Page 126 of The Holiday Makeover

I closed my eyes beneath his hands and let him guide me.

When we stopped, the scent of vanilla and cardamom wrapped around me.

It reminded me of a candle I had made at one of those candle-making classes I’d dragged Tate to. A candle that reminded me of his cologne.

I’d packed that candle away after he left, along with everything else that reminded me of him. I’d written To Be Thrown Away on the box.

But I had never found the courage to actually throw it away.

“Are you ready?” he whispered into my ear, sending a full-body shiver through me.

“Uh-huh,” I said breathily.

Honestly, it was kind of ridiculous that one little whisper could send me into such a tizzy.

But I wasn’t complaining.

Tate removed his hand, and I slowly opened my eyes, wanting to savor the moment. And what a moment it was. Before me was a vision.

My vision, but better.

Cream built-in bookcases filled two walls, their clean lines making the room feel elegant without stripping away its old soul. Soft lamplight glowed against the shelves, warming the room and catching on the brass picture frames, the gold accents in the pillows, and the new plush throw rug. The air smelled of vanilla, cardamom, old books, and fresh paint.

Between the bookcases was the most perfect window bench.

One I’d had no idea Tate had been building.

It was covered in a moody blue printed fabric that perfectly matched the gold-and-cream pillows I’d made for the room. A folded throw was draped over one corner beneath the window. The whole thing looked like it was waiting for someone to curl up with a book, a cup of cocoa, and absolutely no responsibilities.

It looked straight out of a magazine. Or an influencer’s page. Classy. Homey. In a word . . . perfect.

But that wasn’t even the most wonderful part.

The shelves were lined not only with Coco’s old books, but mine too. Books from my house in Nashville. And tucked among those books were several of the items from the box I had never thrown away.

The candle. The framed pictures of Tate and me. Little pieces of a life I had tried to pack away, now displayed like they had always belonged here.

Like we had always belonged here.

I rushed over to the shelves. “How?” was all I could ask as I delicately touched my old treasures, each one seeming to shine brighter than it ever had before.

Tate wrapped his arms around me from behind, drawing me flush against his body.

“I called Penelope,” he murmured. “I figured she was probably watering your plants while you were gone. She gave me an earful about what a jerk I was. Several times.”

“As she should have,” I teased, giggling.

I felt his smile against my hair. “But when I told her what I was trying to do, she agreed to ship the books. And the other things.”

I smiled, thinking of Penelope. We’d met her after renovating her studio apartment in Nashville. She was a popular artist in town, and somehow, between paint samples, takeout, and her brutally honest opinions about everything, we had become friends. Good enough friends that I trusted her with a key to my house.

And I might have subjected her to some Tate bashing.

Possibly a lot of Tate bashing.

“It’s all so perfect.” I sank deeper into him. “Thank you, Tate. Not just for the room, but for helping me get through this.”

“Thank you for being my home, Rory.”