Page 42 of The Holiday Makeover

Veronica’s subtle warning at the door moments earlier was clearly her way of making sure no one spoke the truth today. If only she knew how desperately her son needed to—for all their sakes.

So, I felt like I needed to give a gentle warning of my own.

“I don’t think we can be until that works itself out,” I whispered, pointing covertly toward Tate and Dominic. It appeared Coco wasn’t the only meddler in the family.

Veronica paled, but she recovered quickly with a shaky smile. “Oh, those two are fine.” She shut the closet door with a little too much fervor.

Clearly, I’d flustered her.

I didn’t want to make her uncomfortable. In some ways, I could even understand her not wanting to face this head-on. To some degree we all pretend not to notice the things we think we can’t change. Sometimes because we don’t know how to change the circumstances or ourselves. Or because it just hurts too much to acknowledge it.

Like me, thinking two years ago that Tate would choose us over stardom.

I had my eyes wide open now, which in some ways made me feel foolish for being here. But I’d made Tate no promises. Nor would I until I knew for sure his heart truly belonged to me. And even then, we had a lot of things to work out. Like the fact that we lived apart.

It seemed hopeless.

I could hear Coco say that there was no such thing. That hope never died, but sometimes you had to look harder for it.

I supposed Tate not leaving that morning had given me a glimmer of hope. Enough that I was here with him.

And I was afraid of Coco. That was incentive all on its own.

“Let’s eat. Shall we?” Veronica looped her arm through mine, nervous energy buzzing off her like static electricity.

What was she so afraid of?

We stepped into the formal dining room, a space that looked straight out of House Beautiful. It was all class and grace—fine porcelain plates rimmed in gold, sparkling water goblets and champagne flutes arranged with museum-level precision on a pristine mahogany table. The Windham chandelier cast a warm, flattering glow over the lit candles, their flames flickering like they were performing on cue. Soft acoustic jazz drifted through the air, blending with the scents of sage, cider, roasted turkey, and the faint sweetness of freshly cut pine.

And the food itself, so neatly arranged, was its own work of art.

In a word, it was all lovely.

The interior designer in me admired the natural beauty of the room—the deep-silled transom windows, the arched entryway, the layered neutral textiles. Everything was perfect. Intentional.

And yet . . . something was missing.

It should have felt like home. Instead, it felt like an imitation of home—like someone had recreated the idea of warmth without ever having felt it.

It’s not that Veronica wasn’t warm. She was, and I loved her. I just hated that she always felt like she had to put on a show. And while I appreciated a nice dinner party for just the four of us, I would have preferred sitting around their kitchen table, talking about old times and what we were grateful for while we stuffed our faces.

This table said tonight would be about polite conversation and perfect table manners. There would be no feeding Tate off my fork when I got excited about something that tasted divine. Although maybe that was a good thing. That level of familiarity was dangerous. But he was the person I was most familiar with. Years of friendship and then love had made it so.

And these last two years, I’d missed his presence more than I’d ever admitted.

“You and Tate sit here, honey.” Veronica maneuvered us toward one side of the table. Though it could seat twelve, it was set for four right in the middle. Two place settings on each side. I supposed that was meant to make it cozier.

Tate rushed over and pulled out my chair. He was always a gentleman like that. But I think he was grateful for an excuse to do anything other than make strained small talk with his dad. I was pretty sure I’d heard them both comment on all the snow a few times each.

How sad.

Coco and I would have already covered our most recent life events, what we’d read lately, and the abhorrent price of chocolate chips.

Gosh, did I miss her. And her flaky dinner rolls. Seriously, no one could wield dough like her. Not even Tate.

“Thank you.” I slid into my seat, feeling on edge. The tension in the room was like an overfilled water balloon—one poke away from bursting.

Tate took the seat next to me and immediately grabbed my hand, as if he were bracing to get drenched.