A Cliché Christmas (7 page)

Nothing could taint the Christmases I created in my mind.

No matter how my past had failed me.

And no matter
who
had failed me.

I may have lacked firsthand experience in the magic of Christmas, but my ambition to rise above my shortcomings proved stronger. Like it always had.

Nan was right:
can’t
was simply not an option.

I locked the theater door with the sacred key and turned to face the dark, empty parking lot.

Shoot!
I forgot I walked here.

I was
so
not in LA anymore. There wasn’t a single light anywhere on the street. And it was only nine.

I started walking, cursing the wind gusts that seemed to blow directly from the Arctic, and calculated how quickly a girl without gloves and a hat could last in thirty-degree weather. My hands were turning a strange shade of red, and my face had gone completely numb—
again
.

I heard a loud rumble behind me. “Hey, is your name Candy? As in Candy Cane? Want a ride?”

Despite my near hypothermia, I ignored the obnoxious but familiar voice shouting through the open window of the truck rolling up beside me.

Though I could imagine the feel of the heater vent blowing across my frostbitten skin, my willpower held out.

“Come on, stop being so stubborn. I got halfway home and realized I didn’t see your car in the parking lot. You must be freezing. Get in, Georgia.”

“N-n-no. I’m f-f-fine.”

He laughed but continued to match my pace. “Get in, Georgia.”

“W-w-e aren’t-t f-friend-ds, West-ton-n.”

“Fine. Whatever you say. Now, get in this truck before I throw you over my shoulder.”

He stopped the truck the very millisecond I stopped walking. When I tried to grip the door handle, it snapped away from my hand,
twice
. My fingers were now beet purple, and my hands were frozen into arthritic claws. As I climbed into the seat, he turned all the heater vents toward me. I wasn’t about to complain. If blood could freeze inside a living body, I was almost positive it was happening inside mine right now.

“You should remember how cold the winter nights get. You did grow up here, you know.”

I didn’t respond, but only because my jaw needed to defrost before I could open my mouth.

“And where are your gloves?”

I balled my hands in front of the vent and shrugged.

After a few moments, he sighed. “You’ll get it, you know. Those kids on stage—you can make them great. You just need to show them you believe in them. Learn who they are. If you do that, they will give you what you want. I promise.”

I shivered involuntarily. “You know
all
of them?”

“Yep. I’ve had every single one of them in my class at some point.”

It was still so strange for me to think of Weston as a shop teacher. Weston, who had dreamed of designing buildings and skyscrapers since second grade.

He pulled into Nan’s driveway and then hopped out, opening my door before I could protest.

“All you have to do is say the word, Georgia. I could help you pull this off. But I won’t be ignored.”

I stared at him dead-on, my earlier resolve coming back full force. “I appreciate the ride tonight and the set construction, but I’ll be fine on my own.”

When I started to walk toward the front door, he caught up to me and grabbed my arm, pulling me back. “When you change your mind, and you
will
change your mind, Nan has my number.”

“Your cockiness is out of control.”

His eyes roamed my face before fixing on my lips. “You don’t really think that. You
know
me, Georgia.”

I swallowed as he leaned in so close I could smell the peppermint on his breath.

His right dimple came to life as his mouth ticked up on one side. “Good night, Frost Princess. I’ll see you around.”

As I watched him pull away, I was no longer concerned about the chill of the air, but about the protective frozen wall around my hear
t . . .
that was slowly beginning to melt.

C
HAPTER
S
EVEN

T
he next two days and nights were Weston-free, but they were far from drama-free.

The Clash of the Cheerleaders had given me a permanent migraine, and though my actors were proving to be decent at memorizing, they spoke their lines with as much emotion as roadkill. Plus, Kevin, the boy with the ever-showing boxers, simply would not stop taunting the wise men, no matter what kind of threats I hurled his way.

I rubbed my temples and did another countdown in my head.
Twenty-five days.

I was on edge, testy, and annoyed, but worst of all, I couldn’t get a certain set of dimples out of my mind.

“Miss Cole?”

I snapped out of my mental torment.

“Yeah, Josie?”

“Is it true we have to practice every Saturday?”

I tried my best to smile sweetly. “Yes, we need to practice every day we can.”
And about ninety more than that.

“Well, I have a Christmas party I have to attend on the fourteenth. It’s out of town. We go every year.”

“Yeah, I have something going on that day, too,” Kevin said.

“Me, too,” another kid piped up.

I stood with my hands on my hips. “
All
of you have a Christmas party to attend that Saturday? You guys, that is just a week before the show. That is a
crucial
Saturday practice.”

“Please, Miss Cole. We will work extra hard,” Josie said.

Suddenly, I got an idea.

“Extra hard?” I asked.

The stage was filled with bobbleheads.

“Okay, a Saturday off means that you have to start taking your roles seriously. No more hawking loogies in the middle of your lines. I want to
feel
the emotion and humor and voice of each of your characters.”

“So, all we have to do is become better actors, and we can have that Saturday off?”

“Yep. And Miss Peach—I mean, Mrs. Aarons—and I will be the judge of that.”

Misty nodded, impressed that I finally remembered her married name.

Perfect.

So, as it turns out, teenagers are the spawn of the purest kind of evil.

On Friday evening, Weston arrived at the theater, trailing behind a pack of devilish hoodlums—a.k.a. my actors.

“What are
you
doing here?” The hiss of my voice caused several glances to shoot our way.

“I’m their secret weapon, apparently.”

“What are you talking about?”

“They want a Saturday off.” He shrugged. “I’m gonna help them get one.”

“No one cleared this with me.”

“Well, Ms. Tinseltown, consider yourself informed.” He hopped up on the stage with one bicep-straining motion. “All right guys, get in your places. We have a show to put on.” He clapped once and shot me a not-so-innocent grin.

No way.
I turned to Misty, looking for her to confirm my outrage.

“I say let him help us. He
does
know the kids, Georgia.”

I closed my eyes and exhaled. Fine.
I can do this.
Weston was just one more obstacle to tackle.

A bridge to cross. A gap to jump. A mouth to kiss.

Strike that last one.

“What do you think, Miss Cole?” Weston asked.

Everyone stared at me.

I blinked. “U
m . . .
what was that?”

“Can the wise men add a swagger to their walks?”

The boys demonstrated this, and I nearly choked with laughter. Misty giggled uncontrollably.

“Ye
s . . .
yes, I think that’s great.”

Weston winked at me and continued with his observations and ideas. Despite the sudden urge to join him up there, I remained on the floor.

“Okay, then, let’s take it from the top.”

As the kids took their places, Weston dropped himself into the seat next to me in the front row. And I heard Misty’s snicker on my other side as he did so.

Weston leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Amazing, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That people still know how to ask for help when they need it.”

I stared straight ahead, refusing to look at the smirk on his face, although his proximity made it nearly impossible to concentrate on anything but him. Shifting in my seat, I tried to create an extra pocket of space between us.

“Shh. I’m trying to listen to my actors.”

The low rumble of amusement in his chest caused my pulse to tap dance.

“If you would stop trying so hard to hate me, you might just find that you actually enjoy my company.”

A little too much, probably.

“You heading over to play bingo?” Weston asked as I locked the theater door.

I glanced at my phone. 8:38 p.m. I had promised Nan I would stop by the community center if I could, but Weston hadn’t been part of that plan.

“Um, I’m not sure yet.”

“Debating an offer for a hot date?”

I guffawed. “Definitely not.”

“And what if I ask you out?”

I stopped and turned. He was grinning, obviously amused by his stupid joke. “You’re so—”

“Charming, handsome, funny, witt
y . . .
just pick your adjective.”

“Irritating.”

His smile widened, crinkling the corners of his eyes. “He
y . . .
that’s not as bad as some of the things you’ve called me in the past.”

I opened my car door, and he walked to the passenger side. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“Riding with you to bingo.”

I stared at him. “Do you understand the phrase ‘personal bubble’?”

“Nope.”

I rolled my eyes. “I’m not staying long. Drive yourself.”

“Nope.” He opened the door and plopped into the seat, reclining it as he did.

Unbelievable.

“This tiny car was not made for guys my size.”

He was right; he looked ridiculously cramped. His muscular build, height, and overall fatheaded arrogance were too much for my miniconvertible.

“Want to get out and take your truck?”

“You gonna ride with me?”

“Nope.”

“Then drive on, Rudolph.”

We pulled into the community center a few minutes later, and Weston walked beside me as we entered the large hall. Fortunately, Eddy masked our entrance as she barked out the next sequence. She’d managed Bingo Fridays ever since I was a young girl. At a buck a card, the admission for the evening included unlimited soda, snacks, and popcorn. It was one of the town’s biggest social events. Even popular high school students could be found here on Friday nights.

I found Nan sitting by Franklin and scooted in beside her, careful to leave no room for Weston. But true to form, he wasn’t deterred. He grabbed a folding chair and set it at the table’s end, turning it backward and straddling it. Our knees bumped multiple times, almost as if he were doing it on purpose.

I ignored his boyish attempts for attention, focusing instead on Nan’s card.

“B-12,” Eddy hollered from the stage.

“Oo
h . . .
you’re only two away, Nan!”

She squinted at me. “You’re excited about bingo? Since when?”

I’ll pretend to be excited about anything to take my mind off the tingles shooting up my leg at the moment!

“Yep. I love bingo.” I threw back a few pieces of popcorn, realizing for the first time that I’d missed lunc
h . . .
and dinner. As I reached for an Oreo on Nan’s plate, Weston stood up and walked off. Finally, I could breathe.

“You guys on a date?”

A giant piece of Oreo flew out of my mouth as I choked.

“What?” Nan asked, seemingly innocent. “Two days ago you couldn’t stand the thought of being in the same room with him, and now, you’re playing footsie with him on Bingo Friday.”

“I am not!”

She laughed so hard I worried she’d rupture something important.

“What did I miss? What’s so funny?” Weston set a full plate of food in front of me.

I looked up at him, completely bewildered.

“You haven’t eaten, right?”

Speechless, I shook my head.

“Well, start chowing down. Mrs. Henrietta made her chicken salad sandwiches, and I know firsthand that if you don’t get to them first, someone else will. They’re like gold around these parts. I brought you two.”

I looked down at the plate and bit my bottom lip.
Why do you do this to me, Weston?
In only a matter of minutes, I’d morphed into the kind of girl who could cry over a kind gesture like the gifting of chicken salad sandwiches.

As I stuffed my face with the random foods on the plate, Weston answered Nan’s questions about Savannah’s care.

“Willa said she was up most of last night vomiting, but she had a better day today. It’s just really hard for her to keep anything down.”
I swallowed a large bite of chocolate cake and awkwardly pushed my plate away, hoping I didn’t look like the most unsympathetic human being ever.

“Well, I have a few things I’d like you to take up to Portland with you on Sunday, if you don’t mind. Some books. They’re ones that Georgia loved when she was little.”

Weston shifted his gaze to me, and a spasm rocketed through my core.

No! Stop that!
Why was my body always defying me when it came to him?

“I’d love to take whatever you have for her, Nan.”

“Great.”

Weston’s phone buzzed, and his brow furrowed.

“Hang on.” He stood and walked toward the window. I couldn’t help but watch him. Weston James was like a piece of fine art, one I hadn’t allowed myself to fully appreciate until now. But with his eyes fixed outside and my pride momentarily banished, I surreptitiously studied the masterpiece in front of me.

“Maybe you should just take a picture—you know, with that fancy phone of yours,” Eddy muttered as she sat down with us.

Flames crept up my cheeks to the tips of my ears. “
I . . .
I was looking out the window.”

“Ha! Sure you were. That backside of his was discussed at length during my book club a few months ago.”

Oy. I did not need to know that.
“Okay, then.”

Eddy’s voice grew shriller. “What? I’m just saying—”

“We need to go,” Weston said, taking my arm and pulling me up.

“What? Where?”

Was that Willa on the phone? Had something happened to Savannah?
Weston’s stride was quick, my arm tucked under his. I didn’t even say good-bye to Nan. Not that I had a clue what was happening.

“I need your keys.”

“Why?”

“I’ll fill you in on the way. Hand them over.”

I rolled my eyes and placed them in his palm.

After adjusting every single custom seat setting I had, Weston started my car, and we were on our way. Where? I still had no clue.

“Weston, what’s going on?” I buckled my seat belt.

“We’re rescuing Prince Pickles.”

I belted out a cough-like chuckle. “Who?”

“Savannah’s dog. The neighbor called. I guess he dug out of the backyard again. I swear, that mutt is the bane of my existence—yippy and annoying—but Savannah loves him for some reason.” He shook his head.

“Hm
m . . .
”