Page 87 of The Holiday Makeover

Closer to Coco.

But something had changed the moment Quinton rolled into town.

Maybe he was a Demogorgon in disguise. Or a Mind Flayer in an expensive suit.

Tate opened and closed the door a few times, checking the swing, the latch, and the reveal, each movement letting in another blast of cold air.

I wrapped my arms around myself, trying to protect against the icy chill.

And maybe against the words that needed to be said.

I wanted to get things back on track. Back to just the two of us and Coco.

I wanted Christmas.

“Tate,” I said, barely loud enough to be heard over Robert Plant’s achingly, hauntingly beautiful words.

Tate hesitated before turning to face me.

His five-o’clock shadow looked more like ten o’clock, which I loved. But it was the way his jaw tightened—almost like it had a pulse—that concerned me.

“Are we going to talk about why you’re playing your I love Rory so much but why can’t she just admit I’m right song on repeat?”

Tate chuckled, but even that sounded as tired as I felt.

“So what do you think you’re right about this time?” I asked playfully, but it didn’t lessen the prick I felt in my heart.

Did Tate know it was the love story the network had originally wanted two years ago? Was that really the draw? Had I missed that somehow?

Tate approached me and gave George a look until he lazily moved just enough for Tate to sit beside me on the step.

Tate took my hand and held it between both of his, his thumb brushing slowly over my knuckles.

Basically, he was stalling.

Stalling while making my heart race from his touch and from the worry over what he wasn’t saying.

I rested my head on his shoulder and waited.

And waited.

And waited.

Because I knew. I knew what was coming. But I wanted to hear it from him.

So we sat there with Led Zeppelin serenading us, breathing in the same heavy silence that could only exist between partners and the very best of friends in moments like this one, the tension pulled so tight it seemed to press against my chest—against the whole house.

“Rory,” Tate croaked, his voice rough and measured. “I’m not playing the song because I’m right.” His thumb moved over my knuckles. “But I do love you so damn much. Even though you might not believe that after I ask you this.”

My heart sank.

“I don’t want to,” he said, more to himself than to me. Then, finally, he blurted it out in one long breath. “The network wants you to sit for an interview.”

And there it was.

What I already knew.

But there was a piece missing.