Chapter 9 #2
She’s probing. Testing fences. She has no idea where the real landmines are—yet.
But the way she's looking at me...
“We should get you settled,” Everett cuts in smoothly. “I'll have someone show your crew to their accommodations. We're on a tight schedule for our launch Friday.”
“Eager to get started. I love that.” Tara pulls a tablet from her bag with the efficiency of a surgeon reaching for a scalpel.
“I'll need some time with each of you individually. Just brief interviews—background, your connection to the lodge, that sort of thing.” She glances at her notes.
“Sierra, why don't we start with you? Say, thirty minutes?
I'd love to hear about your preservation philosophy.”
No. Hard no. Nuclear-grade no. Not without a lawyer, a priest, and possibly an exorcist.
“Sure,” I hear myself say. “Happy to help.”
Everett’s jaw ticks—small, sharp, easy to miss unless you’ve been memorizing that face since adolescence.
Tara beams. “Perfect. Let's find somewhere quiet. Somewhere with good light.” Her gaze drifts toward the alcove behind me—toward the window seat, the display case, the exposed bones of the wall—and something gleams in her expression.
“Oh, that's interesting. What's happening there?”
“Storm damage,” Everett clips out, all gravel and zero patience.
“Emergency repairs.” She says it like she's tasting the words. “Right before the big event. That's very... cinematic.”
I hate her. I hate this. I hate that her entire aura smells like gold-plated conflict.
I hate that Caleb thought this was a good idea, I hate that I agreed to stay, and I especially hate that I'm now about to be interrogated by a woman whose entire career is built on exposing people's worst moments for ratings.
“Come on.” Tara links her arm through mine like we're old friends. “Let's chat. Just two women talking about history and architecture. Nothing scary.”
Her camera crew drifts in behind us like sharks scenting blood.
I catch Everett's eye as I'm led away. His expression is carefully blank, but I can read the tension in the set of his shoulders, the clench of his hands at his sides.
Be careful hangs in his eyes, unspoken but screaming.
Preservation and progress, apparently on the same team for this impending shit show.
Too late for careful. I stopped being careful eleven years ago.
Tara guides me toward a corner of the great room where her team already sets up lighting—a ring light for that soft, flattering glow that makes everyone look trustworthy and exposed at the same time.
I settle into the chair across from her, spine straight, hands folded in my lap like a woman with absolutely nothing to hide.
Lies. All lies. But well-practiced ones.
“So… Everything about her is curated: the smile, the posture, the pauses. It’s not fake—it’s worse than that. It’s flawless.
And somehow, that makes her even harder to trust.
“Tell me about your connection to Morgan Lodge. How far back does it go?”
All the way back to when I was naive enough to think it could last, and he was dumb enough to believe I could do no wrong.
“My brothers have been friends with Everett since childhood,” I say instead. “The Barrett family has been coming to the lodge for three generations. My grandmother actually met my grandfather here during a ski weekend in 1962.”
“How romantic.” Tara leans in, tablet balanced on her knee. “Love stories that start in places like this—there's something almost fated about it, don't you think? The mountain. The snow. Two people finding each other against all odds.”
I keep my expression neutral. Barely. “It's a beautiful setting. People have been falling in love here for a hundred years.”
“And you?” Her eyes sharpen, just slightly. “Any romantic history with the lodge?”
The question does more damage than a steel-toed boot to the forehead.
For a fraction of a second, I'm seventeen again, with Everett's arm around me, believing nothing could touch us as long as we had this.
“I'm the preservation specialist.” I let a small smile lift the corner of my mouth. “My romance is with architecture.”
Tara doesn't smile back.
She tilts her head and waits me out like a cat deciding whether to kill the mouse or just psychologically ruin its week.
“That's a lovely line,” she says. “Very quotable. Almost rehearsed.” She taps her pen against her tablet. “But I'm asking about you, Sierra. A woman doesn't look at a window seat the way you’ve always looked at that one because of architecture.”
A hot warning buzz fills my ears. “I'm not sure what you mean.”
“Oh, I think you do.” She uncrosses her legs, leans forward. “That alcove. The display case. You touched the ledge like you were saying goodbye to someone. Not something. Someone.”
Cool. There goes the oxygen. Guess we’re doing this.
“It's a historically significant space,” I manage. “Any preservationist would—”
“Document it thoroughly. Yes, you mentioned.” Tara waves a hand, dismissing the deflection. “Let me try a different angle. Your brothers all left Ridgewood, but you stayed.”
“My father needed help after my mother passed. Someone had to—”
“That was over a decade ago.” Her voice is gentle.
Almost kind. The way a surgeon's voice is kind right before the first incision, but notably after you signed waivers saying you won’t hold it against them if they kill you or something.
“Your father remarried. He's on his honeymoon right now, isn't he?
Yet here you are. Still local. Still single.
Still circling this lodge like it's the center of your universe.”
How does she know I'm single?
“I have a career here. Clients. A reputation.”
“You have a reputation everywhere. The Pemaquid estate alone could have launched you nationally. You chose to stay small. Stay close.” She pauses. “Stay near Morgan Lodge.”
“That's not—”
“Eleven years.” Tara pulls up something on her tablet, scrolling with one manicured finger. “Seven as a certified preservation specialist. Seven years of projects up and down the coast. Churches, estates, historic homes. But never this lodge. Not until now.” She looks up. “Why is that?”
Because I couldn't. Because walking through those doors felt like reopening a wound I'd spent years trying to close. Because every room holds a memory and every memory holds him and—
“The timing never worked out,” I say. “Everett's grandmother was particular about who worked on the property. After she passed—”
“Everett came home.” Tara's smile is small and sharp. “After nine years away. And suddenly the timing works out perfectly.”
“Coincidence.”
“I don't believe in coincidences.” She sets down her tablet. “I believe in patterns. And the pattern I'm seeing is fascinating.”
My hands are trembling. I press them flat against my thighs to still them.
“What pattern?”
“You corrected me on the generation count before Everett could. Fifth, not fourth. That's not casual knowledge, Sierra. That's someone who knows this family's history intimately.” She pauses. “More intimately than a preservation consultant should.”
“The Barretts and Morgans have deep history—”
“So you keep saying. Let's talk about that history.” She picks up her tablet again. “All three of your brothers are investors in this lodge. Significant financial stakes in a property you happen to be consulting on. That's quite a conflict of interest.”
Thank God. A pivot. I'll take it.
“It's what makes this festival special,” I say, leaning into the safer topic. “It's not just about saving a business. It's about preserving a legacy and it’s the first time they’re working together for the longevity of the lodge.”
Tara's eyes light up. “Let’s get back to your brothers. They’re investors now. Tell me more about that.”
I spend the next several minutes explaining the partnership—the stakes, the shared history, the way our families have been intertwined for generations. Safe territory. Business territory. Nothing that can expose me.
But when I finally take a breath, Tara doesn't look satisfied.
She looks like she's filing information for later.
“Interesting,” she says slowly. “I'll definitely want to talk to your brothers about all of that.” She sets down her tablet and fixes me with a look that makes my skin crawl. “But let's come back to you for a moment. You deflected my question about romance. Twice now.”
“I answered your question.”
“You gave me a line about architecture. That's not an answer. That's a wall.” She tilts her head. “What are you protecting, Sierra?”
Everything. I'm protecting everything.
“I'm a private person.”
“Fair enough.” She stands, smoothing her perfectly tailored suit. “One more question, and then I'll let you go.”
I stand too, already calculating the fastest route to the door.
“Are you seeing anyone currently?”
The question catches me off guard. “I—what? No. I'm focused on my career.”
“Interesting.” That word again. That terrible, hunting word. “A woman this passionate. This invested. This present in a place that clearly means the world to her. And no one to share it with.” She pauses at the door, turning back with a smile that doesn't reach her eyes.
“In my experience, people who pour that much love into buildings are usually trying not to pour it into people.”
She's gone before I can respond.
I sink back into the chair, my legs suddenly unreliable.
She doesn't know. She can't know. She's fishing. Casting lines into dark water and hoping something bites.
But the hook is already in.
And I'm bleeding where no one can see.
I find Holly in the kitchen afterward, helping Charlie arrange cookies on a platter while Nick hovers uselessly and steals bites when he thinks no one's looking.
“How'd it go?” Holly asks, reading my face immediately.
“She's...” I search for the right word. “Sharp. Very sharp. Picture a scalpel wearing Gucci shades.”
Charlie winces. “That tracks. The couple from last season—the ones who filed for divorce—they gave an interview after. Said she had a way of making you say things you didn't mean to. Like she could see the cracks and just... wiggled in.”
“Like sperm. Fitting.” Nick chokes while Charlie laughs, her hand rubbing over her cute as fuck belly. I grab a cookie and bite into it with more force than necessary. “And she's here for ten days.”
“We'll run interference,” Holly says firmly. “Between me, Charlie, and the chaos of the festival, we can keep her busy with approved content. The heritage walk, the lumberjack games, the food events. Plenty of wholesome drama that has nothing to do with...” She trails off.
“With?” Nick prompts, looking between us.
“With anything private. Everyone deserves boundaries, even during a reality show,” Holly finishes smoothly. She takes a glance around and leans in.
Nick shrugs and goes back to stealing cookies. He's blissfully oblivious. Just like my brothers.
For now.
“And speaking of boundaries…” Holly shifts gears like she’s about to confess to murder. “I broke yours. This morning. I stole your key. Chance’s pockets are empty now—your secret’s stuffed in a plastic laundry bag, back left corner of your closet.”
I choke on crumbs and guilt like they’ve unionized. My eyes water instantly. “Uh, yeah. Thanks,” I croak, nodding like a bobblehead strapped to a monster truck during a demolition derby.
The rest of the afternoon is a blur of setup and coordination.
I help position signage for tomorrow's heritage walk, review the route with Everett and Roman (keeping exactly three feet of professional distance at all times, thank you very much), and try to ignore the cameras that keep appearing at the edges of my vision.
By the time the sun starts to set, smearing the mountain in bruised pink and molten gold, I'm exhausted in a way that has nothing to do with physical labor.
I slip away to the alcove one more time.
The temporary wall isn't up yet—that's tomorrow's project—so the damage is still visible. Raw and exposed. I raise my camera and take a final series of shots, capturing the way the dying light falls across the worn wood.
“You're going to wear out that shutter.”
I don't turn around.
“It’d be worth it.”
Everett moves to stand beside me—close enough that I can smell pine and coffee and something underneath that's just him. “How'd it go with Tara?”
“She’s dangerous,” I mutter. “Like smile-first, slice-later dangerous.”
“I know.”
“She asked about us.”
He goes still. “What did you tell her?”
“That my relationship with you is professional.” I finally lower the camera and meet his eyes. The setting sun catches in them, turning the brown to amber. “Which is true.”
“Is it?”
The question hangs between us, heavy with everything we haven't said. Everything we keep almost saying and then pulling back from.
“It has to be,” I whisper. “My brothers are here. The cameras are here. We can't—”
“I know.” His voice is rough. “But when this is over…”
But neither of us moves.
We hover in the fading light—want tugging us closer, common sense yanking us apart—staring at the ruins of a window seat that holds all our secrets.
“The wall goes up tomorrow,” he says finally. “I told John no work until you're done.”
“Thank you.” It comes out softer than I intended.
He nods once. “Get some sleep tonight, Barrett. Tomorrow’s a dumpster fire dressed as a schedule.”
“Story of my life.”
A hint of a smile crosses his face—there and gone so fast I might have imagined it. Then he turns and walks away, leaving me alone with the snowmen and the shadows and the ache in my chest that never quite goes away.
I raise the camera one last time, stealing a shot I have no business taking.
Not of the damage or the architecture or anything a preservation specialist should care about.
I take one of the fifth generation owner and wonder what his history will be when it’s written into the lodge like the four generations before him.
His wife, kids, the legacy continuing on.
By the time I climb the stairs, the photo’s burned into me already—sharp edges and all.
Because some things, you can't preserve.
You can only survive them.