Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Sierra
The sausage fest is in full swing by noon, and the innuendo has reached levels that would make a sailor blush.
“Come get your hands on Morgan meat!” Caleb hollers from behind the demonstration table. “Traditional family recipe! Stuffed fresh this morning!”
I'm going to kill him. I'm going to stuff him into a casing and serve him to the guests.
Charlie, bless her pregnant heart, is actually running the educational portion—explaining the heritage of Maine smoking techniques, letting guests try their hand at grinding and stuffing, handing out samples that smell incredible despite the questionable marketing.
“You look like you need a drink,” Holly says, appearing at my elbow.
“I need several drinks. And possibly a lobotomy.”
“That bad?”
I gesture vaguely toward the beard competition staging area, where Everett now helps break down the craft table. A little boy clings to his leg, apparently having decided that the nice man with the yarn is his new best friend.
Holly follows my gaze. Her expression softens. “Ahhhh.”
“Don't.”
“I wasn't going to say anything.”
“You were going to say something supportive and wise and I can't handle that right now.”
“I was going to say he'd make beautiful babies.” She grins when I glare at her. “What? I'm allowed to think about babies.”
“You're allowed to think about your future babies. And their future dad. Not my—” I stop. Regroup. “Not anyone else's hypothetical babies.”
“Mmhmm.” Holly links her arm through mine. “Come on. Let's get you a Heritage Hot Dog before your brothers run out of dirty jokes to make about tube meat.”
We're halfway to the food station when Tara Greene materializes out of nowhere, tablet in hand, that predatory gleam in her eye.
“Sierra! Just who I was looking for.”
My stomach drops. “Oh?”
“The footage we got this morning—the beard competition, the kids, Everett with the craft table—it's gold. Absolute gold.” She's practically vibrating with producer energy.
It’s actually a lot like Caleb’s endless energy. You know, if you drained all the good out of it and injected it with human suffering.
“The story is really coming together.”
“That's... great?”
“I want to get a few more shots. You and Everett together. Working the festival.” She taps something on her tablet. “The dynamic between you two is fascinating on camera. Very compelling.”
Holly's arm tightens on mine.
“I don't know what you mean,” I say, voice carefully neutral. “We're both just helping with the event.”
“Of course.” Tara's smile is all teeth. “That's what makes it so interesting. Two people who clearly know each other well, working toward a common goal, all that shared history...”
“Family friends. The Barretts and Morgans go way back.”
“So I've heard.” She glances toward where Everett is trying to extract himself from the child attached to his leg. “Tell me, Sierra—what was it like? Growing up around him?”
The question seems innocent. It's not.
“Normal,” I say. “He was my brothers' friend. I was the annoying little sister. Standard stuff.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm the preservation consultant and he's the client.”
Tara studies me with those sharp eyes. “You know what I've noticed? Neither of you ever says 'just friends.' You say 'family friends' or 'professional colleagues' or 'client and consultant.' But never just friends.”
The observation lands too close to home.
“Because we're not friends,” I say, which is technically true. “We're both professionals working toward saving this lodge.”
“Interesting word choice. 'Saving.'” Tara tilts her head. “Most consultants would say 'restoring' or 'preserving.' You said saving. Like it's personal.”
Holly steps in before I can spiral. “Everything at this festival is personal, Tara. That's kind of the point. Family legacy. Community. All the stuff you're here to capture.”
Tara's smile sharpens. “Of course. Well, if I don’t manage to get footage of you together, I’ll find something to fill the space with I’m sure. Thank you both—this has been enlightening.”
She drifts away toward the sausage demonstration, probably to extract confessions from Caleb about his childhood or something equally invasive.
“I hate her,” I mutter.
“She's good at her job,” Holly says. “That's what makes her dangerous.”
Across the lawn, Everett finally frees himself from the clingy child and heads toward the lodge.
He doesn’t look at me as he passes.
But his shoulder brushes mine—barely. Just enough.
My body responds—like a camera on autofocus—twitchy, too sensitive, absolutely useless under pressure.
Suddenly, Who Put the Stump in My Rump? starts playing in my head like my brain’s been hijacked by horny elves with direct access to my dirtiest Christmas list.
Laughter bubbles up, borderline hysterical.
“You okay?” Holly asks.
No. Not even close.
Because somehow, getting a stump shoved up my rump no longer sounds like a cautionary tale and more like a Morgan Mountain Daddy side quest I’m spiritually prepared to accept.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Not at all dying inside, my heart and hormones locked in some brutal arm-wrestling match where my hormones went full Over the Top and slammed my heart into oblivion.
I raise my camera and get back to work.
But my hands shake through each shot, and my heart is somewhere between the beard competition and the boy who looked at those children like they were everything he ever wanted.
The boy I could have given that to.
The boy I let go.