Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Sierra
They invested. All three of them. Put their money into this lodge—the place that holds every memory I've ever made that mattered—and nobody thought to mention it.
Not Roman, who taught me to ski on this mountain.
Not Caleb, who clutched my hand through our mother’s funeral.
Not Nolan, who notices everything except apparently when his baby sister might want to know that they were all quietly deciding the future of her favorite place on earth without her.
It's business. It's not personal.
Except it is. It's always personal when you're the one left out.
“What if we brought in something so irresistible, so Instagram-worthy, that they showed up whether there's snow or not?”
“Like?” I ask, even though the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me I already know.
“A reality TV show.” Caleb waves his hand like this is a minor detail and not a potential disaster wrapped in a camera crew. “They just lost their Christmas story. They're looking for something authentic—”
“No.” Everett's voice bites with the kind of chill he might be able to freeze the mountainside with. He could make snow, open the trails, problem solved.
We all just need to keep him pissed off. I’ve been doing my part. Time for them to step up.
“You didn't even let me finish!”
“I don't need to. The answer is no.”
“Everett—”
“This lodge is not a sideshow.” He slams his glass and despite seeing it coming, the sound makes me jump. “It's four generations of my family—”
“Five,” I say before I can stop myself.
The room goes absolutely silent. Everyone looks at me.
Everett harder than all of them.
My cheeks heat, but I lift my chin anyway. “Five generations. You're the fifth.”
Now would you stop looking at me like that. We have an audience.
“Ever heard of Tara Greene?” Caleb asks the room, like we're supposed to be impressed.
If you’re impressed with a fart in an elevator.
Nolan's eyebrows attempt to exit his forehead and achieve orbit.
And Everett—Everett laughs.
Not a happy laugh.
It’s the kind that precedes someone being buried in the woods. Or like serial killers practice in mirrors.
“Tara Greene.” Roman wipes his mouth, squinting. “Why do I know that name?”
“She does that home renovation show on The Cornerstone Network. Caleb says quickly, desperation creeping into his voice. “Very heartwarming. Family-focused—”
“Didn't a couple file for divorce after filming with her?” Nolan asks.
“That was a coincidence.”
“And the other couple that filed for divorce after filming with her?”
Caleb's smile tightens. “...Statistically insignificant.”
“She literally titled one episode 'Demolition Day.'” I can't help myself. The words just tumble out. “For their anniversary special.”
“Okay, look.” Caleb holds up his hands in surrender, finally recognizing he's fighting a losing battle. “I'm not saying she's Mother Teresa with a camera crew. But she knows how to get eyeballs on a project. We need eyeballs. Desperately.”
No one glances at me for my take. I'm twenty eight years old. I have a career. I have expertise. I have more emotional investment in this lodge than any of my brother’s combined, and they still looked at the situation and thought let's handle this ourselves.
But nope… I couldn’t possibly know shit about shit. I'm the baby sister. The one they protect. And at some point, when I wasn’t looking, I became the one they work around instead of one they include.
The one who couldn't possibly contribute to a business decision because—what? I might have feelings about it?
Guess what, boys—I swallow them down the way I always do.
I smile when Roman glances my way. Nod when Caleb asks if I'm listening.
Sure. Listening. Totally not cataloging all the ways you just reminded me I'll never be one of you.
“We need guests,” Everett corrects, his voice flat. “Not a three-ring circus trying to spin family drama as the main act.”
“There won't be drama. We're not a couple renovating a house. We're a lodge hosting a festival.” Caleb gestures around the room like he's presenting Exhibit A. “Wholesome. Festive. Zero risk of anyone serving divorce papers on camera.”
Roman and Nolan exchange a look that clearly says should we tell him he just jinxed us?
Everett pinches the bridge of his nose like he's developing a migraine in real time. “Caleb.”
“What?”
“You realize you just jinxed us, right? That's exactly the kind of statement the universe takes as a personal challenge. You might as well have said 'what could possibly go wrong.'”
“I didn't say that!”
“You implied it. Loudly. With hand gestures.”
“Sierra's right about the authenticity angle,” Nolan cuts in, ever the diplomat.
Thanks. Really. Huge moment for me.
A validation bone from Nolan.
Next time, if you could just make it nine inches and not related to me—that’d be great.
I do not look at Everett.
I am not thinking about Everett.
“And that's exactly why this could work. Real stories sell. If the production company is willing to showcase the history, the heritage, the genuine article instead of manufactured drama...” Caleb says still trying to sell the idea.
“That's a big if,” Everett mutters. “A huge if. An if the size of this mountain.”
“She's not looking for train wrecks,” Caleb insists. “She's looking for feel-good content. Holiday warmth. Family legacy. The stuff that makes people cry into their eggnog and feel good about humanity. They do this Christmas special once a year on Christmas Day. Hearthstrings.”
“And you trust her?”
The pause is a beat too long.
Maybe two beats.
Possibly an entire drumroll.
“I trust that she needs the location since her original location dropped out,” Caleb finally admits. “And we'd have final cut approval on anything that goes out.”
“You can get that in writing?”
“I can try. Probably. Maybe.” He wilts under Everett's stare. “I'll make it happen.”
Festival logistics. Snow contingencies. Marketing angles. Caleb bounces on his stool, Roman shifts into full project-manager mode, and Nolan takes notes on his phone.
And me?
I'm sitting here with the word investors lodged in my chest like shrapnel.
Everett drags a hand through his hair—that familiar gesture that makes my chest ache even after all this time. That gesture I photographed approximately forty thousand times when I was seventeen and thought I was being subtle about my obsession.
“This is insane,” he says.
“Probably,” Roman agrees cheerfully. “But insane might be what we need right now. Even if it comes from questionable TV hosts. We’ll be here one hundred percent in this festival steering it the whole time. We won’t let you look bad.”
The silence that follows is heavy with possibility. I watch Everett wrestle with it, watch the war play out across his features—pride versus pragmatism, control versus desperation.
I know that war. I've been fighting my own version of it since I walked back into this lodge three days ago.
“Fine.” The word comes out like someone's extracting it with pliers. “One festival. Heritage focus. And if Tara Greene tries to turn this into drama bait, it’s your ass, Caleb.”
Caleb actually whoops. Like, full-on fist-pump whoops. The kind of celebration usually reserved for sports victories and successfully assembling IKEA furniture.
“Yes! Snow-or-Shine here we come! This is going to be EPIC!”
Everyone's smiling. Caleb's practically vibrating. Roman's already on his phone coordinating God knows what.
And my stomach sinks right into my boots.
Cameras.
We just agreed to bring cameras into Morgan Lodge during a festival where I'll be working alongside the man I've been secretly in love with for over a decade.
Cameras operated by a woman whose entire career is built on finding the cracks people are trying to hide.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything. Everything could go wrong.
Every loaded glance. Every accidental touch. Every moment where I forget myself and look at him the way I looked at him when I was seventeen.
Tara Greene will see it. She'll see us. She'll sniff out the tension like a bloodhound in Chanel, and she'll dig until she finds the story nobody's supposed to know.
I should say something. Point out that maybe—just maybe—inviting a professional drama excavator into our carefully constructed house of cards is a catastrophically bad idea.
But Everett's already agreed. I’m not a partner. And really, what am I supposed to say?
This is dangerous because I'm hiding an eleven-year secret that could destroy multiple relationships and I'd really prefer not to be exposed on national television, thanks.
Yeah. That'll go over great.
So I smile. Nod. Pretend my pulse isn't screaming.
And hope to God I'm better at hiding than Tara Greene is at finding.
“Focus. We still need to plan. Well, you need to plan,” I cut in before his enthusiasm reaches levels that require medical intervention. “You can't just announce an event and wing it. That's how people end up on the news. The bad part of the news.”
“She's right.” Nolan checks his phone. “It's almost five-thirty. We've got maybe three days to put this together if we want to launch Friday.”
“Three days.” Everett's laugh is humorless. The laugh of a man who's accepted his fate and is just along for the ride now. “To plan, market, and execute an event that could save the lodge. No pressure. None at all. I'm totally fine.”
“You don't look fine,” Caleb observes. “You look like you could use another drink.”
“Good thing you've got us,” Roman says, and there's something warm in his voice.
Something that sounds like we've got your back. Like you're not alone in this. Like we're going to figure this out together even if it kills us, which it might.
“Okay.” Nolan straightens on his stool. “If we're doing this, we need a real schedule. Heritage Walk on Friday, fine. But we need more than one event per day. People need options. Variety. Reasons to stay instead of just driving through.”