A Cliché Christmas by Nicole Deese

was doing it again, that scrutinizing thing he does when he thinks he knows me better than I know myself.
    “What’s that supposed to mean?”
    “Nothing.” He shrugged diplomatically. “I’m just analyzing you is all.”
    “Well, you can stop. I don’t need a shrink.”
    “Maybe not a shrink. But maybe someone to talk to?”
    I shook my head and pulled my hand from his. “Let’s talk about your shop class.”
    Weston slowed his truck as we turned off the highway toward Lenox. “Let’s talk about why you make a living writing about clichés that are nothing like your life.”
    “How do you even know what I write?” I shot back, my heart pounding.
    “I’ve read every script you’ve published, Georgi a . . . not to mention the cheesy Christmas specials I’ve watched on TV.”
    The intimacy meter in the truck skyrocketed to the “Approach with Caution” level.
    “And that makes you an expert on me?”
    His gaze roamed my face. “Well, am I right? Are you obsessed with clichés because you feel some sort of pent-up resentment about your own life and childhood?”
    I swallowed, my palms starting to sweat. No. Yes. Maybe.
    “I remember the relationship you had with your mom growing up was sort o f . . . strange. She seemed pretty controlling.”
    “She just wanted the best for me. You don’t know her.” Am I seriously defending her?
    “No, I don’t. But I do know you.”
    “You keep saying that, Weston. But seven years can change a person a great deal. We grew up. We had experiences apart from each other. We’re not who we were in high school anymore.”
    He was quiet as we pulled into Nan’s driveway.
    He put the truck in park. “I don’t want to fight with you, I’m sorry. I just want to understand yo u . . . to know what I’ve missed.” He leaned over the seat and touched my chin, tilting my face to his. “You’re right. I knew Georgia the gir l . . . but the stunning woman sitting next to me now is no longer a girl.”
    I let out a tension-filled breath and inhaled Weston’s fresh scent of wood chips, ocean, and leather—a scent so distinguishable it could make even a dead heart beat again. He brushed his lips across mine and kissed me gently.
    “I want you to know her, too,” I whispered.
    He kissed me again.
    I didn’t need a new pair of slippers to go cloud walking anymore.
    I only needed Weston Jame s . . . and his kisses.

C HAPTER T EN
    B y the second week in December, everything was on schedul e . . . except for the snowfall. Though the temperature had dropped below freezing, precipitation remained elusive. There had been slush on the streets when I first arrived in Lenox, but no new snow had fallen.
    The enormous mountain range to the east glistened with white, having experienced a fresh dousing of winter’s finest blessing over the weekend. And I secretly hoped it would come our way soon. I might love the year-round sunshine of California, but standing in a fluttering of snowflakes was one childish indulgence I’d never give up.
    I drove down Main, noting the lights woven through every tree and bush that lined the street. Wreaths and garlands, sleighs and reindeer, Nativities and baby Jesuses filled the town. Lenox was one giant holiday show.
    After turning onto Maple, I pulled into Weston’s driveway. He’d asked for my final approval on some of the smaller set pieces and props at his workshop. The larger pieces were still at school for his class to finish prior to winter break. It sounded like they were making great progress.
    But my stomach plummeted when I saw a familiar SUV parked across the street. Tugging my coat tighter, I stepped out of my car. I was three steps outside his shop when I heard an unmistakable blend of voices. I pressed my ear to the door and strained to hear.
    Why is Sydney Parker here?
    Just then, the high-pitched scream of a saw blade pierced my eardrum, and the door jerked open. I stumbled forward, steadying myself on the massive