Page 100 of The Holiday Makeover

“What?”

“That I didn’t fight harder the first time around,” I admitted. Like, seriously? How did I let twenty years of friendship and love walk out the door and not say anything?

Lily offered me a sympathetic look as she patted my leg. “Well, here’s your chance to fight now. If that’s what you want.”

“Yeah,” I mumbled.

Lily stood and brushed spring roll crumbs from her shirt. “I think I’d better go. I’m not really the person you need to talk to right now.” She pointed at me. “But call me if you need help burying him. Or if you need more food.”

“Thanks,” I said with a small laugh. “And don’t ogle my boyfriend—or whatever he is—too hard on your way out.”

“I make no promises. Kisses.” She waved and walked out.

Once she was gone, I knew I couldn’t keep hiding in my room.

The renovations were seriously behind schedule.

And then there was the tiny little matter of trying to figure out where Tate and I went from here.

I guessed there was only one way to find out.

I was going to have to brave his abs.

Please pray for me.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Rory

Tate was no longer listening to Taylor Swift. He was back to his hard rock anthems.

“Love Walks In” by Van Halen blasted through the house above the sound of Tate’s drill. Tate always said the song reminded him of me. Of that all-consuming, slightly terrifying feeling of falling in love. How it’s so overwhelming it almost feels alien.

“Don’t forget he’s shirtless,” I whispered to myself as I crept down the hall toward the living room, as if that would help.

Spoiler alert: It did not help.

Not that I hadn’t seen his abs since he’d been staying here, but they still got to me. And I needed my wits about me.

Or at least my brain.

Okay, and my heart.

I peeked around the corner into the living room.

And there he was, in all his glory, wielding his drill like Hercules wielded his club. Lily was right. He was very glisteny. Pretty sure that wasn’t a word, but it fit.

Oh, did it fit.

And, oh, had Tate been busy.

The living room had officially become a kingdom of sawdust, clamps, and power tools. Tate had even used plastic tarps to protect my fabric and the borrowed sewing machine. A few of the lower cabinet boxes for the built-ins were already assembled and lined up along the wall, still unpainted but beautiful in that raw, unfinished way.

And so was he.

All lean strength and bare skin and forearms that should have come with a warning label. Those dang Celtic knots of his were so sexy.

But this was no time for gawking, ogling, drooling, or anything resembling swooning.