I grab her hips and lift.
She yelps, hands flying to my shoulders for balance as I carry her the few steps to the bar—ourbar, the same bar where she laid stretched out like an offering, the same bar where I wrapped that ridiculous sash around us both and told her I was done hiding—and I set her down on the polished wood.
Right where she was sitting that night.
Right where this whole thing started to really crack open.
“Everett.” She's breathless now, hands still grippingmy shoulders, legs dangling off the edge of the bar. “What are you doing?”
“Fixing the legacy problem.”
I reach into my pocket.
My fingers close around the ring I've been carrying for eleven years.
The ring Grammie Bea pressed into my palm, her hands papery and warm, her eyes sharp with that knowing look she'd always had when it came to me and Sierra.
“For when she's ready,”she'd said.
I pull it out.
Sierra's gasp echoes through the suddenly silent room.
“Is that?—”
“Grammie Bea's ring.” My voice is steady somehow, even though my heart is trying to beat its way out of my chest. “She gave it to me. For you.”
“For me?”
“She always knew, Sierra. Before either of us figured it out, she knew.”
Sierra's hands tremble and her whole body follows. She looks at the ring—a simple band, vintage, delicate, exactly the kind of thing she'd choose for herself—and then back at me.
“Everett—”
“I'm not getting down on one knee.” I cup her face with my free hand, forcing her to meet my eyes. “All this time you’ve been saving me. With your brothers, with the lodge,with the cameras twisting our family legacy into something unrecognizable—with my father.”
A sob catches in her throat.
“You were never supposed have to cast yourself aside to save me again.” My thumb traces her cheekbone, catches a fresh tear.
She laughs. It's wet and broken and beautiful.
“But I’m going to have to ask you to save me one more time, baby,” I murmur. “Say yes.”
The room holds its breath.
Her brothers are frozen somewhere behind me. Her friends are clutching each other. My father is probably having seventeen simultaneous heart attacks.
None of it matters.
The only thing that matters is the woman sitting on my bar, wearing my grandmother's ring on her finger—if she'll justsay yes.
“Yes.” The word comes out cracked. Barely audible. “Yes, you impossible man. Yes.”
I slide the ring onto her finger.
It fits perfectly.
