A Cliché Christmas(46)

I blinked. It was painfully obvious to everyone in this town that I was horrible on stage . . . but Sydney Parker?

“Um . . .”

“I mean, I understand that you’ve put a lot of time and energy into this play, but if it would free you up to handle other things tomorrow night, then I’d gladly take it over for you. It’s no problem at all.”

I stared at her, measuring the inflection in her voice, the gleam in her eye, the perfect placement of every blond hair atop her head.

Something didn’t feel quite right—

Stop it, Georgia. Anyone can change. Isn’t that what Nan is always saying?

“I . . . uh . . . I guess that would be okay.”

She grinned and pulled me in for a quick hug. I was so shocked by her display of affection that I almost gagged on her musky perfume.

“See you tomorrow night, Georgia.”

“Yeah. See ya.”

I watched her leave, the four-inch boot-heels and bedazzled backside making her exit hard to ignore.

Nice or not. Good or bad. Right or wrong. Sydney Parker was my new emcee.





CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

My phone rang as I walked into the theater. Arms full of thank-you gifts for my cast and crew, I pressed my cell to my ear with my shoulder and held the door open with my foot.

“I can hardly hear you. What did you say?” I asked.

Static and strange, robotic sounds followed.

“News . . . your offer,” my realtor said.

“What? You’re breaking up.”

I dropped the box carrying twenty-eight bags of Christmas candy and faced the parking lot. Pressing my hand to my opposite ear to drown out the surrounding noises, I heard the sickening slam of the theater door at my back.

Oh no!

“Um . . . can you please repeat that? What about my offer?”

I whipped around and tried the door. Locked.

“Driving on pass . . . bad signal.”

The line went dead.

I threw my head back. Awesome. Not only was I still in the dark about my offer, I was locked out of the theater as well. Dressed in a black skirt, tights, and heels, I buttoned my coat and checked the windows. Why must security be such an important thing to people? Urgh!

Weston picked up on the first ring. “Hey, you at the theater already?”

My heels clicked the ground in the rhythm of a Celtic dance as I tried to keep warm.

“Sort of.”

“What’s that sound? And why are you panting?”

“My feet . . . and because I’m locked out.”

“What? Where’s the key?”

“Inside—thus the reference to being locked out.”

He sighed that long, drawn-out sigh of his, and I could imagine the face to match it. “Oh, Georgia.”

“Hey! My realtor called, and I was trying to balance boxes of Christmas goodies and listen at the same time—”

“What did he say?” Weston’s voice became a taut wire, stretched between two points.

“I don’t know. He was driving on the pass. The signal was bad.”

“I’ll be there in a second. Go wait in your car . . . please. I don’t want an ice sculpture for a girlfriend.”

I laughed. “Fine, but please hurry. The cast will be here in twenty minutes.”

Weston pulled into the parking lot six minutes later and jumped out of his truck, crowbar in hand.

“What do you plan to do with that thing?” My heels clipped as I scurried over to him across the frozen parking lot.

Stopping dead in his tracks, he looked me up and down. A wide, mischievous grin appeared on his face.

“Weston?” I waved my hand in front of his face. “I asked you a question.”

His eyes danced. “You look gorgeous.”

My stomach flipped. “Thank you . . . but why do you need a crowbar?”

“Don’t change the subject. I’m not focused on the crowbar right now.”

I shook my head as my body tingled. I tried to ignore it. “Well, I kind of need you to be focused on the crowbar. We have a play to put on, and we can’t get inside the theater, remember?”

He exhaled. “Fine. But later—”

“Later we’re making an appearance at Nan’s bake sale—the one benefiting your niece.”

His eyes cleared, and his focus shifted.

“Okay, let’s go break in.”

I followed him to a window in the back, still confused as to how he was going to use his apparent tool of choice. Weston stood on the balls of his feet as he shoved the curve of the bar under the lip of the window. Within a second, the seal creaked and popped.

“How did you—”

He winked. “I may have spent a few evenings here in high school. This window doesn’t have a latch.” Pointing to my heels, he added, “Kick those off, and I’ll give you a boost.”

“What? No. I’m in tights, Weston. Not to mention a skirt. I can’t climb through a window!”

“Well, I’m sorry I forgot my Go-Go-Gadget shoes. I can’t exactly jump inside. You’re all we’ve got, babe.”

I rolled my eyes and glanced down at my outfit again.

“Here, I’ll throw my coat over the sill so it won’t snag your . . . uh . . . stockings. Okay?”