A Cliché Christmas by Nicole Deese Page A

Louis Vuitton bag slung over Sydney’s shoulder. Once I righted myself, I forced a tolerant smile—though the disdain I felt for her at that moment was hardly smile worthy.
    “Georgia?” Her eyes widened briefly before shrinking to two tiny slits.
    What was she talking to Weston about?
    Although we’d never been friends, I’d never considered her an enemy—until now.
    Her jealous little prank had cost me seven years without Weston.
    Seven years! That was hardly a forgivable sin. Right, God?
    I didn’t wait around for an answer.
    Pulling the door closed behind her, she guarded the entrance to the shop with her surgically enhanced and artificially tanned body. She flashed me a phony grin, nearly blinding me with the shade of her Chiclet-white teeth. What I wouldn’t give for a black light right now.
    “Why are you here?” Her words were clipped, dipped in candy-coated poison.
    I wanted nothing more than to ask the same of her.
    “Weston asked me to come over,” I said, hoping to shock the snotty expression off her face. Didn’t happen.
    “Old flames rarely rekindle, Georgia.”
    “It seems I could say the same to you, Syd.”
    She sucked in a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you’re implying—”
    “Oh, yes, you do.” Three blinks and two shallow breaths later, I knew exactly what I wanted to say to Sydney Parker. “You may have driven me out of this town once by blaming Weston for your jealous deceptions, but I can assure you, it won’t happen twice. Whatever game of intimidation you’re bent on playing to make this town bow to your every whim, you can count me out. I don’t care who your ex-husband is, or where you live, or how much money is in your bank account. This isn’t high school anymore, Sydney. Mean girls don’t win.”
    For a moment, all she could do was blink and swallow and blink again.
    “Be careful, Georgia. This may not be Hollywood, but Lenox is going somewhere, and I’m the one blazing the trail. You don’t want me as an enemy. Trust me.”
    Then, with a single huff, she marched down the driveway. Taking in a deep breath, I tried to dispel the toxic aura she had left behind.
    I stepped inside Weston’s shop, and the shrill sound of the saw blade ceased. I watched as Weston hunched over his desk, studying a set of blueprints and pushing his hand through his shaggy dark locks. An uneaten sandwich lay beside him. Lord only knows how old that was.
    “Should I come back later?”
    He jumped. It only took him a half second to steady himself, and once he did, his gaze roamed over me lazily, from my feet to my face.
    “You look nice.”
    A bubble of laughter escaped me. “I’m in yoga pants.”
    “Yes, well, not quite as nice as you looked in the towel but still.” He shrugged, his eyes teasing.
    I picked up a pencil from a shelf and threw it at his chest. He caught it easily before it could make contact. Dang those reflexes.
    “S o . . . I just talked to Sydney in the driveway. Are you two friends?” I hoped my tone was casual, but as soon as I spoke her name, a bitter taste filled my mouth.
    “I wouldn’t call us friends. She was just dropping off some plans for me to look over.” His eyes searched mine. “There’s no reason to feel jealous, Georgia. I promise. ”
    A rush of sweet relief washed over me. “I’m not jealous.”
    He laughed. “Good.”
    As he brushed sawdust off his blueprints, I glanced around his workshop—a converted garage with tables, saws, workbenches, and more tools than I could name. It was quite impressive.
    “I’m glad you came. I’ll have my students start painting these tomorrow if you sign off on them.”
    “Wow, I feel so important.”
    His arms encircled my waist as he leaned his chin on my shoulder. “You are important.”
    His touch had always made me feel invincible—at ten, at seventeen, and even now at twenty-five. Age wasn’t a factor. The security and comfort I found in Weston’s touch would never change.
    “Yes, well,