“And how exactly do you propose we market this in the five minutes between now and Thursday to reel people in?”
“The lodge's history,” Sierra says slowly. “That's the hook. Heritage tourism. People want authenticity, not just activities.”
Caleb points at her. “See? She gets it. And, it justso happens I have a line on something else.” He shoves his hands in his pockets and rocks back on his heels.
My gut clenches.
My survival instincts immediately start composing my last will and testament.
“It’s a little outside of the box, but…”
Chapter Seven
Sierra
They invested.All three of them. Put their money into this lodge—the place that holds every memory I've ever made that mattered—and nobody thought to mention it.
Not Roman, who taught me to ski on this mountain.
Not Caleb, who clutched my hand through our mother’s funeral.
Not Nolan, who noticeseverythingexcept apparently when his baby sister might want to know that they were all quietly deciding the future of her favorite place on earth without her.
It's business. It's not personal.
Except it is. It's always personal when you're the one left out.
“What if we brought in something so irresistible, so Instagram-worthy, that they showed up whether there's snow or not?”
“Like?” I ask, even though the sinking feeling in my stomach tells me I already know.
“A reality TV show.” Caleb waves his hand like this is a minor detail and not a potential disaster wrapped in a camera crew. “They just lost their Christmas story. They're looking for something authentic?—”
“No.” Everett's voice bites with the kind of chill he might be able to freeze the mountainside with. He could make snow, open the trails, problem solved.
We all just need to keep him pissed off. I’ve been doing my part. Time for them to step up.
“You didn't even let me finish!”
“I don't need to. The answer is no.”
“Everett—”
“This lodge is not a sideshow.” He slams his glass and despite seeing it coming, the sound makes me jump. “It's four generations of my family?—”
“Five,” I say before I can stop myself.
The room goes absolutely silent. Everyone looks at me.
Everett harder than all of them.
My cheeks heat, but I lift my chin anyway. “Five generations. You're the fifth.”
Now would you stop looking at me like that. We have an audience.
“Ever heard of Tara Greene?” Caleb asks the room, like we're supposed to be impressed.
If you’re impressed with a fart in an elevator.
