Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Everett
Two a.m. and the lodge finally stopped screaming at me.
I gave up on sleep an hour ago. Showered. Changed. Draped the Mountain Daddy sash I won in the best beard contest across my chest like the legacy-shaming disgrace my father thinks I am.
You saved the lodge and shamed every Morgan who built it.
Fuck I wish it didn’t still ache.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
Lamplight burns throughout the lobby and great room. Morgan tradition with a full house. A warm light waiting so no one ever feels alone walking through.
So they feel like this is their lodge as much as ours.
I head for the bar. Okay, maybe mostly ours. If I ever find someone behind that counter helping themselves? We’ll revisit the meaning of “hospitality.”
Luckily no one’s crossed that line.
Yet.
I turn the corner, replaying the gray sweatpants night in my head, and she’s there.
Like I conjured her out of the memory.
Only she’s… on the bar.
Not behind it. Not sitting on one of the stools like a normal person.
No, Sierra Barrett is stretched out on the polished wood like it's a fainting couch in some Victorian drama, her head pillowed on one arm, camera resting on her stomach, fuzzy socks pointing toward the ceiling.
Her flannel hangs open just enough to make my pulse trip, the tank top beneath dipping lower than my sanity can afford.
Her loose hair spills over the edge of the bar and fucking hell—I’m never getting over this.
Her.
On my turf.
During what has somehow become… our time.
Like a goddamn offering.
Man, this is cruel.
She stares straight up at the exposed beams with an expression I can't quite read.
Sad. Tender. Like she's having a conversation I'm not invited to.
“The health department's gonna shut me down.”
She doesn't startle. Doesn't even move. Just shifts her eyes toward me without lifting her head, like she expected me.
Like we're both caught in the same insomnia, the same orbit, the same gravitational pull we've been pretending doesn't exist.
“I'm not touching the food prep surfaces.”
“You're touching all the surfaces.” I move closer. “This is where the bartender stands, Sierra. Where I make drinks. With my hands.”
“Then sanitize it tomorrow.” She goes back to studying the ceiling. “I'm busy.”
“Doing what, exactly?”
“Looking.”
I stop at the edge of the bar, close enough to see the faint pulse jumping at the base of her throat. Close enough to smell her shampoo—something floral and familiar that makes my chest ache in ways I'm too tired to fight.
“At?”
She doesn't answer right away. Her finger traces something in the air above her, following the line of a beam I've walked under a thousand times without really seeing.
“Did Grammie Bea ever tell you the story of these logs?”
I lean my hip against the bar. “Which story? She had about forty.”
“The initials.”
I look up. It takes me a second to find them—two sets of letters carved into the wood, weathered by time and smoke and a century of life happening underneath them, and on opposite sides of the beam.
Like some sort of standoff.
Like us.
“Jedediah and Eleanor were childhood sweethearts.” Sierra's voice goes soft in that way it does when she's telling a story she loves.
“They grew up on neighboring homesteads. Fell in love young—too young, everyone said. But they didn't care. When the original lodge was being built, they snuck out one night and carved their initials into a log together. Side by side. Forever.”
I stare at the ceiling. E.S. on one beam. J.M. on another. Separated by at least fifteen feet of empty air.
“They're not together.”
“No.” She's quiet for a moment. “The log got split during construction. Installed wrong. Nobody realized until it was too late. The initials that were supposed to be the centerpiece. Instead they ended up on opposite sides of the room.”
Two people who belonged together. Separated by a mistake. Never properly reunited.
Jesus.
“Grammie Bea told you this?”
“When I was sixteen.” Sierra's finger traces the invisible line between the initials. “She said it was the saddest story the lodge ever kept. Two people who loved each other their whole lives, but memorialized like this. Looking across the same room but never quite reaching.”
Her voice cracks on the last word. Just barely. Just enough for me to catch it.
“Sierra.”
“Don't.” She doesn't look at me. “I'm just... I'm looking. That's all.”
But it's not all. It's never all with her. She's carrying something tonight—the weight of it crushing her in a way I’ve never quite seen, making her seek out sad stories in the dark.
“Their families didn’t approve.” Sadness steals her voice, leaving the words a whisper.
I reach out. Touch her ankle, where the fuzzy sock meets bare skin.
She shivers.
“It didn’t stop them.”
Choose us, Sierra.
“No. It didn’t stop them. Your family is brave.
” She finally turns her head to look at me, and her eyes are too bright in the low light.
“But every time Eleanor walked into this room, she looked up. Every single time. Grammie Bea said she never stopped trying to figure out a way to fix it. To bring the initials back together.”
And suddenly I understand why she's here. Why she's lying on my bar at two in the morning, staring at a century-old love story carved into wood.
Because it's us.
It's always been us.
“Sit up.” I force the words past the lump in my throat.
Every time I think she’s broken me in every way possible, there’s one more crack waiting.
But this one, it’s not hers to suffer alone.
It’s ours.
She blinks. “What?”
“Sit up, Sierra.”
Something in my voice makes her move. She pushes herself upright, legs dangling off the edge of the bar, camera clutched to her stomach.
Her hair falls in messy waves around her face, and that soft-worn flannel slips off one shoulder.
She's the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
And she's been running from me for way too long.
But maybe this is the key. Maybe this time I’ll catch her—keep her.
I surrender to it, to her, and settle on the stool next to her. Curling my hand around her calf, I turn her to me, tracing my fingertips over her warm, smooth skin.
Her breath catches. Mine does too, but I'm past caring.
“What are you—”
“I'm tired, Sierra.” My hands find her hips. “I'm so goddamn tired of looking across the room.”
Her eyes go wide. “Everett—”
“Eleven years.” I scoop my hand under the straps of her camera, gathering the straps in my fist and tug her to me and off my bar.
She has no choice but to wrap her legs around my waist or fall.
She wraps, her warmth bleeding right through my jeans and into me.
I keep her camera clutched in my fist between us, dragging my grip up and down the warm, supple leather.
“Eleven years of watching you hide. Behind your brothers. Behind that lens. Behind every wall you've ever built.”
“I'm not—”
“You are.” I glide my hand over her thigh until it disappears under the flannel. “You've been hiding since the day you told me it didn't mean anything.”
Her jaw tightens. “That's not fair.”
“No. It's not.”
Her gaze drops to my chest. To the sash. Something in her expression shifts—softens—and her fingers trace the edge of the fabric where it cuts across my shoulder.
“You’re wearing it.”
“Seemed appropriate for a two a.m. spiral.”
“Mountain Daddy.” Her thumb brushes over the lettering, and the corner of her mouth twitches. “It suits you.”
“The title or the spiral?”
“Both.” Her fingers curl into the fabric, tugging gently. “You earned it. The beard was... impressive.”
“Was?”
“I’m a sucker for glitter.” She drags her knuckle along my jaw, it took me close to an hour to scrub clean. “This works too. The kids loved decorating you guys.”
The touch is so casual. So intimate. Like we do this all the time. Like eleven years didn't happen.
I lift the pink satin up over her head and settle it around the both of us
She stares at me. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing it.”
“The sash?”
“The split.” I cup her face in my hands and she trembles.
Or maybe I am.
Maybe we both are.
“I'm done looking across the room, Sierra. I'm done with the distance. The pretending. The bullshit.”
“My brothers—”
“Are asleep. And even if they weren't—” I press my forehead to hers. “I don't care. I'm done letting everyone else's rules keep me from you.”
Her breath shudders out. “There’s more at stake now. They’re your business partners—”
“Eleven years hasn't made me want you any less.”
She closes her eyes. A tear slips down her cheek, and I catch it with my thumb.
“I'm not asking you to tell them tonight,” I say quietly. “I'm not asking you to blow up your life or choose either me or your family. I'm just asking you to stop hiding. From me. Right now. In this moment.”
She opens her eyes. They're swimming, but she's looking at me. Really looking.
Not through a viewfinder.
Not from across the room.
Just... me and her. The way it used to be.
“I don't know how,” she whispers.
“Yeah, you do.”
I kiss her forehead. Soft and slow, I let my lips linger. “I know what goes on in here. The overthinking. The worrying. The way you run every scenario until you've convinced yourself the worst one is inevitable.”
A broken sound escapes her throat, but I don’t stop.
I can’t stop. Just like this morning.
Because this is growing up. Saying the hard shit even when you know you're going to hurt someone you love.
Especially then.
I kiss her mouth. Just a lingering brush. “I know what comes out of here. The sharp edges you use to push people away. The humor that's really armor. The lies you tell yourself about not wanting this.”
Her fingers dig into my shoulders as a shudder rolls through her.
Dragging the tip of my nose along the row of open buttons, I lower my mouth to the swell of her breast, right over her heart—where it pounds against my lips.