Page 7 of The Holiday Makeover

She was going to hate me. No question. But I was staying. I was going to prove her wrong.

She was the best thing that had ever happened to me.

Period.

Chapter Three

Rory

Ipaced through the house—my childhood home, my favorite place on earth. It sat in the heart of Aspen Lake’s historic district, and though every house there had personality, there was just something special about this place. Like it was its own character. It knew exactly who it was and didn’t care that newer, bigger homes had popped up around town.

It was tall, proud, a little dramatic, with a wraparound porch that practically demanded a mug of cocoa and a good book. The kind of house with bones no contractor could replicate now.

It was beautiful in the way old movie stars are beautiful—elegant, unforgettable, and aging on its own terms. The steep gables and original stonework gave it a storybook feel, especially with snow dusting the roof and the pine trees lining the street like they were posing for a Christmas card.

Inside, it smelled like cedar, cinnamon, old books, and whatever magic made Coco’s house feel safer than anywhere else. Even now, with her gone, it still felt like she was here. Like she’d left her essence in the walls, watching over me, probably laughing at me for how twisted up I was after that “will” reading.

The rooms were generous but cozy, with high ceilings, thick crown molding, antique light fixtures, and enough original charm to make every creak in the floorboards feel like the house was doing it on purpose.

But the place needed work. A lot of it.

The walls needed a fresh coat of paint. The living room begged for built‑ins. The parlor fireplace needed an update. The kitchen cupboards, countertops, and appliances were holding on for dear life. And the dining room wallpaper? A crime against humanity.

I loved this house more than anywhere else.

Except for Tate’s arms.

Ugh. Stupid man. I did not need him.

But . . . maybe I wanted him. A little.

Fine. A lot. But that ship had sailed, sunk, and was currently rusting at the bottom of the ocean. Honestly, I still felt like I was treading water after jumping off the deck. Maybe one day I’d find dry land again. Life just wasn’t the same without Tate.

Not to say I was just sitting around pining for him. I wasn’t.

Honestly, my coping mechanism had been just to keep so busy I didn’t have time to think about him. Or us.

But now with Coco gone and me being back home with so many of our memories, I knew the time had come to deal with the loss. There would be no running away from him here.

Even if I had told Tate he could go back to his life in LA. And that I would make over the house and throw Coco’s annual Christmas Eve party by myself. I mean, sure, I’d have to find a contractor who wasn’t already booked and could start right away. That was going to be difficult, seeing as we were so close to the holidays. Thanksgiving was only three days away.

But I believed in miracles. Surely I could find someone to help me make over the house. Someone who wasn’t Tate Ryder.

Not that he wanted to, anyway. He’d hightailed it out of Lily’s office without a word. Not even a backward glance at me.

I stopped pacing and flopped onto my favorite oversized chair in the living room. A few tears slipped out. And because I wasn’t emotional enough, I saw Coco’s reading glasses that still sat on the side table beside the chair, one arm bent the way it always was because she refused to replace them. A crossword book lay open beneath them, three clues filled in with her loopy handwriting. Little pieces of her like this kept popping up all over the house for me.

I stared at the crossword book until all the lines blurred.

She had planned to come back to this chair.

That was the part that kept knocking the breath out of me. Coco hadn’t meant to leave.

The thought made me feel more alone than ever.

On cue, George, Tate’s and my—I mean my—goldendoodle hopped up beside me. I got custody in the breakup. Poor George had moped for days after Tate left. Honestly, so had I. We were a pathetic little duo for a while. Maybe we still were.

“Hey, buddy.” I scratched his head, and he leaned into me as if he understood every word. “I saw him today.”