Page 58 of The Holiday Makeover

“Yes.” I pulled out the fabric swatches I wanted to use for the dining room drapes. I was leaning toward something a little moodier in there—inky-blue walls that would deepen the space and make the gold velvet chairs feel intentional instead of like they’d been chosen on a whim. The older chandelier already had that warm, glittering patina, and the walnut table grounded everything, so the blue would let the gold really shine. I’d carry a thread of that gold into the living room to keep the palette cohesive.

We made it back to the paint department without any incidents. No one stopped us or even gave us a sideways glance. This was good. Maybe no one cared about us or recognized Tate. I mean, it was Aspen Lake, after all. The place practically bred celebrities. And I was just a hometown girl.

And even though Grandpa had owned a successful home-building business and Coco was a character, it wasn’t like they traveled in famous circles. Sure, Coco was well known on our street and she had several close friends and many acquaintances, but she was no Aspen Lake socialite.

And the only interesting things I’d ever done were to start a hugely successful YouTube channel with one of the most attractive men alive and snort on Good Morning America. Okay, so those were definitely high-profile moments. But I was yesterday’s news.

Except . . . Tate wasn’t. He was today’s news.

And just as I thought we might escape unnoticed, a few shoppers and employees started sneaking glances at him—some even pulled out their phones to take pictures. And judging by their smiles, I think it was safe to say they didn’t care that Tate had never made it into the NFL. And if they knew about the cheating rumors, they didn’t seem bothered by those either. It appeared that Tate was just beautiful celebrity eye candy.

Tate, of course, loved the attention. He always had. He waved and smiled.

Meanwhile, I tried to focus on comparing several shades of moody paint chips against my fabric swatch, silently repeating to myself: He loves me. He wants to have babies and a lifetime of sentimental, bordering on cheesy, Christmas ornaments with me. I’m enough. And gosh darn it, I’m adorable. I own Kermit the Frog pajamas. If that doesn’t say cute, I don’t know what does.

“Feel free to go meet your fan club,” I whispered out of the side of my mouth.

“No. No,” Tate protested. “I would much rather be here with you, picking out paint.” His tone was sincere, but there was a note of teasing in there. I think he meant to say, Normally I would rather poke my eyes out than pick out paint, but for you, I’ll pretend to enjoy it. He’d much rather be shopping for the latest and greatest power tool or picking out the perfect pieces of lumber.

“Uh-huh.” I rolled my eyes.

“I’m serious.” He kissed the side of my head.

Side note: We’d yet to kiss. Not because I didn’t want to, but because it would feel like severing the last tether holding me back from the point of no return. It’s not that I wasn’t going to give this second chance everything I had—it was just . . . well . . . I was a scaredy-cat.

Breaking up with Tate had wrecked me. I hid in the house for two months afterward, talking to George like he was my therapist and avoiding anywhere I might be recognized. I couldn’t stomach the idea of anyone asking questions. Or worse, giving me that look—the one that said, I knew he’d leave you for someone more attractive.

The thought of being that emotionally vulnerable again was terrifying, even though I wanted it more than anything. I wanted Tate.

I just hoped I knew how to have him this time—and still be okay with myself. Because, generally speaking, I liked myself. I really did.

“By the way.” He pointed at the paint chips I’d spread out on the counter under the lighting. “Would you call those more cyan or azure?”

“Ha ha. Neither.” I nudged him with my hip. “Seriously—go meet your fans.”

There was no need. His fans decided to come and meet him. The two women working at the paint counter finally gathered the nerve to come over to us. Well . . . to Tate.

“Are you Tate Ryder?” the younger of the two women asked. Not sure how she managed it, but her smock didn’t have a single fleck of paint on it, and her whole polished vibe screamed main-character energy.

I admired women like her—the kind who seemed fearless.

“I am,” Tate responded, ever so charmingly. He’d perfected the humble-yet-flattered tone.

“Oh. My. Gosh,” main-character woman squealed. “We love your show.”

The older woman—early fifties, maybe—blushed and nodded. Apparently Tate had rendered her mute. It was a common occurrence. She should recover in eight to ten hours.

Their bravery encouraged other fans—all women. Shocker. Suddenly Tate was surrounded by a flock of admirers acting like seagulls who’d spotted a tiny fish and were all saying, Mine. Mine. Mine.

Over the years, I’d become accustomed to this behavior. It had been happening since junior high. One minute Tate and I would be talking near his locker or mine, and the next minute, female admirers had swallowed him whole.

I’d learned not to get jealous during these sieges. Instead, I faded into the background or removed myself entirely, telling myself I preferred the shadows anyway. And in many ways, that was true. But . . . I’d made myself an outsider on purpose so I wouldn’t have to risk being an insider.

Now I wondered if I’d done myself a disservice.

Sure, there were times when Tate and I were doing our show that fans of both of us would come talk to us—especially at trade shows or events. But I did a lot of grinning and bearing during those moments. It always felt like I was pretending to be someone I wasn’t. I told myself they were really there for Tate, not for me.

Not that I didn’t have my own loyal fans. A group of them had even boycotted Tate’s show. And I still got fan mail from time to time.