A Cliché Christmas by Nicole Deese Page B

the jury’s still out on that.”
    He spun me around and kissed me while I giggled.
    “Stop laughing,” he scolded, as he continued to plant soft kisses all over my face. “I’m doing something very wrong if you find my skills so hilarious.”
    I just laughed harder. Then something caught my eye, and I gave Weston’s chest a hefty push.
    “Oh my gosh.”
    I knelt in front of the most beautiful dollhouse I’d ever seen. It was amazing. No, it was incredible. I blinked away the tears filling my eyes.
    “The tiny furniture at the schoo l . . . it goes with this?” I asked, touching the porch steps. Weston appeared behind me, carefully spinning the house around so I could see inside. The details were so intricate. The staircase, the windows, the bedroom s . . . all of it—breathtaking.
    “It’s for Savannah. For Christmas.”
    I ran my fingers along the textured roofline. “You’re so talented.”
    As his eyes locked with mine, heat flooded my face. Holding his hand out to me, he pulled me into a standing position. My chest contracted, like I was suddenly breathing through an accordion. I could feel my pulse thrum hard in my neck and wondered if he could see the way his presence affected me. Toe to toe we stood, staring at each other as if the last seven years had passed in a single blink. His finger traced my jawline, dipped to my chin, and came to rest under the curve of my bottom lip. “You’re no amateur yourself, Queen of the Red and Green.”
    He leaned in, his lips grazing my cheek as his breath tickled the sensitive skin beneath my ear. “I always knew you’d blow this town away.” He exhaled into my hair, and my legs trembled.
    A thousand words flittered through my mind, yet I couldn’t catch even one.
    Weston pulled back slightly and scanned my face in a way that both touched my soul and seared my heart.
    “I’m so proud of you—of all you’ve accomplished,” he said.
    My throat burned with unshed tears. “Thank you, Weston. That mean s . . . so much.”
    He kissed my forehead and then gently tilted my chin to his. Our lips connected for several seconds of head-dizzying perfection. He pulled back. “I should probably show you the sets, huh?”
    “Probably,” I said, hoping he couldn’t detect the disappointment in my voice.
    I could have stayed in his arms the rest of the evening.

    “I just don’t think it fits,” Misty whispered to me.
    “I know.” I scratched my head. “I’ll take care of it.”
    She nodded, but she expressed her lack of confidence in my people skills in the way she scrunched her nose at me.
    Though I handed Betty full rein of all musical aspects of the production, I now regretted that decision the way one regrets wearing suede in a rainstorm. I had expected Christmas classics to be sung intermittently throughout the production: “The First Noel,” “Angels We Have Heard on High,” “Silent Night.”
    I had not expected ‘N Sync’s 1998 Christmas album. Apparently, we had different interpretations of the term modern .
    I approached her with caution. “Um, Betty?”
    She pounded away on the piano, not hearing me.
    “Betty?” I tried again.
    More pounding.
    I tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped, her sheet music falling to the ground.
    “Oh, I’m sorry.” I knelt down and gathered up the pages, cringing at the titles.
    “Were you trying to get my attention?” Betty asked sweetly.
    “Yes, actually. Can we talk for a moment, please?”
    “Right now? We’re just about to start ‘Kiss Me at Midnight. ’  ”
    “Yea h . . . I think we should probably talk before that.”

    It didn’t go well.
    “Was that Betty who just left? She almost plowed me over in the parking lot.” Weston sat down next to me.
    I put my head in my hands as Misty stood up. “Want me to tell the kids to run it again from the top, Georgia?”
    I nodded.
    Weston’s face was open with curiosity. “So, what happened?”
    “I suck as a human being is what