my hair. “This is the story we were always meant to live.”

A shallow sigh escaped my lips. “So . . . you’re saying you want me to stay? Even if it means that I buy a run-down theater?”

Weston laughed as he pressed his forehead to mine. “I’m saying whatever I have to do to keep you from leaving, I’ll do it.”

“I think I like this story.”

My words were silenced as he kissed me gently, and my heart was fuller than I could have ever imagined.

And for the first time ever, I doubted the story line I’d loved so much as a young girl.

Maybe Louisa May Alcott did get it wrong.

Maybe, just maybe, Jo and Laurie could have been happy together.



Despite our goal to pull an all-nighter watching the fire and talking, we fell asleep sometime in the wee hours of the morning. I was on the couch while Weston slept on the floor next to me, several pillows tucked under his head. It was just after six when the power came on, the light from the kitchen blinding me.

“Weston—Weston, wake up.”

He lifted his head and rolled over groggily to face me. “Is it next week yet?”

“What?” I giggled.

“I think I need to sleep for a week.”

I nudged his leg with my foot. “No, you need to go home and shower. You have to salt the church parking lot, remember? You told me to wake you if you fell asleep.”

“Urgh, right. Okay.” Weston rubbed his eyes and then ran a hand through his messy hair. I couldn’t help but smile. He was adorable—like a bear cub coming out of hibernation.

He stood and planted a kiss on my head. “Best. Date. Ever.”