Page 120 of The Holiday Makeover

But once the floor was clean and George was mostly dry, it became obvious we were both stalling.

Dad cleared his throat. “I’ll grab each of us a cup of coffee and meet you in the den. I’ve got a fire burning in there.”

“Thanks,” I mumbled, letting George loose.

He headed straight up the stairs for Rory.

I wished I could follow him.

Instead, I trudged toward the den, doing my best to remind myself that I was a grown man and didn’t need my father’s approval. If he came at me about my show being up in the air, I was prepared to walk away.

The powers that be at the network had said they would revisit my contract after the holidays. But oddly enough, Darian had been right. Other people had seen my talent.

My agent had let me know a couple of days earlier that someone from NBC had reached out about me doing a few home-renovation segments for TODAY in the new year. It wouldn’t be a show, and I wouldn’t have a crew following me around Aspen Lake. It would just be a handful of live segments and maybe some taped pieces.

The fact that my agent was getting calls like that told me Quinton was probably running his mouth about what had happened and tongues were wagging.

It didn’t sting the way I thought it would.

I told my agent I couldn’t seriously consider anything until my current network decided what to do with me and we knew where I stood contractually. And even then, I’d have to discuss it with Rory. But I was waiting until after Christmas.

Don’t get me wrong: Even the chance to talk to the TODAY producers had me flattered. And anxious to tell Rory.

But for the first time in my professional life, I remembered my personal one mattered more.

I’d like to think I was growing.

That maybe fame wouldn’t rule me the way it had before.

That the man I was on my way to talk to wouldn’t push me to make decisions that weren’t in my best interest.

And even if he tried, I wouldn’t listen.

I settled into one of the leather chairs in front of the fire and held out my hands to warm them. Admittedly, it was nice. But I still felt robbed that I wasn’t in bed with Rory. No doubt she would have kept me more than toasty.

The room itself smelled of expensive bourbon and cedar. It was masculine and polished, all clean lines, dark wood, with a leather couch that looked like it had never known the joy of being sprawled on. The bookshelves were filled with self-motivational books and notable biographies. Books that made a man look enlightened and informed.

No fluffy fiction like Rory loved.

I preferred her colorful, mismatched shelves. They at least seemed happy.

Don’t get me wrong: being well-read is a great virtue. But not when the books were there for show. And that’s what this room always felt like—a showroom.

Dad didn’t take too long to join me. He handed me a weighty no-frills mug filled with dark-roasted coffee, no cream or sugar. I loved that smell, just straight-up coffee.

I smiled thinking how Rory’s drink order resembled dessert. The actual coffee was more of an afterthought.

Dad and I each took a sip at the same time while we stared into the flames, the wood cracking and popping between us.

We were the living, breathing definition of awkward.

“It’s quite a storm out there,” Dad mumbled.

“Yeah,” I mumbled back, taking another sip.

What an endearing start to our conversation.

George probably would have said more by now. You know, in between licking himself.