Page 30 of The Holiday Makeover

But I held my ground. Or, more accurately, my tiny sliver of the bed. I needed George to come barreling in here and wedge himself between us like the world’s fluffiest chaperone. Anything to keep me from doing something I would absolutely enjoy in the moment and absolutely regret when Tate inevitably left again. Because once Coco’s request was fulfilled, he would. I knew he would.

“Uh, what are you doing?” I managed, though my voice came out embarrassingly uneven.

He flashed me an innocent grin—the kind that wasn’t innocent at all. “I wanted to show you something, and you’ve been hiding from me. Why is that?”

“I’m not hiding.” A lie. A bold-faced, Olympic-level lie. I was most definitely hiding from him.

“Uh-uh,” he said, scooting just a bit closer.

To save myself, I inched away from him—my butt cheek hanging on to the bed for dear life.

Tate laughed and grabbed my arm, jostling his laptop. “What are you doing? You’re going to fall off the bed.”

Better to fall off the bed than fall back into his arms.

“What am I doing? What are you doing?” I shot back, trying to sound composed while clinging to the mattress like it was a life raft. “I think this classifies as a distraction, and I specifically stated there would be none of those in this house.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” The corners of his lips twitched in that liar, liar sort of way. “I just came up here to talk about my ideas for the kitchen.”

“In my bed?”

“Why not? We used to do homework up here all the time, and if I remember correctly, you always loved pillow talk.”

“Yeah, well, we aren’t sixteen anymore, and I much prefer to cuddle up with George nowadays. And he’s not much of a talker.”

Granted, when we were sixteen, he only saw me as a friend, and my grandparents made us keep the door open when Tate was up here. Sometimes I wished we’d just stayed friends. It would have saved me from . . . well, all of this.

I glanced around my childhood room. Not much had changed. My old art projects still hung on the walls—a few watercolors, a charcoal sketch of Coco that she’d framed even though it wasn’t my finest. Pictures from band camp were still tacked up beside silly snapshots of friends. Friends including Tate. Hand-braided bracelets still sat on my dresser, faded and frayed, waiting to be traded like we were still twelve.

And the curtains—those old ruffled ones with the tiny butterflies I’d begged for—still fluttered in the draft from the window. I used to think they were the prettiest things in the world.

Part of me wanted to go back to when life felt that simple. When I thought I had everything figured out. When the biggest problem in my life was whether my clarinet solo would squeak during regionals.

I never would have guessed that one day I’d feel so unsettled around Tate. That being near him would make my heart feel like it was trying to climb out of my chest. That I could ever feel so . . . broken.

“I have to have better breath than George, though, right?” Tate didn’t miss a beat. It was like he was bound and determined to make sure I didn’t forget he was my person.

Well, that I could not have.

It was clear that my defensive strategy wasn’t working. Time to go on the offensive. So I reclaimed my dignity—and my half of the bed—and sat up straighter.

“Actually, I brush his teeth every night, and I’ve been sprinkling a little mint in his food every day. It’s healthy for him, and his breath is great. And he never steals the covers. Oh, and he doesn’t mind my sleep stories at all.”

“Well, I brush, floss, and rinse,” he countered, releasing his gentle grip on my arm. “And no man wants to fall asleep to Tom Hiddleston whispering in his ear.”

I shrugged, doing my best impression of unbothered, even though my pulse was doing gymnastics.

“Well, to each his own,” I sang. “What did you want to show me?”

Flustered, he flipped open his laptop case, muttering under his breath, the smile slipping from his face.

Good. This was good.

Tate pulled up a beautiful mock kitchen design—warm wood tones, soft lighting, the kind of space Coco would have danced in while humming off-key. And above the sink, in a charming hand-painted script, was a sign that read:

Grandmas are moms with lots of frosting.

Coco used to say that all the time.