Page 13 of The Holiday Makeover

Tate

Ifumbled around Coco’s kitchen after running to the grocery store early the next morning, hoping I’d make it back in time to cook Rory breakfast. I figured chocolate chip pancakes—her favorite—couldn’t hurt my situation.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what was actually going to help it.

I swore I’d heard Rory curse at me several times through the wall during the night. George trying to follow me to my room had done nothing to help my cause. I had to physically set him in Rory’s doorway. Not that I wasn’t glad he still loved me. Dogs were much more forgiving than humans.

It wasn’t that I was expecting Rory to pretend the last two years hadn’t happened. I’d own up to being a prick.

And judging by some of the scowls I’d received at The Market during my shopping trip, there were plenty who agreed with that assessment. One woman even told me she refused to watch my show on principle after what I’d done to Rory.

Most people assumed it was my fault we broke up—that I’d left Rory for Hollywood. It didn’t matter that we’d released a joint statement saying it was a mutual decision, and that we had separate career goals. No one cared that Rory chose to stay. Or that I’d begged her to come with me.

All people could see was that I left.

Honestly, I couldn’t exactly blame them. I knew the optics of it.

But it wasn’t as cut and dried as the world—and maybe even Rory—wanted to believe.

I finally found the mixing bowls I’d been searching for in Coco’s ancient cupboards just as Rory shuffled in—bleary-eyed but beautiful. There was something about her fresh-faced in the morning, her silky ash-blonde hair pulled up, those paint-splattered overalls she loved to work in somehow making her look even better. I ached to see her sleepy smile, but I settled for the grimace she offered me before she paused near the pantry, her gaze catching on Coco’s old apron hanging from the hook. The white one with tiny embroidered flowers and a stain near the pocket.

Rory’s face changed so quickly I might have missed it if I hadn’t spent half my life watching her. Her lips pressed together. Her eyes went glassy. One hand lifted like she might touch it, then dropped back to her side.

And I felt like a fool, standing there in Coco’s kitchen making pancakes like breakfast would help fix anything.

Before I could say something inadequate, George came barreling into the kitchen, nails skittering across the old wood floor, his whole body wagging like I hadn’t shattered his little dog heart two years ago.

He bounded straight to me, nothing but adoration in his eyes, which somehow made me feel worse. We’d gotten him as a puppy. He’d trusted me not to leave. But there was no way I could have taken him from Rory.

I tried not to look too pleased as I rubbed his head.

“I made coffee. The kind you like—hazelnut and pecan.” The words stumbled out of me like I’d never spoken to a woman before.

I hoped she’d remember how much I hated the smell of her flavored coffees. Maybe she’d realize what a sacrifice my nose was making on her behalf as I inhaled the nutty aroma wafting through the kitchen.

It was a pathetic gesture, but I had to start somewhere.

“You didn’t have to do that.” She leaned against the counter, her arms folded, eyes narrowed, scrutinizing my every move.

“I wanted to. And I thought I’d make chocolate chip pancakes.”

Her lips twitched toward a smile, but she pressed them together quickly, her brow tightening as if she hated that she’d let her guard slip, even for one second.

“Don’t think for one second, Tate Ryder, that you can bribe me with pancakes and coffee. In fact, I spent the night doing some research and—”

“Not your research,” I groaned, cutting her off. Anytime we had even the slightest disagreement, she’d scour the earth for data to back up her point. Once she wrote an entire research paper on why Diet Coke is superior to Coke Zero because I refused to agree with her. I still didn’t, but I wasn’t about to mention that now. I’d drink Diet Coke all day long if it meant getting back into her good graces.

“This is legitimate research,” she snapped.

“It always is.” I grinned.

She whipped her phone out of her pocket, ignoring my sarcasm.

I leaned against the refrigerator, patting George, waiting for what I was sure would be a scientifically sound argument I would absolutely disagree with.

She cleared her throat. “So, according to this study in Psychology News, you only think you’re in love with me because of proximity, but in reality, you’re not.”

“What the hell?” I blurted out before I could stop myself.