Page 34 of The Holiday Makeover

That was all it took for me to throw caution to the wind. I closed the gap between us and wrapped my arms around her. She stiffened at first—I expected that—but then she melted into me, her tears soaking through my shirt.

How had I forgotten how perfectly she molded against me? How her head fit under my chin like it was made to be there? How all I ever wanted to do was hold her?

“Tate.” Her voice warbled. “I know you don’t want to hear this or believe it, but you are your career. You are what other people think of you. It’s your identity. It has always been. And if you lose this show, you’ll just be looking for the next thing to fill this void in you. A void I could never fill. A void I can’t be responsible for. And I know you think you won’t blame me. But I saw the look in your eyes when I chose to stay in Nashville, and I can’t bear to see it again. Or for you not to even be able to tell me that loving me wasn’t just for show.”

Her words sliced through me. Not because she was being cruel. No, because she was being honest in only the way she could. She was, after all, my best friend.

I wanted to tell her that she was wrong. That she filled me in ways no one else had. Which was true. But . . . there was a void in me. And I was more afraid than ever of that hole. Of failing and losing my damn show. Of losing her.

“Rory, I should never have let you believe it was all for show. I should have told you I loved you, but . . .”

“You weren’t sure, were you?” she whispered, as if she were afraid of the answer.

“Rory, I was angry. And sometimes it seemed like no matter how many times I told you how I felt about you, you never believed me. And it hurt me that you would even ask. Was I that bad a boyfriend to you that you really thought it was all for show?”

“No, you were an amazing boyfriend,” she squeaked out. “But . . .” she trailed off.

“I know.” My arms tightened around her. We both had our insecurities, and the lines we’d blurred by working together played into hers. And admittedly, I didn’t help the situation by putting our relationship on display, using it to our advantage—or what I thought was our advantage. In my defense, I’d thought that was what she wanted too.

But I should have known better. Rory never chased the spotlight. Never needed it. In fact, it made her uncomfortable. It took a lot of convincing for me to talk her into doing Hammer and Hue, even though she was a natural on camera and added the shine.

But that didn’t mean my feelings for her weren’t real. They were—even now.

The thing was, I was more sure about her than ever. But this wasn’t the conversation I wanted to have tonight. Not until I had everything figured out.

She let out a long, slow breath, her hands twisting in my shirt. “Tate, please think about going back. You and I both know how important your show is to you. And we also both know you don’t want to live in Aspen Lake. And I can’t move for you again. I just can’t.” Her voice hitched.

I closed my eyes and pressed her flush against me, unwilling to lose her again. “Listen, we can make this work. Just give me the chance to prove to you that I’m in earnest here. And then we can figure out the rest,” I rambled, grasping at anything that sounded like a plan. “We can get a place halfway between to meet when I’m not filming. And I’ll visit you here, and you can visit me.”

“Tate, listen to yourself. I don’t think either one of us wants that life. I want to settle down and start a family. And . . .” she hesitated, her breath catching. “I don’t want to be with someone who is always chasing the next bigger and better dream. I want to be his dream. Or at least a good part of it.” She let out a sad, broken laugh.

“You played a starring role in my dreams. You still do.” I wanted those kids to be mine. Hell, I had a ring for her in my truck.

“But your dreams are always changing.” She rose onto her tiptoes and barely brushed her lips against my cheek. “We had Hammer and Hue and each other, and that wasn’t enough for you. Think about that.”

Her warm breath danced across my skin, yet it left me cold.

“Good night, Tate. If you’re not here in the morning, I’ll understand. Please don’t say goodbye to me. I can’t go through that again.”

She turned on her heel and walked out calmly, but a sob escaped her.

And here I thought I was winning today.

“I’m not leaving,” I called after her.

She waved a hand behind her, not even looking back—clearly not convinced.

George came strolling in as if he had come to say goodbye to me too.

I fell back into my chair, and he rested his head on my thigh. I rubbed his head absentmindedly, feeling like someone had removed all the oxygen in the room. There was no catching my breath.

“How do I fix this, George?”

He let out a soft huff, like he had the answer but wasn’t about to share it.

I thought about Coco’s letter and knew I was asking the wrong question.

The better ones were: How did I stop chasing the roar of the crowd? And how could I feel like I was enough?