Page 101 of The Holiday Makeover

We had serious business to discuss.

I admired him for a few more seconds.

Okay, make that several.

Then the drill stopped, and I squeaked out a “Hey there” in a voice that could barely be heard over the music.

But Tate heard me.

Or maybe he sensed me.

Either way, he turned, drill still in hand, a soft, wary smile tugging at his mouth.

“Rory,” he said, my name sounding almost reverent.

“Hi,” I said shyly, which was ridiculous. “Um, you’ve been busy.”

“Yeah.” He glanced toward the half-built bookcases. “I hope I haven’t disturbed you too much.”

“Not at all.”

Great. We were making small talk. We needed big talk.

“Do you want to go for a walk and talk?” I asked.

Yes, walking meant freezing temperatures, but it also meant a fully clothed Tate. Which meant a more in-control me.

Seriously, I was gripping the wall to keep myself from running to him and . . . well . . . let’s just say making very poor choices.

Tate’s lip quirked. “Is this your way of getting me to put a shirt on?”

“You’re free to walk outside half-naked.” I lifted my chin. I wasn’t owning up to anything.

He chuckled. “All right. Give me five, and we’ll go for that walk.”

Great. And I was going to stick my face in the snow to cool off. Holy Santa, the man was fire.

We headed in different directions.

I quickly bundled up, ready to face the cold. Not so ready to face the decision waiting for me. But I knew I had to.

It was either fight or flight.

I waited on the covered porch for Tate, tugging my coat tighter around me. The porch needed strings of lights, but there hadn’t been time. Maybe I could hire a service to decorate the outside, even though Christmas was only two weeks away.

Coco loved Christmas lights. The big bulb kind that were loud and, yes, tacky.

Tate was quick to join me—fully clothed. Thank goodness. I mean, it was a little sad, but it was for my own good.

He blew out a long breath, and it plumed white between us. “Can I hold your hand?”

I nodded, and he took my mitten-covered hand in his gloved one.

Without another word, we headed down the steps and onto the shoveled walk that cut through the middle of the snowy lawn.

There was no question where we were going. The park. Our park.

The one where we’d played as children. The one where, as teenagers, we’d sat on the swings in the middle of the night and talked about all the complexities of our lives back then.