Page 16 of The Holiday Makeover

That was the cruel thing about renovating a house after someone died. You wanted to honor them. You wanted to make things beautiful. But every change felt like admitting they weren’t coming back.

Funny how she was still finding her way to meddle, though.

Did she have any idea how much she was upending my life? Asking Tate to help me and no doubt telling him in her letter that he could stay here.

How did she really think this was going to end? Tate and I lived very different lives now. And after the last two years, I’d realized how much I loved being out of the spotlight—loved not worrying about how I looked when I was knee-deep in a project, hair in a messy bun, paint on my face, wearing the same overalls three days in a row.

And honestly, I didn’t want to be in a relationship where three million other people were involved in it. It was exhausting. And it wasn’t me.

I was the inconspicuous girl in the band who loved art. I’d rather spend a quiet night at home than be out on the town. I didn’t even take selfies.

Tate was the opposite. He lived for the spotlight, and as much as it hurt to admit, he needed a woman who craved it as much as he did. I wondered if that woman would finally help him find what he’d been searching for all these years. Maybe with that woman he would be truly happy.

That thought stung, but after the last two years, it would be naive to think anything else.

I watched the paper and glue bubble up under the heat from the steamer. I wished I could do the same to my feelings—bring them all to the surface and just peel them away. Discard how much I loved Tate.

Tate, who was now blaring Dean Martin Christmas carols like this was some kind of cozy holiday montage instead of my personal emotional crisis.

It was going to take a lot more than my favorite singer and chocolate chip pancakes to win me over.

The problem was he’d won my heart a long time ago. And I’d never really been sure I had his.

What I really needed to do was wrench my heart back.

It was confusing, given our time apart, why he even wanted to try to keep it. It was probably the guilt over Coco dying. Let’s be real. He wouldn’t have come calling otherwise.

“Rory!” Tate shouted over the music, startling me. “Do you want to do some vision boards together and come up with a plan to tackle each room?”

That was a negative, but I knew he was coming in here whether I wanted him to or not. And then a terrifying, yet thrilling, thought hit me.

Tate was pulling out all the stops—pancakes, coffee, Dean Martin. And I knew what came next. One of his most lethal weapons.

His abs.

“Don’t even think about coming in here without your shirt on.”

“Damn it,” he grumbled loudly before stomping up the stairs.

I couldn’t help but smile, even though I was admittedly a little bummed I wasn’t going to get a glimpse of the muscles he was oh so proud of. It was for the best, though. Those abs had gotten him his way plenty of times. Everything from his pick of the music we listened to while we worked to us ordering barbecue when I was really in the mood for Chinese.

And I was not falling for them today.

Probably.

While I tried not to think about his sinewy lines and how much I’d love to brush my hands all over them like I was finger painting a Picasso on his rippled canvas, I ripped a large section of wallpaper off with a vengeance.

I felt like I’d been enlisted in several battles I was wholly unprepared for. A battle with the house, a battle with Tate, and a battle with myself.

My main opponent arrived minutes later, carrying his laptop, his hair mussed. No doubt his tight T-shirt had rumpled it as he’d begrudgingly put it back on. Unfortunately, the shirt did nothing to hide how ridiculously attractive and toned he was. And why were those Celtic knot tattoos so distracting? They were like a siren’s song luring me in, begging for my attention.

George trailed after him, as happy as could be.

Tate sat at the table I’d covered with canvas to protect it.

“I have some ideas about the kitchen,” he started.

I held the steam plate away from me, gathering up my courage for what needed to be said. I knew this wouldn’t end well for us, so it had to end here and now. We’d had our shot.