Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Everett
There’s a camera in my face before I’ve finished my first cup of coffee.
“Just getting some establishing shots,” the guy behind it says. “Pretend I’m not here.”
Right. Sure. Totally normal to ignore a lens six inches from my cornea while my lodge is being gutted on camera, my father thinks I'm destroying the family legacy, and the woman I've spent eleven years trying to forget is sleeping three floors above me disrupting the chemical balance of my entire nervous system.
The cameraman lifts the angle, adjusting the focus. “Coffee looks great. Very authentic.”
I give him my customer-service smile—the one polished over thousands of bar shifts, warm enough to settle a crowd but firm enough to say back off, man.
He backs up.
The great room hums with early-morning prep—coffee brewing, boots thudding across old floorboards, Nolan quietly redirecting a camera away from the family hallway. Good. At least someone remembers boundaries.
“Everett Morgan.”
Tara Greene materializes at my elbow with the precision of someone who’s used to cameras catching her best angles. She smells expensive enough to make the lodges’s coffee feel cheap. Her eyes lock onto mine with smooth, quiet confidence.
“I was hoping to steal a few minutes,” she says. “Just a quick interview. Vision, legacy, all that fun stuff.”
My spine straightens automatically—muscle memory from years behind a bar. “Of course. What do you need?”
Her smile brightens, all gratitude and curated warmth. “Wonderful. We’ve set up in the library.”
I follow her through the lodge, weaving around cables and light stands. She walks like she owns the place. I walk like I’m trying not to swear at the potholes forming in my stomach.
The library is barely recognizable. Her crew transformed it into a cozy fireside confessional—armchairs angled for intimacy, a ring light blasting warm gold across the room, a camera positioned dead-center at eye level.
I can practically see the title card beneath my face already: Everett Morgan, Fifth Generation Legacy in Crisis.
I settle into the chair, lean back, and cross my ankle over my knee. The picture of calm, even if a Nor'easter of dread is tearing up my spine.
Tara crosses her legs, tablet in hand, body angled toward mine.
For a second, it feels like being back behind the bar—someone leaning in, expecting charm.
“Let's start simple,” she says. “Fifth generation Morgan. That's a heavy legacy.”
“Good heavy,” I say, letting a small smile lift my mouth. My hands rest loose on my knees. Relaxed. Open. “This place raised me. I'm lucky.”
“And yet.” She tilts her head. “You left for nine years.”
My smile doesn't falter, but I shift my weight slightly. Micro-adjustment. Centering myself.
“Sometimes stepping away gives you perspective.”
“What made you leave?”
A girl who broke my heart. A secret that was suffocating me. The unbearable weight of wanting something I wasn't allowed to have.
“Career opportunities,” I say. “I wanted to learn the business side of hospitality. See how other properties operated. Bring that knowledge back here eventually.”
“Eventually.” She echoes the word like she's tasting it. “Nine years is a long eventually. Most people who leave small towns don't come back.”
“I'm not most people.”
“No.” Her eyes sharpen. “You're not. You're the heir to a hundred-year legacy who ran away at—what, twenty? Twenty-one?—and didn't look back until your grandmother died.” She pauses. “What were you running from, Everett?”
The question lands like a blade between my ribs.
“I wasn't running from anything. I was running toward something.”
“And what did you find?”
Nothing. Emptiness. A string of cities and women and jobs that never felt like home because home was wherever she was and she wasn't anywhere near me.
“Experience,” I say. “Perspective. The certainty that this is where I belong.”
“Hmm.” She taps her pen against her knee. “Let's talk about the people who belong here with you. Sierra Barrett, for instance.”
My jaw tightens before I can stop it.
Fuck.
Tara notices. Of course she notices. Her smile barely moves, but her eyes sharpen like she's found my soft underbelly.
“I had a lovely conversation with her yesterday,” Tara continues. “She's fascinating. So passionate. So protective.” She pauses, letting the silence stretch. “The way she talked about this lodge... you'd think she owned it herself.”
“She cares about preservation. It's her job.”
“It's more than a job to her. We both know that.” Tara shifts in her chair, angling toward me like she's about to share a secret.
“She corrected me before you could. Fifth generation, not fourth.
That's not casual knowledge, Everett. That's someone who's been paying very close attention to your family for a very long time.”
“The Barretts and Morgans go way back.”
“So I've heard. Multiple times now. It's becoming a bit of a refrain.” She scrolls through her tablet. “Here's what interests me. Sierra Barrett. Twenty-eight years old. Successful career. Beautiful woman, by any measure. And according to my research, she’s never had a serious relationship.”
My pulse kicks up. “I don't see how that's relevant.”
“Don't you?” Tara looks up. “A woman that passionate. That present. That deeply connected to a place—and she's been alone for eleven years? That's not career focus, Everett. That's someone waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“That's what I'm trying to figure out.” She sets down her tablet. “What was Sierra like growing up? You knew her, right? Your best friends' baby sister.”
Shy. Fierce. Hiding behind her camera until she trusted you enough to lower it. The most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, even before I understood what that meant.
“She was always around,” I say carefully. “Part of the furniture, you know? Roman and Caleb's kid sister tagging along.”
“Part of the furniture.” Tara repeats the phrase slowly. “That's an interesting way to describe someone you're now working closely with. Very... detached.”
“We're professional colleagues.”
“So Sierra said. Almost word for word, actually.” She smiles. “You two are very aligned in your messaging. Almost like you prepared your answers together.”
The trap snaps shut around my ankle.
“We didn't.”
“I believe you.” She doesn't sound like she believes me. “Here's what I think, Everett. I think something happened. Between you and Sierra. A long time ago. Something neither of you has ever told anyone.”
A cold flush rolls through me. “That's quite an assumption.”
“I'm very good at assumptions. They're usually right.” She leans forward.
“The way she looks at that window seat. The way you tensed when I said her name.
The way you've both been single for over a decade despite being—let's be honest—extremely eligible.” She spreads her hands.
“Those are facts that don't quite add up to a story. But they will.”
“There's no story.”
“There's always a story.” She stands, smoothing her clothes.
“You know what I noticed during my interview with Sierra? She touched her mouth twice when I asked about romantic history. Right here.” She presses two fingers to her lower lip.
“That's a tell. People touch their mouths when they're thinking about kissing someone.”
I don't move. Don't breathe. Don't give her a goddamn thing.
“The festival is the story,” I say, voice flat. “Heritage. Community. The lodge staying open. That's what we're here for.”
Tara collects her tablet, tucking it under her arm.
“Of course it is.” She pauses at the door, turning back with that sharp, hunting smile. “Oh, one more thing. I found something interesting in the lodge's old social media archives. Some kind of holiday party, years back.”
She pulls out her phone, scrolls, and turns it toward me.
The photo is grainy. Low resolution. A crowded room full of people I half-recognize from a lifetime ago.
And in the background—barely visible, easily overlooked—two figures standing too close together near a window.
Sierra and me. Not looking at the camera. Looking at each other.
“Probably nothing,” Tara says, pocketing the phone. “But I do love a good background detail. You never know what you'll find when you look closely enough.”
She's gone before I can respond.
I sit in the too-bright glow of the ring light, my coffee gone cold, my pulse hammering against my ribs.
Because Tara Greene isn't filming a festival.
She's hunting a story.
And I just felt the first snap of her teeth.