Page 85 of The Holiday Makeover

There was the usual razzing between guys, the old stories, the promises that we’d keep in touch this time.

I hoped they weren’t the empty kind. Even if I wasn’t particularly keen on Kaden spending time with Rory. Was I insecure?

Possibly.

I preferred to think of it as making a smart, well-informed decision. Rory would probably appreciate someone with a career out of the spotlight and actual set hours. And I didn’t need to give her any more reminders that my life was unpredictable and up for public consumption.

Not when I was running late.

Again.

Damn Quinton.

The amount of footage he wanted was getting ridiculous. It felt as if he was searching for something. Not just a shot or a sound bite.

Perhaps something deeper or more personal. Something I hadn’t handed over yet in this manufactured montage of my life and past.

I needed to figure it out so I could get back to Rory. Live up to the promise I’d made her that she was my priority and I would give Coco her final wish and make Rory’s vision for the house come to life.

My attention turned toward my dad as he talked on camera, and I wondered if this was it. Maybe this was the moment Quinton had been searching for. It was definitely personal. Too personal.

“It broke both of our hearts when Miami cut him,” Dad said, delivering the line as if the pain were still fresh. Like he’d never gotten over that moment in my life. “It wasn’t the future we had envisioned.”

Those words hit hard. Too hard.

Maybe that was why I had never been able to move on from it either. Because my father hadn’t. And in his own way, he had never let me forget.

He wanted the future I’d promised him without ever saying the words. The one that solidified his legacy, as if his own successful football career hadn’t.

And in some sick, twisted way, I wanted to apologize to him. Even though I knew how deeply messed up that was. But some part of me thought that if I did, maybe he could finally move on from it.

And maybe I could too.

Maybe I could leave the roar of the crowd behind. Or at least stop craving it so much.

But I didn’t apologize to him.

No . . . There was another apology coming. One that was going to kill me to make.

When it was all said and done and the cameras were turned off, Quinton pulled me to the side. My dad hovered nearby looking more curious than made me comfortable.

“Listen, Tate.” Quinton rested a hand on my shoulder like we were in this together. “We’ve gotten some good footage this past week. Really good. But . . .” He hesitated, like the words pained him. “I’m just not sure it’s what the network was hoping for.”

He let that settle.

Let it do its job.

The words closed around my throat. I clenched my fists, bracing for another failure.

And then . . . as if he were Father Christmas himself, Quinton smiled and offered me what sounded like a reasonable, benevolent solution.

“Listen, I hate to even ask this, especially in light of Rory losing her grandmother.” He paused, knowing damn well he’d directly stepped on the bruise and applied pressure. “But could she spare one hour? That’s it. One short interview. And of course, we’d make it worth her time.”

My jaw tightened.

He must have seen it, because he rushed on. “We could bring in a crew to help you finish the renovations before Christmas Eve. Carpenters, painters, whatever you need. You know we have resources. Let us help.”

We could use the help.