Page 54 of The Holiday Makeover

I squeezed him tighter. “You are so maddening.”

“Maddening? What about sweet? What about I missed you too, Tate,” he teased.

“You’re maddening because you are sweet. And since I was fourteen years old, I’ve tried not to love you,” I murmured into his chest. “And for eighteen years of my life, I’ve failed.”

He stilled for a moment, breathing in my hair, pressing me closer, before he said softly, “I’m glad for that, Rory.”

“Sometimes, I am too,” I teased. “Now let’s go decorate the tree.”

Tate had other ideas. Before I could step away, he cupped my face in both hands, holding me with a gentleness that contrasted the strength in his grip. His thumbs brushed my cheeks in slow, steady strokes, and his eyes locked onto mine with a focus that made the rest of the room fall away.

“I promise to make sure that you’ll never regret loving me.”

The force of his words made my breath catch in my throat and my heart pound wildly, as if applauding him. Like I said, he owned my heart. And now he was giving it the best news.

“And maybe . . .” He leaned in, his lips hovering above mine, close enough that I could feel his warm, minty breath against my skin. It felt like a plane circling the runway, waiting for clearance that it was safe to land.

Safe? Debatable.

Life changing? Absolutely.

“. . . someday you’ll believe that and you’ll let me kiss you.” His breath brushed my lips, and something inside me ached—the part of me that wanted to stop circling and finally land. To get lost in him. But I couldn’t get lost yet, not until I knew we’d been found.

Thankfully, Tate understood, and his hands fell away. I blinked, coming out of the spell he’d put me under—if only for a moment.

“Shall we get to decorating?” he asked, wearing a hint of a smile that said he knew exactly what he’d done to me.

“Uh-huh” was all I could manage as I shuffled into the parlor, trying to shake off my Tate daze. It was a real condition. Ask any woman within fifty feet of him. I’m pretty sure the American Medical Association was considering adding it to their list of highly contagious diseases. Or at least they should. Though I was pretty sure there wasn’t a cure.

I knew, because two years ago I would have given anything for one.

I sat among the labeled clear plastic bins while Tate started playing one of Frank Sinatra’s Christmas albums on his phone. He knew it was one of my favorites and that I believed you could only decorate a Christmas tree to Christmas music. Pretty sure it was a law.

And I was pretty sure Tate was way too charming for my own good.

I tried not to think about how charming he was while my fingers drifted over Coco’s loopy handwriting. Her loss was ever present, a quiet ache beneath everything. Yet I still smiled at some of her labels. Labels that seemed to change from year to year.

Lights that don’t work, but maybe someday I’ll fix them. Caution: snow globes that may have leaked.

Note to self: Throw away broken lights and do not—under any circumstances—open the snow globe box.

Tate lowered himself beside me, and George wedged his fluffy body between us. Good boy. Keep Mommy from accosting Daddy. It was a real possibility.

I pointed at the box labels, and Tate chuckled. “She was a character.”

“That she was.”

I reached for the box that said Christmas Treasures and pulled it toward us. It looked like a newer label. It was brighter than the rest of them. I carefully opened the lid and set it to the side. The faint smell of cinnamon wafted from the box, warm and familiar. Inside, there were several items, all wrapped in tissue paper, like little presents.

I took one on top and delicately unwrapped the treasure.

Inside was a tiny silver bell engraved with Baby’s First Christmas, my mother’s name—Kimberly—and the year.

I ran my thumb across the inscription, tears pooling in my eyes. Coco always said she would never get over my mother’s loss. That a piece of her died on the plane that day. I could relate. There were so many moments growing up—and especially lately—when I would have given anything just to hear my mother’s voice again.

The memory of it had faded too much over the years. I was only seven when she died. But what I did remember was priceless. Memories of how she made funny voices when she read to me at night. It was the little things like that I’d been able to hold onto.

Tate nudged George away to get closer to me. George once again did me no favors and let Tate sidle right up next to me. He was such a traitor. A lovable traitor, but a turncoat all the same.