Page 113 of The Holiday Makeover

Brain: Wait a minute there. While true, he bought a ring and never proposed.

Heart: Valid point. But the man cries while watching old YouTube clips of the two of you and is willing to walk away from the job he once thought was his dream. Not to mention he’s been working like a dog to make your vision for this house happen.

Brain: Also true. But will he really be happy in Aspen Lake? What if he gets bored and resents me? What if I’m not enough?

Heart: How will you know the answers to any of those questions if you don’t try?

Brain: Ugh. That made way too much sense. I’m supposed to be the sensible one here.

Heart: I just don’t want you to be devastated again. Do you really want him to leave?

That answer came easily. No. No, I didn’t.

But . . .

“I just want to know it’s all going to work out this time,” I blurted. “Like a money-back guarantee.”

The second the words left my mouth, I knew how ridiculous they sounded.

Tate kissed my cheek and lingered there.

“I wish I could give you that guarantee,” he breathed. “I wish I could tell you with one hundred percent certainty that it will all work out. But I can’t.”

My throat did that tightening thing again. I really should get that checked out.

“But I can tell you I’m going to screw up from time to time and say stupid things I’ll need to apologize for. And I’ll probably leave the toilet seat up more than you want me to.”

I giggled but also cringed.

Men plus toilets was just a gross combo in general. Like, I had questions. Seriously, they couldn’t aim?

But no time to digress.

I needed to hear the rest of his speech.

“And yeah, I’m still going to love the limelight probably more than I should,” he continued. “And you’re probably going to question from time to time why you love me. And you’re going to drive me crazy like you sometimes do.”

Tears pricked my eyes. His honesty was getting to me in the best way.

“But maybe that’s what a real relationship is. Not a perfect guarantee. Just two imperfect people choosing each other anyway. Apologizing when they get it wrong. Staying when it gets messy. Fighting for what matters.”

His arms tightened around me.

“I can promise you this: I’m going to work my damnedest at it. And I’m not going to give up.”

I turned to face him and snuggled close, burying my head against his ridiculously smooth, hard chest.

“I don’t want to give up either,” I cried. “Although I would like to get a guarantee on the toilet seat, if possible.”

Tate laughed.

“I’m serious.”

“I have no doubt.”

Still, he refused to offer a toilet seat guarantee.

Fine.