Page 82 of The Holiday Makeover

“How could he? You’re obviously trying to hold down the fort here.”

I wasn’t sure I was holding down anything at the moment. Unless one counted a rapidly crumbling grip on my sanity.

“It’s Dominic,” she said, dabbing carefully under her eyes. “He just doesn’t understand why you won’t at least be interviewed for the special. He keeps saying, how can it be a homecoming show when the person Tate came home for refuses to be part of it?”

My stomach tightened.

Of course Dominic saw it that way.

“He thinks if you were part of it, it would save everything,” she continued. “Or at least that’s what Quinton keeps telling him.”

I stilled. “Quinton?” Not that it surprised me that the weasel had Dominic’s ear, but I didn’t need the two of them becoming bosom buddies.

Veronica’s mouth pinched. “That man keeps reminding Dominic that the network wanted you from the beginning. That they were disappointed when you wouldn’t sign on to do the show with Tate two years ago. Apparently, your relationship was supposed to be the emotional hook. The bacon.”

“The emotional hook. The bacon?” I repeated flatly. What even was that?

“The love story angle. The real reason people would want to tune in.” Veronica rolled her teary eyes.

I wrapped my arms tighter around myself. I had no idea.

“And Dominic is listening to Quinton?”

“He is.” Veronica sighed. “Quinton has him convinced this special is their second chance to give the network what they wanted in the first place. Tate and Rory. The love story.”

Something unwelcome swelled in my throat, making it hard to swallow, literally and figuratively.

“But I don’t think that’s what should happen,” she said quickly. “I told Dominic that you and Tate didn’t want to mix your personal and business lives again. And there is nothing wrong with you wanting your privacy. And you’re in mourning, honey.” She squeezed my arm.

I nodded.

I was mourning. And I didn’t want to use Coco’s celebration of life as an emotional hook or bacon. Whatever that was. And I was a hot mess. Literally. Note to self: Keep your unwashed mouth closed.

“Does Tate know this? Doesn’t Quinton think what they’re filming now will work? And if not, why come all this way and spend all this money?”

Veronica’s mouth pulled to the side. “I think Quinton believes it will work. Just not as well as it would with you,” she sighed. “According to Dominic, he keeps saying the special needs more heart. And apparently, in his mind, that’s you.”

I swallowed the lump in my throat. It hurt going down.

Was it so wrong that I only wanted to give my heart to Tate?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Tate

The football felt wrong in my hands.

Wrong yet familiar.

I hadn’t picked one up in years, but my fingers still knew where to settle against the laces. The pebbled leather, the slight tack from the wax coating, the weight of it against my palm—it all came back too fast.

So did everything else.

The wins. The noise. The way this place used to make me feel like the whole world was waiting for me to take it.

And the day I learned it wasn’t.

I looked around the old indoor training facility. The turf field seemed smaller than I remembered. So did the bleachers. So did the version of me who used to walk in here like destiny had already come calling with an NFL contract in hand.