Page 1 of The Holiday Makeover

Chapter One

Rory

“Lily, why are you acting so nervous?”

“Uh, I’m not.”

She clicked her pen ten times as if she were training for the office Olympics, eyes darting to her office door every other second.

She was obviously lying. Lily and I had been best friends since third grade—for twenty-four years—and I knew all her tells. Unfortunately, she was also my grandma’s lawyer. And this wasn’t a happy occasion.

I shifted uncomfortably in one of the chairs in front of her neatly arranged desk. “Are we waiting for someone? I thought this was just some weird formality my grandma insisted on.” Honestly, I’d thought it was a joke when Lily first told me that Grandma wanted a will reading. Like the kind you would see in a movie.

I had to smile thinking about Grandma Cosette, or Coco, as I used to call her, and her eccentric ways, or I’d dissolve into a puddle. Her death had been unexpected, as was this will reading, since I’d been pretty sure she was leaving everything to me, seeing as I was her only living relative and favorite person.

Not that I cared about the money. But with the way Lily was acting, I was starting to wonder if Coco had some passionate Latin lover I’d never heard about and had left him her estate.

It wouldn’t surprise me. The Latin lover part, not the estate. She’d always teased she was going to get one after Grandpa died. She had a massive crush on Antonio Banderas.

Lily dropped her pen, let out a nervous laugh, and flipped her silky black hair. With her dark hair and striking blue eyes, she was the perfect beautiful mix of her Taiwanese and American heritage.

I did not like that laugh. It usually meant something bad was coming. Like the time in high school when she had to tell me I’d walked around for two class periods with a pair of panties stuck to the cuff of my jeans. And not just any panties—One Direction panties. Dang static cling.

I still cringed every time I heard Harry Styles. He’d been front and center on the infamous underwear.

“Seriously, Lily. What is going on?”

She didn’t have to answer. A knock sounded, and then a head peeked in.

Not just any head.

The head I loved more than any other. And the last one I expected to see today. Or ever. Okay, maybe not ever, but for at least a decade. You know, after my heart finally healed. Assuming that was possible. Please let it be possible.

Said unhealed heart stopped and then took off as if it were late for a flight.

Staring right at me was . . . Tate Ryder.

My once‑upon‑a‑time best friend of the male variety, my other half, and sadly . . . my ex‑boyfriend of the last two years.

Word of caution: Don’t fall in love with your best friend. Ever. And definitely don’t start a home‑makeover YouTube channel with him. It does not end well.

I whipped my head toward Lily. She was already giving me a pressed‑lip I’m so sorry smile.

Meanwhile, I couldn’t breathe. And I was pretty sure it suddenly felt like July in the Mojave Desert instead of November in Aspen Lake. Seriously, did someone crank the thermostat to rotisserie?

It was ridiculous that Tate could still affect me like this. This was a man I’d known since I was ten, when I still thought boys were icky. He’d seen me in braces and during my unfortunate seventh‑grade phase when I wore a different pair of nonprescription glasses every day because I thought they made me look sophisticated and cool.

They did neither.

And I was neither—sophisticated nor cool. But Tate . . . Tate was all those things and then some. With a name like Tate Ryder, what did you expect?

I didn’t even have to look at him to know he was probably wearing the perfect pair of jeans—a little faded, fitting in all the right places. His shirt was no doubt a Henley, buttons undone just enough to tease a glimpse of his glorious chest, sleeves pushed up to show off the Celtic knot tattoos winding around his muscular forearms.

And then there was his face. A demigod’s face. All chiseled angles and scruff that looked hand-painted. Don’t even get me started on his hazel eyes—more green and gray than brown—or his dark, tousled hair that practically begged for fingers to run through it.

It was actually ridiculous how beautiful he was.

And for two years, he’d been mine.