Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Sierra
Whipping the door open, I bolt out the door, and welcome the cold night air cooling my overheated face.
It’s fine. Totally fine. It’s just Chance and Holly. It’s not like Chance didn’t already know something was up, after all, he let everyone assume I had something going on with him, so he’s got my back.
But it’s different having them see it. The notes I wrote on the backs of those pictures.
The confessions.
Proof of feelings I stuffed so far down I figured they’d died of suffocation by now. But Everett didn’t see them. That’s all that mattered.
Thank God. Thank Christmas. Thank every cosmic force having pity on me tonight.
Okay, reset.
I straighten my spine (which protests), inhale deeply (which does not help), and yank open the door.
By the time I make my way back to the great room—face numb, pride MIA, heart finally settling back where it belongs—the place is louder. Not because there are more people, but because the existing ones have climbed the buzz ladder to a solid level six.
I’m behind.
“Bug!” Everett’s Uncle Seth calls, abbreviating my nickname in a way I should absolutely hate—but love from him.
He leans back on his barstool like the human embodiment of a wink and waves me over. “Come on, sweetheart. Get over here and give your favorite guy a hug!”
The flirty full-time menace in flannel is at the center of it all, holding court with a whiskey in one hand and a smirk in the other, spinning some ridiculous story that has half the group wheezing.
Clustered around him amidst the clinking glasses and easy laughter are the rest of the lodge’s lifelong disaster crew.
Nick and Charlie are tucked into each other like they didn't spend twenty years wanting to murder each other. Fake relationship, real feelings, baby on the way. The whole nine.
Chance and Holly are worse—his hand on her thigh, fingers toying with the hem of her sweater like he's one distraction away from forgetting they're in public. Her head thrown back in laughter like she doesn't care who sees.
Partners in chaos. Partners in crime. Partners in keeping my goddamn secrets.
God, what is that like? Touching someone without having to scan the room like a fugitive. No fear of laughing too loud, or leaning in too close. Just being with the person you want, out in the open, like it’s not some high-stakes betrayal. But nope.
My three overprotective idiot brothers stamped me off-limits years ago under some sacred, testosterone-soaked bro code they muttered about like scripture handed down by the gods of dumb male loyalty.
Chance and Nick eventually got over their mutual violations. But me?
I was more than just the baby sister. The last piece of Mom. The one thing they couldn't lose.
So when they went off to college, they left Everett behind with very specific instructions: Watch her. Protect her. Don't you dare touch her. Three simple rules. And he broke all of them.
Which, naturally, leaves me forever alone—like Chance and Charlie’s sister, Eve, perched on a barstool like she’s either about to pounce or deliver a TED Talk on disappointment.
Alone again post-breakup, she’s sipping something violently pink that matches the streak in her hair—both of which scream bad decisions, great storytelling.
She’s quiet now, but her eyes are doing the heavy lifting, scanning the room like she’s mentally scripting a documentary voiceover laced with award-winning sarcasm and zero mercy.
I’m not as cool as Eve.
Then there’s Dixie North next to her—badass roller derby chick, Eve’s teammate, and head of the ski school. She swears like a pirate on a holy day and somehow makes it sound like a sermon.
Definitely not as cool as her either.
And yes, there’s Everett. Behind the bar. Not drinking. Not laughing. Not being fun—at least, not to me. Not anymore.
Despite all the possessive bullshit bubbling up earlier like emotional indigestion, I definitely did not almost accidentally mark my territory like a feral cat. Figuratively, of course.
And even if he thinks I did—he can’t prove it.
So suck that, you bearded pain in my ass.
I force a smile and head toward Uncle Seth, my stomach flipping with every step.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” he says, using his boot to push out a stool for me. “Or a man without a beard. Both equally horrifying.”
“Long day,” I mutter, shrugging out of my vest and hanging it on the hook under the counter.
“Aww, c’mere.”
He slings an arm around me like it’s muscle memory, like he’s still dealing with the kid who used to trail behind him on ski patrol. “You look like you need whiskey or a hug. Probably both.”
Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, I lean in just enough to make sure Everett sees every deliberate second I claim his uncle as my own.
If I’m going down in emotional flames tonight, I’m not going down alone. Why should I be the only one off balance?
I kiss Seth’s cheek—light, casual, intentional. “I’ll start with the whiskey. But keep the hug supply on standby. Just in case.”
“Everett!” he booms, blissfully unaware he’s basically juggling a live grenade with the pin half-pulled. “Pour something strong for our girl—she’s had a day!”
Our girl.
Everett stumbles on the words.
Direct hit.
Uncle Seth’s got more game than he thinks.
Everett’s shoulders tighten. His jaw ticks.
Oh, good.
Maybe someone else can be emotionally destabilized for a change.
This is what happens when you cross a line with your brothers' best friend. Every memory we share is cross-stitched into the same damn story—even if I'm the idiot who lit the blanket on fire. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak.
Doesn’t acknowledge me as anything beyond oxygen occupying square footage.
But he does pour the whiskey.
And he does set it down a little harder than necessary.
“Here.”
One word.
Four letters.
Seventeen emotional stab wounds.
I swallow half the whiskey in one go. It scorches a path down my throat. My insides ignite—chaotic, reckless, running hot in all the wrong directions.
Seth beams. “Atta girl. Now scoot closer. You’re playing.”
“Oh God.” I brace for impact. “Playing what?”
“Never Have I Ever: Slightly Inappropriate Edition,” Holly announces, far too giddy for the group therapy session we’re about to spiral into.
Seth elbows me. “Also—this is the whisper edition.”
“Little ears around,” Charlie hisses from across the bar. “So we can’t use the words we want to use.”
Nick nods solemnly, like this is a UN briefing. “Great. We can pretend last year didn't scar us all. Emotional charades is a serious upgrade.”
Which means this is seconds away from devolving into expert-level, whisper-only, R-rated-for-sure, sometimes-X-rated horny adult confession hour.
My chest tightens. My fingers curl around the glass like it's the only thing anchoring me to this barstool.
This might actually be the worst idea I’ve ever had—and that’s a competitive category.
I pry my ribs back open by downing the rest of my whiskey. Then I tilt the empty glass back and forth until I’m absolutely sure forearms over there notices.
Only then do I settle in beside the group, pretending I’m just here to play a card game.
Pretending I’m not trying to breathe in the same room as a man who once knew exactly how to steal it from me.
Chance lifts his drink like a man still trying to bleach his brain of my secret stash… or forget they’re currently shoved down his pants like emotional contraband.
“Sierra’s up.” Of course I am.
A bigger woman would bow out gracefully.
Or clutch her chest and claim sudden, dramatic-onset malaria.
But whiskey is doing the thing whiskey does by turning the smart part of my brain into a supportive but unhinged hype squad.
The universe giggles maliciously.
And Everett—God, Everett—keeps glancing over like he isn’t eavesdropping but is absolutely eavesdropping.
Fine.
If he’s listening, I’ll give him something to listen to.
I lean forward, lowering my voice to a whisper only our little group—and, unfortunately, the entire bar staff with functioning ears—can hear.
“Never have I ever…” I let it hang, sweet and venomous.
“…run away when I couldn’t hack reality.”
Everett freezes.
Actually freezes.
Full statue. No blink. No breath. His hand hangs mid-air halfway to the glass he’d been reaching for.
Holly chokes on her cider.
Chance lets out a low, knowing whistle—a bold choice for a man currently smuggling my entire emotional scrapbook in his pants like contraband at airport security.
Seth looks delighted. “And we’re off!”
Freeze Frame over there finally reboots and pours my drink—just in time for me to dead ass stare him in the eye while I take the slowest, pettiest sip of my life.
“I’ll cover you,” I murmur. “Since you clearly want in on the game but can’t drink on the clock. Tragic, really.”
Everett’s throat works in one tight swallow at the exact moment a muscle ticks along his jaw—the kind of double tell a man gives when he’s holding back ten years of words he’s never got to say out loud.
Aaaanndddd, The Throat Bob of Doom has entered the chat.
Holly clutches my arm and leans in, full secret-sister energy.
“Yup. That’s the ‘ten years later and still whipped’ swallow.”
Charlie jumps in, bouncing on her stool—way too excited for whatever she’s about to unleash.
“Never have I ever watched a man pretend he’s over someone while staring at her like she’s the last donut in the box.”
The ladies all go still.
But Nick—poor, oblivious-to-this-history Nick—opens his mouth.
“Don’t you mean, ‘Never have I ever watched someone pretend they’re over someone while staring at them like they’re the last donut in the box?’”
Holly snorts. Chance coughs. And Everett’s knuckles go white around the bottle he’s gripping way too hard.
Good.
I lift my glass and I take a drink. A deep one. Deep throated that mother—okay, I might need to slow it down a touch. Especially since I haven’t deep throated anything since—never mind.