Page 89 of The Holiday Makeover

All the hope I’d felt in the movie theater began to slip, and it crushed me.

“I hate that I’m asking you,” Tate said. “I hate that I’m even thinking about asking you. I promised I wouldn’t put you in this position, and here I am, doing exactly that.”

“Tate—” I trailed off, not sure where to go from here.

Part of me wanted to shake him and say, Stop letting these people have such a hold on you.

Another part of me wanted to hug him.

And another part wanted to march next door and give Dominic a piece of my mind.

“No.” Tate shook his head. “You don’t have to answer right now. You don’t have to answer at all. And if the answer is no, I’ll support that decision one hundred percent. I mean that.”

I nodded, grateful.

I needed time to process this. Not only whether I would do the interview, but what him even asking meant for our future.

“Quinton said he only needed an hour of your time. And . . . if we wanted, he’d hire a crew to help us finish the renovations,” Tate added.

“No,” I snapped.

Tate blinked, taken aback.

I immediately regretted my tone, given how vulnerable he seemed.

“I don’t want Quinton’s help with Coco’s house.” That felt wrong somehow, even though I’d contemplated hiring someone earlier that day. But I knew Coco wouldn’t want Quinton anywhere near her house. “She wanted us to do this,” I said, softer this time.

And I was afraid that if Quinton got involved, before I knew it, he’d want to film it all.

That was one thing I absolutely wouldn’t allow.

Coco’s death and this renovation weren’t up for ratings or public consumption of any kind. Nor did I want our love story to be.

And I knew how Quinton worked. He was poison. But he was the kind of poison that tasted good going down. He knew how to sugarcoat it just right, how to make you believe you weren’t drinking poison at all, but a health tonic.

I worried he was doing exactly that to Tate.

Worse?

I worried Tate knew it too.

But he wanted his father’s approval so badly, I was afraid he might drink it anyway.

Chapter Thirty

Rory

Isat up on the couch and rubbed the crick in my neck. I wasn’t sure how long I’d slept, but I was fairly certain Tate had been holding me when I fell asleep. Now he was nowhere in sight.

Just the mess of the living room greeted me, along with a tiny sliver of light peeking through the curtains.

I blinked my bleary eyes, still exhausted, as the late-night conversation came back to me.

And so did the decision I’d already made.

A decision I needed to tell Tate about before he headed to his parents’ house for what I was sure would be an uncomfortable interview.

I should go with him, I thought.