Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Everett
The first rule of bartending is simple: never let them see you sweat. Cliche, but no less true.Doesn't matter if the ticket printer is screaming, the ice machine just died, and someone's asking for a drink that doesn't exist. You smile. You pour. You keep the show running.
I've been applying that rule to my entire life for the past twelve hours.
The morning sun cuts through the great room windows like it's auditioning for a tourism commercial. Outside, the lawn is already buzzing with festival prep. Inside, I'm on my third cup of coffee, running on four hours of sleep and the lingering ghost of Sierra's mouth under mine.
Focus.
You have a lodge to save.
A festival to run so it doesn’t run you like it did last night.
A family legacy that's currently trending as #MountainDaddyTour.
EVERETT
Meeting. 30 minutes. No excuses.
CALEB
Are we in trouble, Daddy
EVERETT
Call me “Daddy” again and I’ll make sure there’s no biological way for you to become one.
“Everett! Just the man I was looking for.”
Tara Greene materializes like she was directly summoned by my foul mood. She’s dressed in cream again—a color she seems to think makes her look innocent.
It doesn’t.
Her practiced smile makes my survival instincts stand at attention.
“Tara.” I lift my coffee cup in greeting. “You're up early.”
“Early bird gets the story.” She settles onto the barstool across from me like she’s done it a hundred times before. Her crew hovers at a respectful distance, but I clock the camera guy adjusting his angle. Always filming. Always hunting. “Yesterday was quite the pivot. Very... bold.”
“We like to keep things interesting.”
“The internet certainly responded.” She pulls out her phone, scrolling with a manicured nail. “#MountainDaddyTour is still trending. That's impressive engagement for a regional festival.”
“Glad the algorithm approves.”
Her eyes flick up from the screen, sharp and assessing. “How does Sierra feel about all this new exposure?”
And there’s the clean jab to the ribs. Casual. Calculated.
I take a slow sip of coffee, buying myself a beat. “Sierra's a professional. She understands that marketing requires flexibility.”
“Her heritage walk was so...” Tara tilts her head, savoring the word like expensive wine. “Thorough. All that research. All that preparation. And now—” She gestures vaguely toward the window, where a crew member is positioning a #MountainDaddyTour banner. “This.”
“Sometimes you have to meet people where they are.”
Rules of bartending. Rules of bartending. Rules of bartending.
“Mmm.” She makes a note on her phone. Probably cataloging my tells. Filing them away for later. “And where is Sierra this morning? I'd love to get her reaction on camera.”
Poke at what’s mine and I poke you a thousand times harder. Try me.
“She'll be documenting the festival activities. Wholesome content. Families, kids—the stuff that doesn't require a hashtag warning.”
Tara's smile sharpens at the edges. “You two seem very... aligned. You know, in your vision for this place.”
“We're both invested in the lodge's success.”
“Invested.” She repeats the word with precision.
“Interesting choice of words. I was under the impression the brothers were the partners and Sierra is just here for historical integrity.”
Before I can respond, her phone buzzes. She glances at the screen, and something shifts in her expression—predatory interest giving way to calculation.
My coffee turns to acid in my gut.
“Excuse me.” She slides off the barstool. “Duty calls. But Everett—” She pauses, turning back with that too-bright smile. “I'd love to sit down with you later. Get the real story of the fifth-generation lodge owner. What drives you. What keeps you up at night.”
At the moment, you. And your cameras and your bloodhound nose for drama.
But ultimately, what keeps me roaming the lodge while the world sleeps has a lot less to do with insomnia and more to do with hope.
Just the quiet hope Sierra will be there too.
The hope that I’ll get one more swing at the walls keeping us apart.
“Looking forward to it.”
I let out a breath I've been holding for approximately three minutes.
Roman pops his head around the corner just as she disappears. “Yo, you said 30 minutes. You ready to do this?”
My phone buzzes.
Mom.
Your father's on his way. I held him off as long as I could.
Fantastic.
“Yeah, let’s get this busted out.”
Before he gets here.
‘Mount Me Everett' was just the appetizer. Finding out I let the Barrett brothers invest in our legacy? That's the entrée he's really going to choke on.
Roman sprawls in the leather chair like he owns the place—which, technically, ten percent of him does.
Caleb perches on the edge of my desk, vibrating with the energy of someone who’s had zero consequences for his life choices.
Nolan stands by the window, quiet and watchful, which is somehow more unnerving than Caleb's chaos.
I close the door behind me. “We need to talk.”
“If this is about the plaques—” Caleb starts.
“It's about the plaques.”
“In our defense, they worked.” Caleb pulls up his phone, waving it like a trophy. “Bookings are up forty percent since yesterday. Forty. The restaurant is fully booked for dinner tonight. We've got people calling from Portland asking about room availability for next weekend.”
“I know.”
“So what's the problem?”
I plant my hands on the desk and look him dead in the eyes. “The problem is that my great-great-grandfather did not conceive his seventh child on a boulder.”
“You don't actually know that.”
“Caleb.”
“Fine, fine.” He holds up his hands in surrender. “So we took some creative liberties. The point was engagement, and we got it.”
“The point,” I say, keeping my voice level, “was to save this lodge. Not turn my family into a punchline.”
Roman shifts in his chair, his expression thoughtful. “He's got a point, Caleb. The numbers are good, but we can't sustain this if it's all fake.”
“Thank you.”
“But,” Roman continues, because there's always a but with him, “we also can't pretend yesterday didn't happen. The brand is out there now. #MountainDaddyTour exists whether you like it or not.”
“I'm aware.” God, am I aware. I've seen the memes. I've seen the TikToks. I've seen things that will haunt me until I die, and probably after. “But what happened yesterday is never happening again.”
“Define 'what happened yesterday.'” Caleb's eyes narrow. “Because the torchlit tour was a hit. The storytelling angle worked. The—”
“The fake plaques. The made-up history. The suggestion that my ancestors had the collective stamina of a Roman orgy.” I tick them off on my fingers. “All of that? Done. Over. We're not doing it anymore.”
Silence falls over the office.
Nolan finally speaks from his post by the window. “So what do you want to do instead?”
“Real stories. Real history.” I push off the desk and pace . “This lodge has over a century of actual history. Scandals, love stories, family drama—all of it real. We don't need to make shit up.”
“And I get that, but we’re going to have to tread carefully. Last night happened.”
“Last night was completely out of control.” I spin on them and brace my hands on my desk. “You ever know me to drink whiskey straight from the bottle in public? At my own fucking lodge where anyone can see me?”
“No. But here’s the thing, we need a balance. We can’t do a complete one-eighty. People will think it’s bait and switch. Cheap bait and switch at that.” Nolan slides his hands in his pockets. “I know you hate where we are, but we have to find a balance or this blows up in a whole different way.”
“People responded to the humor,” Caleb argues. “The irreverence. If we go back to dry history lectures—”
“I'm not saying dry. I'm saying honest.” I turn back to face them. “You want to lean into the 'rugged mountain men' thing? Fine. But it has to be true. The Morgans were loggers, builders, bootleggers during Prohibition—there's plenty of real material to work with.”
“Bootleggers?” Caleb's ears perk up. “Now you're talking.”
“My point is that we can be entertaining without being dishonest. The atmosphere stuff—the torches, the storytelling, the experience—that can stay. But the content needs to be real.” I meet each of their eyes in turn.
“You're investors. I respect that. But this is my name on the building.
My family's legacy. And I'm not going to let it become a joke just because jokes trend.”
Roman nods slowly. “That's fair.”
“I can work with bootleggers,” Caleb concedes. “Prohibition-era scandals have potential. Forbidden liquor. Secret stashes. Very romantic.”
“I’m really starting to hate that fucking word, Caleb. Find a new one.” I sweep my gaze over all three of them. “And tonight's fireside storytelling needs to be actual stories,” I add. “Not 'which ancestor had the biggest—'”
“Got it.” Caleb grins. “No more dick jokes. At least not in the official programming.”
“Official programming is almost as bad as romantic. Cut it out.”
“There’s something else,” Nolan says as he pushes off from the window frame.
The way he says it makes my stomach clench.
“Tara Greene pulled me aside this morning,” he continues. “Asked about Sierra. How long she's been working with you. Whether your relationship is purely professional.”
The air in the room changes.
Roman's eyes sharpen.
Caleb goes uncharacteristically still.
“And? What’s your point?” My voice comes out even. Calm. The bartender mask, firmly in place.
“I told her that Sierra's a professional doing a job. That the Barretts and the Morgans have been friends for decades. That there's nothing to find because there's nothing there.” Nolan's gaze holds mine a beat too long. “Is there?”
The question hangs in the air.
It’s too close. It’s all too close.
How long have I wanted to just tell them. How long have I hoped we’d just fucking get caught so we could stop hiding.
So I could stop wondering if today was the day she’d choose us.
If there will ever be a day she chooses us.
But now that it’s happening in real time and Nolan’s hovering way too close to the truth—too close to exposing her biggest fear, everything in me wants to hide it.
Hide her.
Shield her from the heartache she fears.
It has to come from her.
The last thing I’ll ever do is trick Sierra Barrett into the one thing she’s always feared—just so I can finally have what I want.
And I won’t let that be my legacy.
Not with her.
“Sierra's the best preservation consultant in the state,” I say. “That's why she's here.”
“That's not what I asked.”
“It's the only answer that matters. Sierra’s a private person. She gets to choose what she shares with Tara.”
And with you. Even if it guts me to wait. To hope.
Nolan studies me for a long moment, his expression unreadable. “Watch yourself around Tara,” he says. “She's hunting for something. And if she can't find it, she'll create it.”
“Noted.”
My phone buzzes again. I glance at the screen.
Mom again.
He just pulled in. I'm sorry, honey.
“Heads up,” I say, pocketing the phone. “My father's here.”
Caleb winces. “He saw the hashtag?”
“Apparently.”
“Want us to clear out?” Roman's already rising from his chair.
I should say yes. Whatever's about to happen between me and my father doesn't need an audience.
But some stubborn part of me—the part that's been carrying this lodge alone for months while my father second-guessed every decision from the comfort of his retirement—wants witnesses.
“Stay,” I say. “You're partners. You should hear this.”
The look that passes between the three of them tells me they understand exactly what I'm not saying.