The auction prep swirls around me—Holly directing traffic, Charlie waddling past with a clipboard, someone testing the microphone with increasingly aggressive “check check checks”—and I move through on some sortgrief-soaked autopilot.
Smiling when expected.
Photographing when needed.
Dying to know what I did wrong.
“Hey.” Holly appears at my elbow, frowning. “You okay? You've got that look.”
“What look?”
“The one where you're spiraling internally but pretending everything's fine.” She tilts her head. “Spill.”
“It's nothing.”
“It's clearly not nothing.”
I glance toward the staging area where Everett is adjusting his collar, jaw tight, shoulders rigid. He laughs at something Roman says, but it sounds hollow even from here.
“He's been weird since the reindeer ride,” I admit quietly. “Won't look at me. Won't talk to me. I don't know what I did.”
Holly's gaze follows mine. “Maybe it's not about you. He's had a hell of a day.”
“Maybe.”
But it doesn't feel like maybe—it feels personal.
Every single second of the next hour is pure torture.
I take approximately nine hundred photos I don't need. I rearrange equipment that doesn't need rearranging. I help Charlie fold napkins into shapes that absolutely no one will appreciate.
And I watch Everett move through the room like I'm not even there.
Finally—finally—I catch himalone.
He's in the hallway behind the staging area, checking his phone, and for one blissful second there's no one else around. No cameras. No brothers. No Tara lurking with her predatory smile.
Just us.
I slip through the door and let it close behind me.
“Hey.”
His shoulders tense. He doesn't look up. “Hey.”
One syllable. Flat. Empty.
The distance between us is bigger than the nine years he was gone.
“Everett.” I step closer, keeping my voice low. “What's going on?”
“Nothing.”
“Bullshit.” The word comes out sharper than I intend. And why not? He’s the one who’s freezing me out. It’s only fair I call him on his shit. He’s really damn good at calling me on mine. “You've been avoiding me for the past hour. You won't look at me. You're acting like I?—”
“Like you what, Sierra?” He finally looks up, and the expression on his face stops me cold.
He's not angry.
