Page 31 of The Holiday Makeover

Sure, she’d done her best to play the part of Mom—making sure I was raised right, teaching me how to be kind, how to be brave, how to shimmy through life instead of trudging. But she’d spoiled me like a grandma. Loved me with that extra layer of sweetness she claimed was her “frosting.”

And I loved every minute of it.

And I loved Tate for remembering. Gah. He was the best ex-boyfriend ever, which made him the absolute worst.

Exes weren’t supposed to remember the tiny details of your life—the ones that mattered most. They were supposed to forget your favorite sayings, your favorite people, your favorite everything. That was the whole point of being an ex.

Tate didn’t wipe my tears this time, but the little smirk on his face said he was winning at this unspoken game we were playing. Which meant I was losing. Badly.

Seriously, I needed to step it up. Pump up the jam. Get into my groove. Something, anything, to win.

Although winning meant losing Tate. But I’d already done that. So, was I really losing?

This was all so confusing.

I had to dampen the mood. It was my only move at the moment. “That’s a beautiful design, but there is no way we can get cabinets and new countertops made and installed before Christmas Eve.”

Tate flashed me his get ready for me to knock your socks off smile. “I’ve got it covered. I already talked to one of the vendors who partners with my show.” He mumbled the last part, as if he didn’t want to draw attention to it.

He didn’t need to worry. His show was already front and center in my mind. You know, because he’d left me for it.

To be fair, he’d wanted me to come. Begged me to, even. But I wanted our relationship to be more about us, not the show. And it was hard to tell sometimes where those lines ended and began.

“They already have stock cabinets that’ll work, and they’ll fabricate the sintered stone countertops tomorrow. And Darian, the owner of the company, will deliver them himself and help with the install. And then you can pretty it all up like you’re so good at. I thought you’d love to do the painted script yourself.”

Well. Crap.

Another winning move. He was playing chess while I was over here trying not to fall off the bed.

That was it. The gloves were going to have to come off. I was going to lay his show on the altar and sacrifice it. For both our sakes.

“Wow. That’s nice. Really nice. Just let me know the cost.” You know . . . besides my soul.

“Don’t worry about it. This one’s on me.”

I took a deep breath and grabbed a fuzzy throw pillow, bracing myself for the kill. The stake in the heart of this fever dream Coco had scripted—the one where Tate and I magically got back together as we renovated her house.

“You must really love LA and all the connections. It’s your dream come to life. That’s amazing. I’m so happy for you.” And it wasn’t a lie. All I ever wanted was for Tate to be happy. I’d just hoped I would be a big part of that.

Tate stretched his neck from side to side, his ears burning a shade of crimson. Words seemed to elude him.

But I still had some words left. The ones I didn’t want to say but knew I had to. We needed to face reality.

“And I saw your condo on the beach.” The first episode of his new show was him renovating it. Don’t ask me why I watched it. Maybe I needed to see it with my own eyes—that things were really over. That he wasn’t coming back.

“It’s very you,” I continued. “So masculine, with that hard-rock edge you love. And you always wanted to live on the beach. So that has to be so awesome for you. And now you can surf whenever you want. And I bet Katie and Jessica love all the picnics on the sand and those moonlit walks by the water.”

Yep. I went there. I had to.

“Stop, Rory,” Tate begged. “Please, just stop.”

“Why? Because I’m telling the truth?”

“No. Because you don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

“So you don’t love living in California or on the beach? Or maybe dating super-hot actresses and models isn’t your style? Or going to the Oscars and the Emmys? What part of all of that do you hate?”

He whipped his head toward me, eyes blazing. “I hate that it’s not with you.”