I glance at my girls. At Holly, who gives me a small nod. At Eve, who mouths,We're watching.At Dixie, whose expression has gone carefully neutral. At Charlie, who raises her thermos from her blanket throne like a salute.
Go. We've got you.
I push myself out of the water.
And walk toward whatever Everett Morgan has planned.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Sierra
The men'shot tub is bigger than ours—because of course it is—with tiered seating that descends into the center like a very wet, very testosterone-soaked amphitheater.
Roman helps me over the dividing ledge with a dramatic bow. “M'lady.”
“Do that again and I'm drowning you.”
“And that folks, is where her love of history ends,” Roman says with a laugh.
Everett slides into the water and settles on the bench just below mine where I rest my feet. Directly across from my brothers, he leans back, his thick biceps stretched to either side under the water.
Close enough to touch.
Close enough that no one can quite see the angle of his arm where it rests along the submerged ledge.
“So.” Roman claps his hands together, water droplets flying. “The festival. Where are we at? Numbers, projections, the show situation?—”
“You sure you want to talk about that? I’m not a partner.” The words slip out before I can stop them, a little sharp, and a whole lot bratty, but I can’t stop myself. Champagne and girl talk. What can I say?
My brothers all lock eyes on me.
Roman blinks. Caleb's eyebrows shoot up. Nolan's mouth twitches like he's fighting a smile.
But Everett?—
Everett turns slowly. Deliberately. His dark eyes find mine, and something in them narrows.
Sharpens.
Oh, you want to play?
The look says it all. Challenge accepted.
“You're still family,” Roman says, oblivious to the silent war that just ignited. “Your input matters.”
“Besides,” Caleb adds, “you're the one who has to make us look good on camera. Least we can do is keep you in the loop.”
Lucky me.
“Fine.” I cross my arms, leaning back against the tub wall. “Loop away.”
Nolan launches into the numbers—bookings up thirty percent since the Mountain Daddy incident, occupancy through New Year's maxed out.
I'm barely listening.
Because under the water, hidden by bubbles and steam, Everett's hand brushes my ankle.
Don’t you fucking dare, Morgan.
