Page 76 of The Holiday Makeover

Me: Meet me in front of the old movie theater. I overheard the mayor say they’re doing a special showing of White Christmas tonight. Your favorite. I promise not to make fun of you when you cry during “Count Your Blessings (Instead of Sheep).” That is, if I stop kissing you long enough to talk at all. Be prepared to be distracted. Very distracted.

I smiled to myself, thinking of all the possibilities. I hoped we could get seats in the balcony, or at least the back row. Either way, I was planning on plenty of PDA.

Within seconds, Rory replied.

Rory: See you soon. I can’t wait. And bring tissues. I’m totally going to cry.

I chuckled, but before I could respond, I was being ushered into a crowd of adoring fans.

And for the first time in my life, I found myself wishing for something quieter.

Chapter Twenty-Six

Rory

Idabbed at my eyes as Bing and Rosemary sang about counting their blessings instead of sheep, dancing right on the edge of a kiss. It was my favorite part.

Well . . . my favorite part right before everything went wrong.

Because what came next was a misunderstanding and a breakup of sorts, and I was doing my best not to let that feel like some kind of cinematic omen.

Still, I kept glancing at the empty seat next to me, trying not to jump to conclusions the way Rosemary Clooney’s character did.

Tate was coming, right?

He’d texted to say he would be a little late, but this was bordering on a lot.

Through my sniffles, I alternated between shoving handfuls of popcorn and Junior Mints into my mouth. Since making out seemed less and less likely to be in my immediate future, I wasn’t too concerned about keeping my breath fresh.

Was this how life with Tate was going to be? Sitting alone in a theater, eating emotional-support popcorn and candy?

I got it. He had a show to save.

But while my thoughts spiraled into the abyss, I started picturing myself at an Ex-Filer meeting, standing up and saying, Hi, I’m Rory, and I’m a recovering Tate-a-holic. I’m on my tenth day of sobriety, and it’s not going very well. Just ask my dog, George, who’s probably exhausted from acting as my therapist.

Just as I was about ready to fictionally nominate myself chapter president of the Ex-Filers and vow eternal spinsterhood, Bing and Rosemary started in on the last verse.

That was when Tate slid into the seat beside me.

He kissed my cheek, still breathing hard. “I’m so sorry I’m late,” he whispered.

The light from the movie screen flickered across his face as he cupped my cheeks in his very capable hands and gently brushed away my tears with his thumbs. His familiar cologne drifted around me. It was apparently designed to make women sigh and go weak in the knees. Or at least me.

“I asked everyone I could for tissues, but no one had any. I hope this will do.” Then he kissed my brow.

Warmth surged through me so fast it made me dizzy, and I let out the biggest sigh of relief.

I wasn’t an idiot after all. Praise all the herald angels.

And I was definitely going to have to cancel my fictional Ex-Files membership.

“Your thumbs are acceptable and preferable,” I whispered back, setting aside my emotional-support snacks.

Tate lifted the armrest between us, and I snuggled in close to him just as Bing was kissing Rosemary and she was telling him she knew exactly what she was going to dream about.

I took comfort in the fact that my own dreams were still intact. Tate was there. With me. No camera crew in sight. It was just the two of us.

Even though there was some quiet buzz around us, it was nothing egregious. Aspen Lake was used to celebrity sightings. Not to slight Tate, but there were far more famous residents and visitors than him. Pretty sure I’d heard that Jack Holiday had been spotted in town.