A Cliché Christmas(51)

“Stand there, you’re soaking wet. I need to get you some dry clothes before hypothermia sets in. You look halfway to rigor mortis.” He took three steps and then whirled back to face me. “Are you trying to make me crazy?”

Shivering involuntarily, I shook my head.

He left the room and returned a minute later with lounge pants and a hooded sweatshirt. Without another word, I went to the bathroom and changed, catching sight of my bluish-purple lips in the mirror.

Wow . . . I do look awful.

When I walked out of the bathroom, holding the sweatpants at my waist—I’d rolled them three times to keep myself from tripping—he was carrying several large quilts in his arms.

“Sit.”

I obeyed.

He tucked the quilts around me like he was folding an overstuffed burrito, and he knelt in front of me.

“Don’t you ever do something so careless again, Georgia.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “If you wanted to talk, you should have called. I’ve been going out of my mind these last two days trying to figure out how to balance giving you space and breaking your stubbornness . . . and then you show up at my house tonight halfway frozen.”

“You’ve been going out of your mind?” I whispered, my heart flipping wildly.

He laid his stocking-capped head in my lap and chuckled. “Yes, Georgia.” Snaking his arms behind my back, he hugged me close. “Please tell me you believe me now.”

As his eyes lifted to mine, I knew the answer. “Yes. If you tell me that Sydney isn’t your business partner, or any other kind of partner . . . I believe you. But I still wish you had told me what she was up to, Weston. About her wanting to make an offer on the theater.”

“I know. It was stupid. I really thought I could spare you the worry and convince her otherwise. I should have told you.” He kissed my wrist. “I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too.” I rubbed my hands over his knit hat, the warmth thawing my fingers. “You were right, though.”

“About what?”

“Everything—my mom.”

Weston touched my cheek. “You have no idea how much I wish I wasn’t.”

My chest ached at his words. “I’ve built my adult life around ideas and stories I knew next to nothing about . . . until now. Until you. Only now, I want the real thing, Weston.”

The curve of Weston’s mouth made my heart pound. Little by little, his dimpled grin became full-blown. “I’m in love with you, Georgia Cole. And I think I always have been.” He kissed each of my frozen fingertips. “I see your face in every childhood memory, but I want to see it in every memory that’s to come, too. My future was always meant to be connected to yours.”

Leaning forward, I took his face in my hands and kissed him. At first it was sweet and sincere, deepening quickly to hungry and wanting. And want him I did. Forever.

“I love you, too, Wes. More than I ever imagined I could love anyone. And even without the theater, I know I belong with you.”

His lips found mine again as he made his way onto the sofa.

With hands braced at the nape of my neck tenderly, Weston kissed me and unleashed the passion I’d heard in his words, seen in his eyes, and felt in his touch.

I was loved by Weston James.

When our kiss finally broke, he glanced at the clock. “So . . . it’s official then.”

“What is?” I giggled.

“Our story has surpassed all your cheesy holiday romance screenplays. We just said ‘I love you’ for the first time at midnight on Christmas Eve. Doesn’t get much better than that.”

I swatted his shoulder and pulled him close again. “No . . . and as cliché as it sounds, I wouldn’t trade our story for anything in the world.”

His eyes sparkled as he kissed me again.

“Merry Christmas, Georgia Cole.”

“Merry Christmas, Weston James.”



After spending the wee hours of Christmas morning baking several large pans of cinnamon rolls with Nan, I checked off another name from the list of lucky people fortunate enough to receive her heavenly pastries. She changed the list every year, making sure to include widows and widowers, families struggling financially, and those who had recently experienced loss. I admired her for so many reasons, but that morning, the tradition of hers shone even brighter as I reflected on my moments in front of the manger the night before.

I had added both Josie’s and Kevin’s families to the list. Everyone was beyond grateful as they received the hot plate, hugged me, and wished me a Merry Christmas.

As Nan pulled into the Greenway neighborhood, I glanced up at her.

“Nan? I don’t think we have a delivery in this neighborhood.”

“Yes. We do.”

“Um . . .” I glossed over the list again. “Nope, we really don’t.”

“It’s under J. Parker.”

“J. Parker? Is that . . . Sydney’s father?”

“Yes.” She turned at the next corner, passing several estates decked out in gaudy holiday trimmings.

“But why, Nan?”

Eyes full of empathy, she pulled into a driveway. My stomach bottomed out. Sydney’s white SUV was parked in front of the garage.

Nan rested her hand on my knee. “Sometimes we need to love our adversaries more for our sake than for theirs.”