Page 29 of The Holiday Makeover

And all day he’d been pulling out every stop he could think of.

He started with pancakes again. Then, while I was working in the dining room on designing the party invitations, he brought me a grilled cheese sandwich and homemade tomato soup for lunch. The kind of grilled cheese that had perfectly crisp edges and just the right amount of cheese pull. The kind of tomato soup that tasted like someone’s childhood and a hug.

Basically, it was all perfection.

And with the food came a little note that said:

You’re so beautiful, I could stare at you all day long.

I looked at the note for a full minute while my heart fluttered without my consent. Then I shoved it under my laptop, promising myself I would burn it later.

P.S. That hadn’t happened yet. But it was going to. Most likely.

“I’m so sorry. That must be so hard,” I replied, forcing myself to stop thinking about Tate. Dang man.

Did he really think we could work it out? No way was he moving home. And I would never ask him to. I knew how hard that would be for him. And LA wasn’t an option for me because I couldn’t uproot my life for him one more time. Especially since I wasn’t sure I even belonged in his life. Or if I ever did. In all the time we were together, it felt like I wanted forever, and when he talked of our future, it was in terms of the show.

How many times did I have to tell him I wanted to grow old with him and have his babies before he got a clue and asked me to marry him?

“It’s harder than I ever imagined,” Eden said softly, pulling me back to the conversation, “but you are giving me something to look forward to. Would you like to meet and go over the menu? Would Friday work for you?”

Uh . . . would I like to meet one of my heroes? Yes, please. “That would be wonderful. Honestly, I can’t thank you enough.”

“No, thank you. I loved Cosette, and I’m happy to help in any way I can. She had the best outlook on life. She always used to say things like, My feet hurt, but my soul is singing, or I feel it best not to walk through life but to shimmy through it.”

The dang lump in my throat was back, making it hard to speak. I managed thickly, “That sounds like her.”

“She was a special lady.”

“She was the best,” I agreed, my voice wobbling.

“Just text me the best time for you on Friday and where you’d like to meet. I’m looking forward to seeing you.”

“Me too. Thanks again. Goodbye.”

I hung up—or tried to—but before my thumb could hit the screen, there was a knock on my door.

“Knock, knock,” Tate called, sounding way too chipper and like a major distraction waiting to happen. Did he not remember I’d said absolutely no distractions earlier? Instead, he’d spent the entire day acting like Ina Garten preparing for a Hamptons soirée. I swear, if he whipped up her famous grown-up mac and cheese for dinner, I was going to throw him out.

After consuming the mac and cheese, naturally.

My heart couldn’t take reminders of how charming he was. Or worse—how much I loved him. I’d made up my mind. Ripped off the Band-Aid.

Or so I thought.

Tate walked in without an invitation, laptop in hand, wearing a goofy grin on his Adonis-worthy face, then plopped himself right next to me on my full-size bed.

You heard me correctly. He joined me.

In bed.

My very small bed still covered in the peach-colored blanket from my teen years.

We were too close for comfort, yet something in me screamed we weren’t close enough.

I held my breath, as if that would help.

Newsflash: It did nothing to slow my pulse or the ache to snuggle into him and pretend for one moment we never broke up and Coco hadn’t died. To believe that we were still us.