Chapter Thirty-One
Sienna
I had survived bear encounters, lightning storms, one particularly vengeful flock of geese, and that time I accidentally hiked into a particularly muddy section of Denali National Park.
But nothing, nothing, prepared me for Easter with my family after I’d slept with Carson Reed.
I told myself I was ready.
I told myself I wouldn’t blush.
Or fumble.
Or think about his mouth.
Or his hands. Or what those hands did in that tent.
Lies. All lies.
Because when I walked into the Harper house Easter, I was met with a level of chaos so profound, it should have come with a warning label.
“Move, move, hot pans!” my mom yelled, barreling through the kitchen with a roasting tray full of candied carrots.
Pink, green, and yellow streamers hung from every doorframe because the lodge never missed a chance for a holiday-themed event. Fifi had set out four pastel tablecloths, claiming the medley was whimsical, but it looked like Easter eggs had revolted.
And Beck was chasing a hyperactive rescue goat named Louie around the dining room, while Louie bleated triumphantly through a mouthful of pastel napkin shreds.
My other brother, Liam, took that moment to lead the goat outside and back to the pen where all the other rescues behaved, except for Barcode.
The lodge guests had been fed hours earlier, but this was our family time.
It was the usual holiday chaos, but today it felt… loaded.
Because everyone, every single one of them, was watching me a fraction too closely.
“Sienna,” Violet sang in a suspiciously innocent tone, “you look… glowy.”
“I’m not glowy.”
“You’re glowing,” Fifi confirmed. “And twitchy.”
“I’m not twitchy.”
My foot tapped.
Okay. Maybe I was twitchy.
“Just breathe,” Violet whispered in my ear. “And try not to swoon when he walks in.”
“I don’t swoon.”
“Mm-hmm,” she said knowingly. “Sure.”
I flicked a carrot slice at her.
Beck leaned over the railing from upstairs. “Is he here yet?”
“Beck!” I snapped. “Stop using your lookout voice!”
“What? I want to see how fancy his Easter outfit is. The man owns three shirts. This is a big deal.”
I opened my mouth to tell him to shut his face, but the door opened…and shut.
Every Harper family member froze like a herd of deer that had never been hunted but somehow knew danger when it walked in.
I swallowed.
Stood straighter.
Tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear.
And told myself, don’t think about the tent.
I turned to see him.
And every coherent thought evaporated.
Carson stood holding a small bouquet of tulips like he was about to be crowned Most Polite Man in America. He wore a navy button-up shirt rolled at the sleeves, soft brown chinos, and a beard trim so precise it should have been illegal.
His biceps were doing… whatever biceps do when men work out more than once a year.
I couldn’t breathe.
“Hi,” he said softly.
His voice hit me low in my stomach.
“Hi,” I managed, which came out sounding like I’d swallowed a butterfly. “Happy Easter.”
“This is for your mom,” he said, lifting the tulips.
I nodded. “She’s going to cry.”
“I figured that might happen.”
We stared at each other for half a second. Maybe longer. Maybe far too long. His eyes dipped for a moment, not lower than my face, just… warm like he was remembering the tent too.
Oh God.
The tent.
The closeness.
His voice whispering my name in the dark.
Nope. No tent thoughts allowed. Tent thoughts were the opposite of helpful.
“Come on in,” I said quickly, stepping back.
He entered, and chaos erupted.
My mom squealed. “You brought tulips! Oh, Carson, you sweet, sweet man!”
While my dad took them to put in a vase for her.
Beck appeared out of nowhere. “Look at this button-up! My dude, you clean up nicely.”
Fifi elbowed Violet. “He looks like the cover model for Midwest Men Who Guide.”
Violet wiggled her brows. “I would subscribe to that magazine.” Owen rolled his eyes, while I smacked her arm.
Carson stood like a good sport, taking it all in with a polite but wary half-smile, the same expression someone might wear while stepping onto a roller coaster that looked mostly safe.
Then his eyes drifted back to mine.
And something in my chest tightened.
“Happy Easter,” I said softly. “Oh, wait. I said that already.”
He smiled.
My mom swooped in. “Carson, darling, come help me in the kitchen. We need a strong man to lift the ham. Sienna, show him where to wash his hands.”
I shot her a look that screamed You are ruining my life.
She smiled sweetly back.
I led Carson toward the sink as if he couldn’t figure it out himself, and he followed quietly, hands brushing his pockets, sleeves rolled up just enough to reveal forearms that had no business being that distracting on a Sunday afternoon.
I turned on the faucet. “So, uh… thanks for coming.”
He nodded. “Thanks for inviting me. Or, well, your mom did, technically.”
“She ambushed you.”
He cracked a faint smile. “She’s very persuasive.”
“She steamrolls everyone.”
He chuckled, the sound soft but warm. “I don’t mind.”
“But you said you don’t really do family holidays.”
His expression shifted. “Not in a while.”
I handed him a towel. Our fingers brushed.
Too long.
Too warm.
Too familiar.
My stupid heart skipped.
“It’s really low-key,” I babbled. “No egg hunts. No massive church things. Just eating and talking and… eating.”
“I can handle eating,” he said dryly.
“Good. Because my mom made enough candied carrots to feed a herd of elk.”
He smiled again, slower this time, and something fluttered stupidly in my stomach as if it were figuring out the world of physics.
We stepped into the dining room, where no sign of the goat remained, and Violet and Fifi were pretending to play with pastel banners shaped like abstract rabbits that looked more like lumpy clouds. The table was partially set, napkins mismatched, candles crooked, plates already slightly askew.
Carson took it all in with an expression I couldn’t read fully. It was something between nostalgia and bewilderment. Something that tugged at me unexpectedly.
“I haven’t been in a house like this in a long time,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Just… a place full of noise. People. Chaos. Holidays.”
My breath softened. “Do you miss it?”
His eyes flicked to mine.
A moment.
A truth.
Unspoken, but there.
“Sometimes,” he murmured.
Before I could answer, Violet called, “Carson! Come taste test the deviled eggs!”
He blinked. “I’m… not qualified for that.”
“You are if you have a mouth,” she declared.
Violet grinned like she’d engineered it on purpose.
Carson stepped toward the table, and I followed, because apparently my ability to stay more than three feet away from him had evaporated.
He reached for an egg, and my mom rushed in. “Not that one! That one has extra paprika. Fifi made it. It’s practically a booby trap.”
“Mom,” Fifi complained.
Carson hesitated, then picked the least dangerous-looking egg. My family watched him eat it like they were judges in a cooking competition.
He set the egg down. “It’s… great.”
Violet leaned toward me and whispered, “He’s trying so hard to impress us. It’s adorable.”
“He’s just being polite,” I whispered back.
“Mm-hmm. Sure. Whatever helps you sleep at night.”
I elbowed her.
Carson’s eyes cut to us. “Should I be concerned?”
“No,” we both said too fast.
We froze, and he raised an eyebrow.
“Everything’s great!” I insisted, because panic made me lie like a toddler.
“Yeah,” Violet said sweetly. “We’re just thrilled to have you here.”
"Suspiciously thrilled," Beck muttered from the kitchen. "Like vultures circling the final minutes.”
I was going to set something on fire purely to escape.
My mom bustled around setting dishes, humming happily. “Okay, team! We have thirty minutes before the food is ready. Violet, you finish the potatoes. Fifi, check the rolls. Beck, stop kissing your muscles. And Sienna—show Carson the backyard. It’s nice out.”
My sisters glowed. Beck smirked like a mischievous kid.
My stomach flipped.
“Um, sure,” I said, motioning toward the sliding door. “Come on.”
Carson followed, hands in his pockets, shoulders brushing close enough to make my breath catch.
Outside, the yard buzzed with early spring warmth.
The snow had melted except for a few stubborn patches under the pines.
Birds chirped. The breeze carried the smell of budding earth and biscuits cooling inside.
I walked to the railing of the deck. “Sorry about the chaos.”
“It’s… not bad,” he said.
We both leaned on the railing.
“It’s a lot, and they're my family.”
He smiled. “Is that why you go to Alaska?”
I shrugged. “Probably.”
“It’s actually kind of nice,” he said after a beat.
“You don’t have to say that.”
“I’m not saying it to be polite.”
My pulse stuttered.
He stood quiet for a moment, then said, “This reminds me of something.”
“What?”
“Before,” he said softly. “Before my parents died. Holidays felt like this. Loud. Real. Messy. Good.”
I looked at him, truly looked at him, and my heart twisted… that was why.
He glanced at me, expression open in a way that made my chest go warm. “It’s been a long time since I let myself be part of something like this.”
“Carson,” I said gently, “I’m so sorry.”
“It was a long time ago. I just didn’t realize how much I made myself forget.” His eyes locked on mine.
“Are you sure you’re okay?”
His jaw flexed. “I’m here because I want to be.”
That sentence hit places I didn’t have emotional armor for.
“I—” My throat tightened. “I’m glad you’re here.”
His eyes dipped, just a fraction, to my mouth.
And suddenly all I could think about was the tent.
His breath on my skin.
His hands under my shirt.
The way he’d whispered, Tell me you don’t want this.
I stepped back abruptly, heart racing.
He frowned. “Did I say something wrong?”
“No. No. I just…” I waved a helpless hand in the air. “Easter. Family. Food. Chaos. So much.”
His eyes softened. “Sienna.”
I shook my head too fast. “Nope. No intense moments before ham.”
He laughed softly.
In the window behind us, Violet mimed fanning herself.
I groaned. Carson chuckled.
And it should not have been possible for a man in chinos and a button-up to make my knees weak on a major holiday, but here we were.
“I’m going to help with the rolls,” I said, fleeing under the pretense of responsibility.
He didn’t stop me, but as I reached the door, I heard him murmur behind me.
“I’m not running, Sienna.”
It hit me like a warm, terrifying truth.
And when I turned back, he was watching me like I was the only thing worth paying attention to in a house full of noise.
Which was why I absolutely had to escape before my heart threw itself into the red potatoes.