Chapter 37 #2
“She sees you, son.” His voice is gruff. Rough with something I'm not sure I've ever heard from him before. “That girl. She sees every part of you—the parts you show the world and the parts you try to hide. And she loves all of it.”
My throat tightens. “Dad—”
“I should have seen it too.” He clears his throat, visibly uncomfortable with the emotion bleeding through his usual stoicism.
“I've been so busy trying to hold onto what was that I couldn't see what you were building. What you are building.” He looks around the room—at the guests still lingering, at the lodge that's somehow survived the week despite everything. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
I can't speak. The words just won’t come.
“She always said you'd find your way back.” Bruce's mouth twitches. “Pretty sure she meant to the lodge, but maybe she knew something the rest of us didn't.”
My mom appears at his side, squeezes his arm. Her eyes are misty, but she's smiling.
“Still.” Bruce takes a sip of his own beer, slipping back toward familiar ground. “Shame the lodge isn't a hundred percent in the family anymore. With the Barretts as investors, the legacy's... split.”
I glance over my shoulder at Sierra, her brothers—my brothers.
But what if… Now. Do it now.
“Well.” I set the beer down on the nearest surface. “About that.”
Sierra's still wrapped up with her brothers, but she must sense something shift because her head turns. Her tear-stained face finds mine and she tilts her head.
I cross to her in three strides. Don't give myself time to think. Don't give myself time to second-guess.
“Everett?” Her voice is uncertain. “What are you—”
I grab her hips and lift.
She yelps, hands flying to my shoulders for balance as I carry her the few steps to the bar—our bar, the same bar where she laid stretched out like an offering, the same bar where I wrapped that ridiculous sash around us both and told her I was done hiding—and I set her down on the polished wood.
Right where she was sitting that night.
Right where this whole thing started to really crack open.
“Everett.” She's breathless now, hands still gripping my shoulders, legs dangling off the edge of the bar. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing the legacy problem.”
I reach into my pocket.
My fingers close around the ring I've been carrying for eleven years.
The ring Grammie Bea pressed into my palm, her hands papery and warm, her eyes sharp with that knowing look she'd always had when it came to me and Sierra.
“For when she's ready,” she'd said.
I pull it out.
Sierra's gasp echoes through the suddenly silent room.
“Is that—”
“Grammie Bea's ring.” My voice is steady somehow, even though my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. “She gave it to me. For you.”
“For me?”
“She always knew, Sierra. Before either of us figured it out, she knew.”
Sierra's hands tremble and her whole body follows. She looks at the ring—a simple band, vintage, delicate, exactly the kind of thing she'd choose for herself—and then back at me.
“Everett—”
“I'm not getting down on one knee.” I cup her face with my free hand, forcing her to meet my eyes. “All this time you’ve been saving me. With your brothers, with the lodge, with the cameras twisting our family legacy into something unrecognizable—with my father.”
A sob catches in her throat.
“You were never supposed have to cast yourself aside to save me again.” My thumb traces her cheekbone, catches a fresh tear.
She laughs. It's wet and broken and beautiful.
“But I’m going to have to ask you to save me one more time, baby,” I murmur. “Say yes.”
The room holds its breath.
Her brothers are frozen somewhere behind me. Her friends are clutching each other. My father is probably having seventeen simultaneous heart attacks.
None of it matters.
The only thing that matters is the woman sitting on my bar, wearing my grandmother's ring on her finger—if she'll just say yes.
“Yes.” The word comes out cracked. Barely audible. “Yes, you impossible man. Yes.”
I slide the ring onto her finger.
It fits perfectly.
Of course it does. Grammie Bea planned for this. Probably sized it herself somehow, the crafty old woman.
Sierra stares at her hand like she can't believe it's real.
Then she peers down at me, and her smile—God, her smile—makes me want things I've never let myself want. Little faces with her eyes. Tiny hands learning to hold a hammer.
“I love you,” she whispers.
I lean in, brush my lips against hers. “I love you too. Since you kissed me back from behind that camera. Since you were seventeen and breaking my heart. Since you walked back into this lodge with a vengeance, fueled it with bourbon, and pretended you didn't feel the same thing I did.”
“I wasn't pretending—”
“You were. But it's okay.” I kiss her again, deeper this time, not caring about the audience. “You're done running now.”
“I'm done running,” she agrees against my mouth.
The room explodes.
Holly's shriek could shatter the snowmen display. Charlie's crying into Nick’s shoulder. Caleb shouts something about finally being an uncle that makes zero logical sense but somehow fits.
Roman mutters, “Oh, for fuck's sake,” but there's no heat in it.
And Nolan—quiet, watchful Nolan—raises his glass in a silent toast.
Because he knew.
He always knew.
Grammie Bea… wherever you are—thank you.
For the ring.
For the meddling.
For knowing before we did.
For giving us the permission we were too scared to give ourselves.
Sierra's arms wrap around my neck, pulling me close, and I bury my face in her hair.
Home.