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The cast and crew were off for Thanksgiving, but we were supposed to start a new project the first two weeks of December before taking another break for Christmas.

I needed to call Quinton—one of the producers—and ask for extra time off. See if we could push the project to January. I already knew he wasn’t going to like it. And I definitely didn’t want him knowing I was with Rory.

He’d probably hop on a private jet and personally beg her to do the show. That was the last thing I needed. Rory would just accuse me again of using her for ratings.

Quinton was the one who’d first approached us about the show. Rory thought he was a weasel and didn’t care for him.

She wasn’t exactly wrong.

“I’ll work it out,” was all I offered.

“What about your girlfriends?” she mumbled.

I turned from the skillet to find her staring down at her toenails. Each one with a perfect little turkey on it that I was sure she’d painted herself. It was so her.

“I’m not dating anyone. How about you?”

Silently, I prayed she wasn’t seeing anyone. It was hypocritical, but I didn’t want to think of her with anyone else.

Her eyes barely met mine. “Uh . . . you know . . . I’ve been busy. Like, so busy. I haven’t really had time to date. Not that I never dated. Of course I did. It’s been two years. I wasn’t pining for you, if that’s what you think. Anyway,” she sang, “let me know when the pancakes are ready.”

Had she really not dated anyone after me? It made me feel like an even bigger jerk.

She brushed past me, clearly trying to make her escape.

I caught her arm. “Rory.”

She stilled, holding her breath.

“Just so you know, I was pining for you.”

For one hopeful moment, her eyes warmed. But it didn’t last.

“Ugh, don’t say things like that to me, Tate Ryder.”

She wrenched free and marched off, calling behind her. “I’ll take two pancakes. Big ones.”

I chuckled, but the truth was . . .

This was going to be the fight of my life.

Chapter Six

Rory

There was nothing like ripping wallpaper off the walls to relieve stress. And as a bonus, the vinegar smell from my homemade wallpaper-remover solution was clearing my sinuses after all the crying I’d been doing.

Stupid Tate. How dare he show up here and tell me he loves me and has been pining for me. Where was that guy two years ago when I asked if he’d ever really loved me? That man—the one who would’ve fought for me—I might have fought for too.

Assuming he was even telling the truth.

I’d seen all the Jessicas and Katies he’d been dating.

I ran Grandpa’s old steamer down a section of the hunter-green-and-burgundy wallpaper that had been dying a slow, painful death since the nineties. I’d begged Coco for years to let me take it down, but she always said it gave her a good laugh. It reminded her that even she could make a mistake.

Man, I missed her so much already.

Every strip of wallpaper felt like erasing her and finding her at the same time.