Read A Cliché Christmas for Free Online

list, but he scowled at it as if I’d just pulled the sheaf of paper from a public toilet.
    “That’s not how I do things.”
    “What are you talking about?” I asked, shivering.
    “If you want me to build a set for you, you can come inside and talk with me about it—civilly.”
    “No.” I crossed my arms, the papers crinkling.
    He crossed his, too. “Then you better go down to Ernie’s Hardware in the morning and see if he can help you. Oh, and don’t worry, I hear he still has one good eye.”
    Urgh! “You’re impossible.”
    “And you’re as irritating as—”
    I growled and pushed past him. Surprisingly, his house was quite nice inside. I wouldn’t dare compliment him, though. We were not friends anymore. We were simply working on a Christmas play together.
    I still couldn’t quite believe that little twist of irony—which at the moment felt more like a stab wound.
    “You can sit down over there. Want a cup of coffee?”
    I glanced at the clock and did a quick calculation. Thirty-nine and a half hours without sleep. I nodded. Coffee would be necessary for me to make it through even a five-minute conversation. I sat on his leather sofa and took out my phone, texting Nan. Dropping off set info to Weston. Be home soon.
    An immediate reply: Going to bed. Don’t rush back. :)
    Sinking into the couch, I closed my eyes as I took in a big whiff of masculinity: sawdust, leather, and—
    “Georgia?”
    I jolted awake, heart galloping.
    “Were you just drooling on my couch?”
    I wiped my mouth, embarrassed by the moisture left on my hand. “U m . . . I was just admiring your sofa. It’s nic e . . . for a bachelor, I mean.” Wait, is he a bachelor?
    He placed the coffee mugs on the side table and sat in the recliner next to me. “You interested in my personal life, Georgia?”
    “No.” The heat creeping up my neck felt like it would set my hair on fire. “Let’s just get this over with.” I picked up the highlighted script and handed it to him. He began reading it immediately.
    “This new?” he asked.
    “What?”
    “This play. Did you just write this?”
    How does he know that?
    I shrugged, unwilling to tell him more than he needed to know.
    “I haven’t seen this one.” He flipped through the pages.
    What was that supposed to mean?
    Something sparked to life around us—something I wanted to pound until it begged for mercy and died a slow and painful death, but my curiosity won out.
    “You’ve seen more than one of my movies?”
    “I’ve kept tabs on you, Georgia Cole.” His eyes pierced me through, and I turned my head quickly.
    “Well, I can’t say I’ve done the same for you.”
    “You knew I moved to Boston.”
    “Everyone knew you were headed there after graduation.”
    His smile was bold, unyielding. “You’re hardly ‘everyone.’ ”
    Was he flirting with me? Somehow I didn’t think that was possible.
    “Why are you in Lenox anyway?” I pulled my legs underneath me and anchored my elbow on the arm of the sofa. My head felt like it weighed two hundred pounds, and it was getting heavier by the second.
    I knew I was getting off topic, but the fogginess in my brain made it nearly impossible to think clearly.
    “I moved back after Chad died.”
    Leaning my head toward him, I searched his eyes. Such a simple statement, yet I knew it wasn’t. Chad Hart was Willa’s high school sweetheart. They were newlyweds when I left town for LA. They were also the Barbie and Ken of Lenox—molded to love one another.
    It was all coming back now, like an old dusty memory. Nan had called me years ago while I was in college to tell me that Chad had died of an aneurysm. But did I know Willa was pregnant at the time? No. Somehow I hadn’t realized that the little girl Nan raved about for the last year was Willa and Chad’s daughter.
    “You came hom e . . . for Willa?” A dull ache radiated in my chest.
    He nodded, his face solemn, not a trace of humor or amusement to be