Page 78 of The Holiday Makeover

“What did they say?”

“You know, they started off with the usual. Why did you leave Rory? She was the best part of the show.”

I rolled my eyes. “That’s not true.”

“It is,” he said fiercely. “I see that now more than ever. You really were the magic. I wish you could see that.” He paused. “I wish I would have.”

I leaned back against the chair and bit my lip. I wasn’t expecting this tonight from him in the middle of a semi-dark, empty theater. Why wasn’t he on top of the world? And why did I want to see the woman he saw when he looked at me? She sounded like someone I would love.

“Not that I didn’t know how amazing you were and are. I was just too wrapped up in myself. And I’m sorry,” he added.

“Where is all this self-reflection coming from? And since we’re being honest, I felt invisible today,” I admitted. I had really tried not to feel that way. Obviously, I still needed to work on it. I needed to meet the woman Tate saw in me.

“Believe me, you’re not. You never have been. Rory, don’t you see? It was me who needed you, not the other way around. My abs only got me so far.” He smirked.

I playfully fanned myself, thinking of those glorious ripples. “They are very good abs. But you’re talented and adored. I would have never known how to market our show or do all those fancy edits for our videos. And you heard the cheers today. Those were all for you.”

“I did hear them, and I loved it. Probably too much. But . . .” His fingers brushed mine. “All I could think about was getting back to you.”

Well.

That. That was hope right there.

I leaned in, absurdly pleased to hear that, and whispered, “So what you’re saying is that we should probably go home for a quiet night. Just the two of us. You know, after we swing by and get some pie to go.”

Tate chuckled, his eyes dropping to my mouth as he tugged lightly on my sweater until our lips were almost touching. “That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“I heart you, Tate Ryder.” My lips grazed his.

His lips claimed mine. Warm and sure, hitting me with the faint taste of the mints he always kept on hand. The kiss rushed through me so fast, it made the whole world blur around the edges. When he deepened it, his hand tightened lightly on my sweater, and all I could think was that Tate Ryder had ruined me for every other kiss on earth.

Possibly every other man in the universe too.

And had maybe demolished every ounce of self-preservation I had left.

Because in that moment, all I could think was: There is no way this isn’t going to work out. We had this. I wasn’t going to need to join a breakup club or have Tate cropped out of any photos.

If anything, all I could think about were the photos waiting for us in the future.

His show, this homecoming special, they had nothing on us.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Rory

Iwalked down the stairs early Friday morning to find the front door still missing and the opening covered in thick sheets of plastic and the temporary insulated panel Tate had rigged up to keep Aspen Lake’s December air where it belonged—outside.

George was sitting in front of it, waiting for the love of his life and mine to return.

I was more than certain that George did not pay me the same devotion when I left.

Seriously, what a traitor.

Attached to the plastic was a note in Tate’s handwriting.

He’d taken the door down at the beginning of the week so I could sand, prime, and paint it in the garage, where it was warm enough for the paint to cure properly. Paint was annoyingly particular about temperature, which I knew from years of experience and still resented on principle.

And as much as I would have loved to paint only the inside of the door and call it good, I had standards. The whole thing needed to look fresh and polished when people arrived on Christmas Eve. Or as beautiful as it could look, given the ridiculous deadline we were working under.