“Thanks.”
He hesitates, studying me with that look he's had since we were kids—the one that says he knows something's wrong but doesn't know how to ask. Then his eyes move to Everett, who's extracting the axes from the target with careful precision.
“That was decent of him,” Roman says slowly. “Stepping in like that.”
“Yeah.”
“The thing he said, though.” Roman's brow furrows. “About the mountain. About... you.”
My heart pounds. “He was just being dramatic. You know how he gets.”
“Do I?”
We stare at each other. For one horrible moment, I think he's going to push. Going to ask the question that's been hovering at the edges of every conversation for years.
Then Caleb crashes into both of us, throwing his arms around our shoulders. “That was AMAZING! Did you see that guy's face? He looked like he was about to piss himself! Sierra, I didn't know you had that much murder in you!”
The moment snaps.
Roman laughs, shakes his head, lets Caleb’s excitement sweep him away.
But when I look across the clearing, Nolan is watching me.
Not Everett. Me.
And his expression says he knows exactly what that declaration meant.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sierra
I wait exactlyforty-five seconds after Everett walks away from the axe throwing range before I follow him.
Forty-five seconds of smiling through my teeth while the camera crew packs up. Forty-five seconds of nodding along while Caleb recaps the throw like I wasn't the one who made it. Forty-five seconds of pretending my entire nervous system isn't short-circuiting because Everett Morgan just defended my honor in front of God, The Cornerstone Network, and my three overprotective brothers.
“I'll lose my mountain before I let the cost come at Sierra's expense.”
The words are still ringing in my ears. Still burning in my chest. Still painting a giant neon sign over both our heads that saysSOMETHING IS GOING ON HERE.
I find him behind the equipment shed, leaning against the weathered wood like he doesn't have a carein the world. Like he didn't just blow our cover to smithereens in front of a live studio audience.
He's got my ax.
My ax that he plucked out of my hand like I was a toddler with a steak knife.
“Give it back.”
He doesn't move. Just watches me with those dark eyes, one corner of his mouth twitching like he's fighting a smile.
“Sierra—”
“Don't.” I close the distance between us, finger jabbing toward his chest. “Don't 'Sierra' me. What the hell was that?”
“That was me handling a situation.”
“Handling—” I choke on the word. “You didn'thandleanything! You made a scene!”
“The guy was being an asshole.”
