Page 75 of The Holiday Makeover

Mayor Steele smiled, interrupting my internal struggle, as she motioned toward the lit pedestal near the tree.

“Well, then,” she said, “what do you say, Tate? Should we light this thing?”

That earned another round of cheers.

I stepped toward the button, the enormous tree towering beside me. “I think we should. But I’m going to need some help from Aspen Lake. On the count of three, I want everyone to shout with me. Ready?”

The crowd answered with a deafening cheer.

I wrapped my hand around the switch. “One . . . two . . . three!”

“LIGHT IT!” the crowd shouted.

I hit the button, and the seventy-foot tree burst to life, illuminating the town square in a wash of gold, red, and white. All around me, people lifted their phones, tiny lights glowing in their hands as they swayed and broke into an impromptu version of “O Christmas Tree.” It looked like the whole night had been scripted straight out of one of the cheesy Christmas movies Rory loved.

It was funny how much I’d missed those monstrosities the last two years.

Mayor Steele laughed into the mic. “Merry Christmas, Aspen Lake! Please continue to enjoy the town’s festivities.”

That was the plan for Rory and me. A stroll down Main Street, looking at the decorated storefronts while sipping hot cocoa. Hopefully, away from prying eyes.

The crowd erupted again, and holiday music blasted through the square.

I shook the mayor’s gloved hand. “Thank you again for the invite.”

“Thank you for filling in at the last minute.”

“Tate.” Quinton strode across the stage, cutting off my conversation with the mayor.

“Please excuse me, Mayor Steele.” I held back my grimace.

Quinton had been looming ever since he arrived in town early that morning. We’d had a breakfast meeting where we went over the locations they wanted to shoot and the people they wanted to interview—old coaches, teachers, and even my former youth pastor. He wanted archival footage of me playing football. Which made me uncomfortable. Football was a sore subject for me. But I understood that it was part of my history. Along with that, they wanted to shoot a few short segments with me at places like my old school and the ski resort. And of course, the house I grew up in. My parents had readily agreed to be interviewed. Well, Dad more than Mom.

Rory would not be a part of any of it, per my agreement with Quinton. She was off-limits. Period.

I met Quinton in the middle of the stage. He wore the smile of a man who thought he was back on top of his game. I took some comfort in that. I hoped this homecoming special would do the trick. That it would add the “magic” the network was looking for. It wouldn’t be Rory magic, but hopefully it would be enough.

“Hey, Quinton.”

He patted my back. “This was good. Very good. The crowd loves you.”

My eyes drifted over the sea of people, trying to spot Rory, but it was useless, and instead I locked eyes with a cluster of them looking up at me expectantly from in front of the stage.

I had a sinking feeling that I knew what that meant.

Quinton confirmed it.

“We want to grab a little more fan-interaction footage with you,” he said. “Some B-roll with the crowd. It shouldn’t take long.”

“Yeah, okay,” I said, feeling like I didn’t have much choice but to go along. “Just give me a second.”

Quinton gave a thumbs-up to the crew, and they started repositioning to go mobile.

I pulled out my phone and sent Rory a text.

Me: I just need to film a little extra footage. It shouldn’t take too long.

Then I had another thought. Maybe a change of plans was in order.