CHAPTER EIGHT
I groggily reached for my phone on the nightstand, ready to press snooze, when I realized it was a phone call, not my alarm. I looked at the clock—it was 5:46 a.m.
My mom.
“Hi, Summer.”
She’d asked me to start calling her by her first name after she had the twins.
“Hey, were you sleeping?”
I yawned. “Well, you are three hours ahead of me.”
She laughed, dismissing her absentmindedness without a second thought. “Nan told me you’re staying there for Christmas?”
“Yes, I am.”
“You should have made up an excuse. I bet you’re ready to be back in LA getting on with your life.”
I felt a prick of defensiveness at her words. She hated it here . . . or maybe just the memories that here held for her. I’d probably never know for sure.
“It hasn’t been that bad.”
She huffed. “Well, you never told me what happened with your last script. The one with the schoolteacher set in the 1940s.”
It was a screenplay I’d written a couple of years ago, one my agent had requested. Although it was still in the holiday genre, it showcased a bit more of my talent than some of the others.
“I haven’t heard anything about it yet. It takes awhile sometimes.”
“Well, I’m sure it will at least be picked up for another Hallmark movie. Just remember, this is when you pay your dues. You’ve got to stick with it. You have a good thing going. It usually takes a long time for people to find a niche like you’ve created for yourself.”
I knew I shouldn’t have told her I’d been thinking about pursuing something different.
“I’m grateful for what’s happened so far, really.” Even if I’m bored to tears with it.
“Good. Just don’t go changing things up now. Stay the course, and work hard. It will pay off.”
What she really meant was, “Don’t try and write other genres. Don’t get too creative or impulsive. Don’t mess this up.”
“How are the kids?” I asked, changing the subject.
“Great. Brad and I are going to take them to Disney World for New Year’s. Just bought the hotel package.”
“Aren’t they a little young for that?”
“What? No. It will be a good family memory for all of us.”
Family. Hearing her say the word stung, like pouring Tabasco sauce on an open wound.
“Good. I’m glad you’re happy.”
She paused for a few seconds. I could hear a small voice calling her in the background. “You’ll find one someday, too, Georgia.”
“Find what?”
“A family of your own.”
You were supposed to be my family, Mom.
I stood in the shower for a long time—so long that Nan finally rapped on the door to check on me. When the scorching-hot water turned lukewarm and eventually cold, I got out, wrapped myself in a fuzzy towel, and padded down the hallway.
“Um . . . I’ll just . . .”
I whirled around to see the source of the voice behind me. “Oh my gosh! Weston!”
Running to my room, I slammed the door, which banged open and closed four times before actually latching shut. I rested my head against the door, and my heart raced as I tried to recall exactly how my towel had been positioned when I left the bathroom.
“I didn’t see anything! Promise!” he yelled down the hall. “Nan said she told you I was here before she left. Sorry!”
Was that what she had said?
I bit my lip, shaking my head. And then . . . I laughed. Hard. For whatever reason, God had decided that Weston James was my personal humility meter.
By the time I dressed in skinny jeans, a sweater, and boots, my earlier dour mood had lightened considerably. Though Weston and I were still firmly in the “It’s complicated” phase, last night had radically changed something in me. I wasn’t sure what it meant yet, but I was willing to find out.
“Hey, you.” He smiled and held my jacket out to me.
“Hey.” I was still blushing from the hallway scene.
“Thought we might grab a quick cup of coffee before rehearsal. Is that okay?”
My smile seemed to pull from all directions. “Yeah, that sounds good.”
We took his truck to Brew It & Company and found a table by the window after we ordered.
“I have something for you,” he said, reaching into his leather jacket.
“You do?”
“Although I think I might be shooting myself in the foot by giving it to you. I kind of like my remedy for keeping you warm.”
I eyed him curiously as he placed a small paper bag from Gigi’s Grocery on the table. I picked it up, intrigued.
Gloves.
Weston James bought me a pair of gloves?
I looked up at him, words escaping me. Something in the back of my throat burned.
“Hey, you okay? I only got black because I didn’t know what other color you’d want.”
“Thank you.” My words were thin, shaky. “Really, thank you for these.”
He touched my arm. “I know we can’t go back in time, Georgia, but I don’t want to waste any time now.”
I nodded. “Me, either.”
His eyes crinkled. “You know . . . you’re pretty adorable when you’re not hating my guts.”
Leaning in closely, I whispered, “Don’t get used to it.”
He laughed.
And so did I.
Misty couldn’t make it to practice that day because her youngest was home sick with the stomach flu. In that moment, I was extremely grateful for Weston’s help.
It was the first day of blocking. As usual, I directed from the floor while Weston assisted the cast onstage.
“No, a little more to the left. And the shepherds need to be a lot farther back on stage right. Yep . . . right there is good.”
Weston taped and marked as the kids rehearsed their places over and over.
“What about the angel? You gonna try to lower him down?” Weston asked.
I tilted my head and squinted, imagining how it all might play out. This was the most important scene because it was Savannah’s favorite.
“I’d like to. Do you think we can rig it?”
Weston beamed with confidence. “Absolutely.”
The hours ticked by. Everyone ate sack lunches during a fifteen-minute break, and then we were back at it. No rest for the weary—or the holidayed out. That was my own personal motto, anyway.
“It’s four,” Weston called out.
Seriously? How did the time go by so fast?
“Um . . . okay. Let’s meet back here Monday after school, and then we will lengthen practices when winter break starts next week.”
Several kids exclaimed in glee while others groaned. I could empathize with both responses.
As the last student exited, Weston made a move toward me, and my heart skipped an extra beat or two . . . or maybe ten.
“We have a problem.” He read the question in my eyes. “I can’t continue practicing in this theater every day knowing the truth behind your stage fright.” He shook his head. “Especially when you’ve believed all these years that I arranged that prank. That seriously kills me, Georgia.”
I swallowed hard. “Well, it wasn’t exactly pleasant for me, either.”
He stopped a few inches in front of me. “I think we need to make it right.”
I laughed. “What? How can we possibly do that? It was seven years ago, Weston.”
He held out his hand. “Let me take you up on stage.”
“I don’t want to go up there.”
Angling his head to the side, he flashed a grin, and a lazy dimple winked at me. “You’ve never been afraid of anything, Georgia. Don’t start now. Come on, we’ll do it together.”
Grabbing my hand, he pulled me toward the stairs.
“No, seriously. I don’t want to go up there.” I tugged my hand away.
“Georgia, what happened that night was not your fault.”
No, but I finally know whose fault it was. A certain blond witch-of-a-woman who apparently has never been told no. By anyone.
“It wasn’t yours, either.” The words felt strange coming out of my mouth, so opposite of my feelings for so many years.
“So, let’s have a do-over. We both deserve one.”
I rolled the idea around in my mind. “Fine.”
“That’s my girl.”
I pursed my lips to avoid the smile that threatened to break through. And then we were standing on the stage, looking out at the empty seats below us.
“See? It’s not so awful.”
My knees started to shake—quite literally. “Okay, I’m done now.”
He laughed and pulled me back. “No, you’re not. Let’s do the scene.”
“What? You’ve got to be joking. I don’t even know—”
“Bull. You know it. You’ve probably replayed it in that brain of yours a thousand times. Now, go over there, and walk toward me.”
I gawked at him, waiting for him to say, “Just kidding.”
Only he wasn’t kidding.
In a matter of seconds, I was walking toward him, saying the lines that had been lost in a sea of laughter seven years ago. It took me only a second to get into character. He was right. I knew these lines, almost as well as I remembered the character I played.
“I don’t want your warning, Patrick. I don’t need it.”
“You need it more than you realize, Catherine. If you marry him, he will ruin you and your family forever.”
“Is that all you have to say to me?” I took another timid step toward Weston as he beckoned me closer with his hand. I knew what he wanted me to do, but I wasn’t sure I could do it.
“What more do you want me to say? That I’ll have you? That I’ll be yours forever? I’ve said that with every look and every word I’ve ever spoken to you. You just haven’t been listening.”
And then . . . I let go.
I ran toward him, only this time—this time—Weston caught my waist and swung me around as I laughed, my head tipped back in unadulterated bliss.
Freedom.
As he slowly lowered me to the ground, his eyes drank me in. My knees weakened once more, but this time for a very different reason. Our silent stare sought the answer to one question, one that seemed to exist under my skin, through the fibers of my muscles, and in the marrow of my bones.
Could Weston James and Georgia Cole be more than secret friends?
And then his lips were on mine, his hands climbing from my hips to my face in tender expectation. As his thumbs caressed my cheekbones, Weston held me close, allowing his kiss to wash away my every doubt.
Yes. The answer was clear. Yes, they could.