Page 72 of The Holiday Makeover

From there, I could see everything—the crowd packed shoulder to shoulder, the stage glowing beneath strings of lights, and that massive tree standing tall and regal in the center of it all, like it knew it was about to have its big moment.

Why did I feel like I was about to have one too?

It probably had something to do with the fact that several camera crews were already setting up. Some were from the local stations, but then . . . there was the network crew.

And lo and behold, the weasel himself was there directing it all—Quinton.

My stomach churned the second I spotted him.

There was nothing outwardly weaselly about the man, which somehow made him even more vermin-like. If anything, he looked innocuous. Just a well-dressed guy in an expensive coat, polished but not flashy. Of course, this was Aspen Lake, where expensive was practically the town’s middle name.

That was how men like Quinton got to you. They looked harmless. Charming, even. Like they might be your best friend. But eventually, the mask always came off, and they showed you their true colors.

He was the kind of man who would do whatever it took to get his way.

Which was why I made a point of looking anywhere but at him.

The town seemed to have forgotten me—or maybe I’d just dimmed in Tate’s glow—but Quinton hadn’t. I’d denied him something he wanted. And what Dominic said at Thanksgiving still had me on edge. Quinton wanted me on Tate’s show. He believed I would bring the magic to it.

Funny how I’d never felt all that magical. To me, Tate was the one who always made our videos come alive.

While I avoided Quinton and looked around for Lily and her family to rescue me, a cute couple approached me with their young son and daughter in tow. The woman looked vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place her.

“Hi, are you Rory Winters?” the woman asked, all bundled up and looking like an adorable ski bunny while she bounced her toddler daughter on her hip.

“I am,” I said, surprised that someone recognized me. Oddly enough, I hadn’t run into any old classmates or friends tonight. Usually I’d have seen at least a few by now. Instead, it felt like the night had gone out of its way to keep me invisible.

“I told you, Noah,” she said, throwing a triumphant grin at her handsome husband, who was holding the hand of a little boy I guessed was around four.

“We were Hammer and Hue’s biggest fans,” she gushed. “We never missed an episode. By the way, I’m Cami Cullen, and this is my husband, Noah. He’s a contractor, and he said you guys were top-notch.”

Admittedly, I took heart in being recognized—and praised by someone in the industry. It was silly, I know, especially considering I’d very deliberately chosen not to live in the spotlight. But no one wants to feel overlooked.

The name Cami Cullen bounced around in my head for a second before it hit me why it sounded familiar.

Oh. My. Gosh.

“You run the Holiday Ex-Files.”

Her smile widened. “Guilty as charged.”

Well . . . that was mildly terrifying.

Not because she looked scary. Honestly, she looked absolutely adorable. But the Holiday Ex-Files? That account was basically the FBI of failed relationships. A place where people went to post about their breakups, cheating scandals, emotional damage, and every red flag known to mankind. They dissected relationships over there like frogs in a high school biology lab.

And somehow, standing in front of me, was the woman who ran it. It was a little intimidating.

Truth be told, I’d once considered using her services. You could send her site any photo of you and your ex, and she would crop them out. Or, if you paid extra, she’d add one of her special touches—like replacing them with a jackass.

You don’t know how many times I’d thought about having her turn Tate into one.

“You do good work,” I complimented her.

She smiled, but tilted her head and studied me for a moment.

Like she knew.

But of course she did. If she was a fan of Hammer and Hue, then she knew Tate was my ex.