Page 39 of The Holiday Makeover

“I thought you might have burned that outfit since I bought it for you.”

She’d always said she couldn’t pull off a jumpsuit. I’d always begged to differ. It used to amaze me how Rory couldn’t see how beautiful she was. Probably because she never put much stock in looks. She cared about what was inside more than anything else.

I should probably take notes from her.

“I thought about it,” she sang. “But denim isn’t as flammable as one would think. Now, all the boxer shorts I’d stolen from you to wear, those are another story.”

“Did you burn my LA Dodgers pair?”

She bit her lip, an impish look lighting up her eyes.

“I loved that pair. I’ve been looking everywhere for them,” I complained.

She landed on the bottom step with not a hint of remorse. Just a little shrug. “You broke up with me.”

I stepped closer, stopping inches in front of her. Careful. Controlled. Every cell in my body wanted to close the distance, but I knew Rory. I had to tread carefully. She wasn’t sold on any of this yet. Especially not me.

I lifted a hand and dared to brush her hair back, slow and gentle. “If I remember correctly, you broke up with me.”

She shivered a little, but she recovered fast. Her eyes narrowed. “You’re obviously remembering that wrong. You said, I guess this is goodbye, then. And that was it.”

“That was after you said, I wish I had never met you. I’m pretty sure that translated to I’m breaking up with you.”

She wagged her finger vehemently in the air. “Oh, no, no, no. Because before that, you said—”

I pressed a finger gently to her lips.

I couldn’t hear those words again. Not from her mouth. Or in her voice. And not when I’d spent every day since wishing I could take them back.

I’d told her she’d almost ruined the biggest deal of my life. Told her I couldn’t believe how selfish she was being.

When the truth was, I was the selfish one. The studio would never have approached me if she hadn’t been involved.

She stilled, wide-eyed.

I kept my finger against her warm lips, wishing I could stay in that moment a little longer. Wishing it were my lips instead of my finger. “I shouldn’t have said those things to you. You’re the most generous and genuine person I know.”

A soft sheen misted her eyes. She shook her head, making my finger fall away. “Maybe we should talk about this later. I don’t have time to redo my makeup.”

“Good idea. But we should talk.” We’d spent the whole day making polite small talk while prepping the kitchen for demolition, skirting around anything real. I hated that we were so uncomfortable around each other. It never used to be like that.

Hell, she’d gone through puberty with me—voice cracks and all. She’d seen every awkward, unpolished version of me. And now here we were, acting like strangers trying not to step on each other’s toes.

I didn’t want that to be us anymore.

“We should,” she agreed. “But dinner first.”

I nodded. “Can I negotiate holding your hand? I’m not exactly looking forward to tonight.” And I was man enough to admit that I needed her to steady me.

“I’m sorry it’s never been easy with your parents. Coco hoped things might change if you decided to stay and help with the house. She’s a meddler, even beyond the grave.”

“She mentioned them in my letter too. Said they were misguided.”

Rory took my hand. Her fingers clumsily interlaced with mine, like we hadn’t held hands thousands of times before. Even when we were just friends, it was something we did. Her hesitation was obvious—but the gesture hit hard all the same.

I missed her touch. Missed everything about her. I clung to her like she’d just handed me a gift. And maybe my last chance.

She squeezed my hand. “This is me being your friend. And I use friend as a loose term here. A negotiable term. So don’t read into this. We are still in the exploratory stages of every aspect of our relationship.”