Page 11 of The Holiday Makeover

Like I said, it was way out of my comfort zone. Being on camera all the time wasn’t my idea of fun. But I loved Tate, so I said yes.

That was five years ago.

Since then, I’d learned the arts of sewing, furniture arrangement, pattern design, spatial planning—everything that complemented Tate’s renovation skills. He handled the construction, the carpentry, the big transformations. I handled the vision, the details, the beauty.

We made a good team.

Once.

I curled back into my seat and grabbed Coco’s letter. Her last words jumped out at me.

Give him some hell, kiddo, if you have to. But give him a chance. Let him in.

I looked around, half convinced she’d just snuck in and scribbled that after he knocked on the door. How did she know he was going to show up? I did not call that one. At. All.

I love you the mostest.

Coco

The tears were back before I could stop them. I clung to her letter and listened to Tate ask George, “Does she have any sharp objects on her?”

Please.

If I were going to accidentally injure him, I’d at least make sure it looked like a home-renovation mishap. Not that I’d ever actually hurt anyone—but if I were the type, I’d at least be strategic about it.

I heard the old wooden floors creak and George’s paws padding toward me.

Oh crap.

I wasn’t ready to face him. And once again, I was not looking my best. I was still wearing the beanie and wrapped in an oversized cardigan that screamed grandma energy.

Let’s not forget the emotional damage Coco’s letter had just inflicted on me.

I tried wiping away the tears, but the faster I wiped, the more aggressively they came.

It helped exactly zero percent when Tate and George appeared.

Tate stood at the entrance to the living room for a moment, shaking the snow out of his hair and taking me in—my blotchy face, my tragic outfit, my whole pathetic vibe. His brow crinkled in that way that always meant he had no idea how to proceed. Or maybe he was thinking, What am I doing here? I have hot babes in LA clamoring for my attention.

George stood loyally at his side. George and I were absolutely having a conversation about this betrayal later.

I wanted to shout that Tate should leave. That I didn’t want him here. But a part of me knew that was a lie. A big, loud, neon-sign-level lie. So the words wouldn’t come. All I could do was wrap my arms around myself tighter, as if I could physically hold together all the broken pieces inside me—the ones left by Tate, and the ones left by losing Coco.

When I said nothing, Tate approached cautiously, taking slow, careful steps like I was a skittish woodland creature he didn’t want to scare off.

Oh, I was spooked, all right.

But instead of running, I stayed frozen.

He knelt next to my chair, his eyes as wide as mine.

What was he doing?

I pressed my back against the cushion. An up-close Tate was a dangerous Tate. It was those darn soulful hazel eyes—rich, shifting colors that could look at you like you were the only person who existed.

I couldn’t fall for that lie again. Not now.

“What are you doing here?” I mumbled.