Page 14 of The Holiday Makeover

She pointed at her phone as if it were holy text. “It’s all right here. It was all the time we spent working together that made you think you were in love with me, but in reality, your brain was just subconsciously adapting to me.”

I barked out a laugh. This was more ridiculous than the Coke research by far. “So I assume this applies to you as well. Your brain only adapted to me.”

“Well, no.”

“How do you figure, Rory?”

She waved her hand around like the answer was floating in the air. “Well, I mean, it’s obvious.”

I was definitely not letting her off the hook with that. “Obviously, it’s not, so explain.”

“It’s because my feelings are real.”

“And mine were fake?” I asked, irritation threading through my voice.

“Yep,” she said, entirely too self-satisfied.

“Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?”

“No.” Her cheeks pinked. “It makes sense. I loved you for years. Even when we lived in separate states. You only thought you loved me because we started working together. So I think you can just leave now. Go back to your dreams, and Katie Hawke, or Jessica West, is it? So hard to keep track of all your girlfriends. Which, I might add, also proves my point. Look how easily you moved on from me.” Her voice cracked.

Her words felt like she’d kicked me in the ribs.

“You have no idea what you’re talking about,” I said evenly. The last thing I wanted was to argue with her this morning. But I wasn’t going to let her get away with saying I didn’t love her. Or rewriting history to fit the narrative I’d helped script.

Because, damn it—my feelings for her were real.

It wasn’t my brain “adapting” to her. My brain had done that the moment I met her when we were ten. My heart was slow on the uptake, but it got there. And once it did, it was hers. Completely.

“I do know, Tate. You left me,” she whispered.

I crossed the kitchen, landing inches from her. I towered over her, and she pushed back against the counter, trying to hold her ground, trying to keep space between us that I desperately wanted to close.

“I didn’t leave you. You didn’t come with me.” I dragged a hand through my hair, letting out a heavy breath, fighting the urge to pull her into my arms until she finally believed me.

She looked up at the wood-beamed ceiling, her eyes glossing with a sheen that gutted me. “I’d been telling you for weeks, after the network reached out to us, that I didn’t want that life.”

“I know,” I sighed, taking a step back. It had been foolish of me to think back then that I could convince her to accept their offer. But I thought it was just her insecurities talking, that eventually she would see this was a good move for us. The right move.

Never did I imagine I’d have to choose between her or the show. And never did I imagine I’d make the wrong choice.

“Rory, I know you won’t believe this, and you can do all the research you want, but what I felt for you and feel for you has nothing to do with proximity. And I’m staying. Also, if you think my pancakes are a bribe, you don’t have to eat them. I’d understand.” I tried not to smirk, but failed miserably.

She lowered her gorgeous head, a whole battle raging behind her eyes. “Well . . . I never said I wouldn’t eat them. I just don’t want you to think it means anything. Because it doesn’t.”

“Fine, I’ll make pancakes, then.”

“Fine.” She stayed exactly where she was, eyes fixed on me like she was studying a stranger.

We were going to have to work on that. But I didn’t push. She was letting me make pancakes for her, and I’d take the small win.

Eventually, she poured herself a cup of coffee. Good. A caffeinated Rory was a happy Rory.

George kept going between the two of us, acting like our liaison.

After two cups in her and the batter and cast-iron skillet ready, Rory finally asked, “So, how are you taking all this time off?”

That was a good question.