Page 90 of The Holiday Makeover

As much as I loathed Quinton and Dominic, I had promised myself I would try to be better about coming out of my shell.

And . . . I had decided I would do the stupid interview.

The more I thought about it, the more I decided it didn’t blur the lines. Not really. This wasn’t Tate and me working together again. This wasn’t me signing on to be part of his show. Or even marketing our love story. Even though I knew Quinton would make it the emotional hook. I could already imagine the clips teasing the audience about whether Tate and I were really a couple again.

But it wasn’t about that. This was just me, Tate’s girlfriend, telling him that she supported him and loved him.

And I did love him.

I slowly stood and stretched, wincing as my neck protested, before heading upstairs.

As I shuffled down the hall, the old floorboards creaked beneath my feet, and I heard the steady rush of water coming from the guest bathroom shower. The bathroom Tate and I had been sharing.

That was my only real complaint about the old house. It needed en suite bathrooms. Desperately.

Sure, I could have used the master bathroom, but since I had yet to enter Coco’s room, that wasn’t on the table. Or even in the same emotional zip code.

I peeked into Tate’s bedroom to find George lying on his bed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. The rumpled sheets and comforter seemed to be calling to me.

Honestly, who was I to ignore such a heartfelt invitation?

I crawled onto the old squeaky mattress, which, despite its age and tendency to announce every movement to the entire house, was surprisingly comfortable. George gave a contented sigh as I settled beside him, his warm body pressed against my leg.

One day soon, I supposed, I would have to update the bedrooms and buy new furniture.

But for now, I tucked myself under Tate’s covers and breathed in the faint, masculine scent of him clinging to the sheets.

Soap. Sawdust. Vanilla.

In other words . . . home.

I closed my eyes, thinking I would catch a few more z’s. But something poked me from under the pillow. I reached beneath it and felt the sharp edge of a box.

Weird.

I pulled it out, and even in the dim light spilling in from the hallway, I knew exactly what I was holding.

A Tiffany blue box.

A ring box.

I jolted upright.

Oh. My. Gosh.

Tate was going to propose.

My heart leapt so hard it almost knocked the exhaustion right out of me. He really should have hidden the ring in a better spot. Also, when had he had time to go ring shopping? At Tiffany’s, no less. Online, maybe? But I didn’t remember any deliveries.

Then my breath caught. Because I remembered a box protruding from his pocket on Thanksgiving morning.

A box exactly this size.

The morning I’d sworn he was about to walk out of my life for good.

He’d called whatever was in his pocket a regret.

Suddenly, I couldn’t breathe.