Page 12 of The Holiday Makeover

He ran a hand through his tousled hair, damp from the snow, exhaling as if he needed to gather every word. “Trying to fix the biggest mistake of my life.”

My heart stuttered, but I refused to let it believe he meant leaving me.

So I went with the comical route. The safe route. “What’s that? Let me guess—the time you let that client convince you to do the hot-pink tile island?” My retinas still burned from that eyesore. Granted, the client was thrilled. But honestly, it was a crime against nature.

Tate chuckled, but shook his head. His expression shifted—thoughtful, penetrating. “I’m talking about us, Rory.”

I launched myself off the chair so fast that I nearly knocked him over.

“Nope. Nope. Nope.” I paced the floor, trying to ignore the wall of family photos spanning my entire life, which meant some included Tate. I felt as if I would melt into a puddle of goo if I looked at any of them.

George paced with me as I muttered to myself.

“This can’t be happening. You left me. And our dog. You never even loved me. It was all for show.”

Tate jumped to his feet, his face blazing red. “Rory.” He said my name with such force that it felt like I’d slammed into a brick wall. I skidded to a stop.

Our eyes locked, and he stepped closer. “I loved you. I still love you.”

I wanted to argue. I really did. But the fire in his eyes stopped me cold.

His features softened, shoulders dropping. “I know words are cheap, and I know you don’t want me here. But if you can tell me you don’t love me too, I’ll walk out that door right now.” He paused.

And I just stood there, completely dumbfounded. My brain was screaming at me to make him leave. Lie if I had to. But my heart wouldn’t let me. I loved him. So much.

When I said nothing, he grinned.

“Well, I guess we have a lot of work to do, then.”

I didn’t think he was talking about renovating the house.

“I’ll go grab my bag. I’ll take the room next to yours,” he added.

My ability to speak finally kicked back in. “This is a bad idea.”

He shrugged. “Maybe. But I’m not leaving until I’ve given you a reason to believe me.” Then he turned and walked out.

I just watched him go—blinking and blinking and blinking—trying to compute what had just happened. Was he telling the truth? No. But . . . he was staying. I was too afraid to entertain what all this meant.

I looked up at the ceiling. “Coco,” I groaned. “What have you done?”

I swore I heard her say, What I had to do. Have fun.

George nudged me with his nose.

My eyes drifted toward him.

He wore a full puppy dog face that said, Please let him stay.

This felt like a conspiracy. A well-organized, beyond‑the‑grave, dog‑assisted conspiracy.

All I knew was that it was going to take a lot for Tate Ryder to make me believe he loved me.

It might even take a Christmas miracle.

A hark the herald angel sings and gets his wings with a big assist from Santa kind of miracle.

Chapter Five