Page 61 of The Holiday Makeover

“Okay.” She pecked my cheek. It was so quick it felt like she’d dared herself to do it. “Just let me clean up a little and I’ll meet you there.”

“Do you want some help?” I looked around the mostly painted room that she’d been meticulously working on all afternoon. The moody blue suited it well. There wasn’t much to clean up. Mostly items to be thrown away, like used liners for the paint trays. I did notice, though, that she’d replaced the white frame around Coco’s words with an artsier gold one. She’d even freehanded some decorative elements around it to make it look like a work of art.

The written words Coco had left behind—Being in love is when home becomes a person, not a place—were feeling more and more like she was challenging me. Reminding me of why she’d brought me here. Brought me back to Rory.

“Uh, no,” Rory giggled, and it sounded a lot like home. “I was thinking of jumping in the shower really quick—that kind of cleaning up.”

“Are you sure you don’t want help?” I teased.

“Tate.” She nudged me out of her way. “Behave.”

“I’ll do my best.”

“Uh-huh. Sure you will. I’ll see you in a few minutes.”

I caught her hand before she could escape me. “Hey. I can’t wait.”

“Me either.” She scurried off with the paintbrush. Not sure where she was going with that, but I didn’t ask.

I sealed the open paint can before I left the dining room, doing my best not to think about Rory in the shower.

Not that I’d ever stopped thinking about her for the last two years.

I rushed to set my plan in motion. Fire, a charcuterie-board-style dinner to roast over said fire since it was no longer feasible to cook in the kitchen. Mood lighting, courtesy of the Christmas tree and the firelight. Music, blankets, pillows, wine. The whole romantic date-night package. Including giving George a new toy to keep him occupied in hopes he’d let me have Rory to myself. He was already sleeping with her, so it only seemed fair.

I did a breath check by huffing into my hand, just in case Rory decided we should add kissing back into our routine. She was silently torturing me, withholding her lips while we worked things out. Not that I didn’t understand. But I had to wonder if she took some pleasure from it.

When everything was set, Dean Martin crooning Christmas love songs in the background, fire blazing, blanket, pillows, and food all in place, George blessedly occupied near the tree with his chew toy, I waited by the stairs anxiously.

The wait seemed like hours instead of minutes. I hadn’t looked forward to anything this much in a long time. Two years, to be exact.

Soon Rory was prancing down the stairs in plaid pink boxer shorts, with a hoodie to match, her hair pulled up in a messy but sexy way, her cheeks as pink as her hoodie, wearing a smile that hinted she wanted to make the most of the night.

My pulse revved faster than my Ducati.

I couldn’t wait to touch her, to hold her. I met her halfway up the stairs, resisting the urge to pick her up and devour her lips and undo her hair. Maybe walk her back up the stairs. Instead, I settled for taking her hand, raising it to my mouth and kissing it.

“So formal,” she giggled.

“I could be less formal,” I assured her.

“Maybe later.” She smirked.

It was official. She was torturing me on purpose.

“Well, I’ll do my best to earn the privilege, then.”

“Okay,” she said, as a challenge. “Now let’s eat; I’m starving.”

I chuckled and led her down the stairs to the romantic setting I’d staged.

Rory squealed a little. Enough to tell me she was pleased. That was until she saw George.

“What did you give our dog?”

“A chew toy,” I said matter-of-factly.

“He’s chewing Mrs. Claus. I don’t think Santa will be happy about this.”