Page 80 of The Holiday Makeover

I pressed the note against my chest and took a deep breath. Tate and I had raced against the clock before to finish projects for clients.

But this . . . this was teetering on the edge of insanity.

George kept his vigil while I walked toward the living room and the smell of hazelnut. What it really smelled like was the promise of another long, caffeine-fueled day. What I wouldn’t give for a day in front of the fireplace with Tate, or even ice-skating and Christmas shopping.

Honestly, I would just be happy if I had Tate, period. I missed his hard rock anthems and his swearing when something didn’t go just right. I especially missed the kissing breaks.

Quinton was supposed to be gone by next week.

One could only hope.

At least he hadn’t come knocking on my door.

As I walked past the wood stacked in the living room, I couldn’t help but wince. Or . . . think that maybe it was time to call in reinforcements. A contractor. Some friends. Possibly an entire renovation elf crew. Was there a patron saint for this sort of thing? Saint Nicholas, perhaps? Maybe Santa could help a girl out.

I thought about Cami Cullen’s husband, Noah. I had his card. He was probably booked, because good contractors were harder to find than matching socks in the dryer, but maybe he knew someone who could help.

“Knock, knock,” I heard Veronica call from the direction of the back door.

She’d been popping over all week to help.

And when I say help, I mean she showed me party decorations, offered up some steamy Aspen Lake gossip, and handed me supplies when I needed them. I had tried to show her how to paint a wall.

It hadn’t gone well.

As in, she’d dropped the paintbrush the first time it dripped a tiny bit on her designer shoes, which she’d refused to wear plastic booties over, as they impeded her style and the leather needed to breathe.

You had to love her.

“I’m in the living room,” I called.

Veronica pranced in, looking like a million dollars in designer athletic gear—her idea of “work” clothes.

Meanwhile, I was still sporting yesterday’s ponytail and paint-splattered overalls. I probably had bags under my eyes too, but I’d been afraid to stare too long in the mirror that morning. And really, who had time to primp?

Maybe this was why Tate kept spending so much time away.

I was probably scaring him off with the whole grungy-renovation-goblin vibe I had going on.

Veronica held up a green smoothie. “You need to start your day off right with something healthy.”

What? Downing two-hundred milligrams of caffeine on an empty stomach wasn’t considered healthy?

Color me shocked.

I took the smoothie from her, and I could already hear my body thanking me for something green.

“How are you, honey?” Veronica eyed the chaos of my “work” room.

The amount of stuff in it seemed to be multiplying. The space was currently littered with bolts of fabric, curtains in various stages of completion, throw pillows, wall accessories of every kind, and the dining room chairs, the seat cushions of which I was almost done reupholstering.

Only two more to go.

Then at least I could say the dining room was done. One room down. Four more to finish.

It was probably time to call in reinforcements. I wondered if Lily knew how to wield a paintbrush.

“I’m . . . tired,” I said with a toothy smile.