I do not look at Everett.
I am not thinking about Everett.
“And that's exactly why this could work. Real stories sell. If the production company is willing to showcase the history, the heritage, the genuine article instead of manufactured drama...” Caleb says still trying to sell the idea.
“That's a big if,” Everett mutters. “A huge if. An if the size of this mountain.”
“She's not looking for train wrecks,” Caleb insists. “She's looking for feel-good content. Holiday warmth. Family legacy. The stuff that makes people cry into their eggnog and feel good about humanity. They do this Christmas special once a year on Christmas Day. Hearthstrings.”
“And you trust her?”
The pause is a beat too long.
Maybe two beats.
Possibly an entire drumroll.
“I trust that she needs the location since her original location dropped out,” Caleb finally admits. “And we'd have final cut approval on anything that goes out.”
“You can get that in writing?”
“I can try. Probably. Maybe.” He wilts under Everett's stare. “I'll make it happen.”
Festival logistics. Snow contingencies. Marketing angles. Caleb bounces on his stool, Roman shifts into full project-manager mode, and Nolan takes notes on his phone.
And me?
I'm sitting here with the wordinvestorslodged in my chest like shrapnel.
Everett drags a hand through his hair—that familiar gesture that makes my chest ache even after all this time. That gesture I photographed approximately forty thousand times when I was seventeen and thought I was being subtle about my obsession.
“This is insane,” he says.
“Probably,” Roman agrees cheerfully. “But insane might be what we need right now. Even if it comes from questionable TV hosts. We’ll be here one hundred percent in this festival steering it the whole time. We won’t let you look bad.”
The silence that follows is heavy with possibility. I watch Everett wrestle with it, watch the war play out across his features—pride versus pragmatism, control versus desperation.
I know that war. I've been fighting my own version of it since I walked back into this lodge three days ago.
“Fine.” The word comes out like someone's extracting it with pliers. “One festival. Heritage focus. And if Tara Greene tries to turn this into drama bait, it’s your ass, Caleb.”
Caleb actually whoops. Like, full-on fist-pump whoops. The kind of celebration usually reserved for sports victories and successfully assembling IKEA furniture.
“Yes! Snow-or-Shine here we come! This is going to be EPIC!”
Everyone's smiling. Caleb's practically vibrating. Roman's already on his phone coordinating God knows what.
And my stomach sinks right into my boots.
Cameras.
We just agreed to bring cameras into Morgan Lodge during a festival where I'll be working alongside the man I've been secretly in love with for over a decade.
Cameras operated by a woman whose entire career is built on finding the cracks people are trying to hide.
What could possibly go wrong?
Everything. Everything could go wrong.
