“And Nick and Charlie,” Caleb says. “We'll need all hands on deck. This is an all-hands situation. Possibly an all-feet situation too.”
“I'll handle it.” Everett's already pulling out his phone. “Group text. Morning briefing at nine.”
“Make it ten,” Roman groans. “Some of us drove all night and are running on fumes and spite.”
“Fine. Ten.” He types something, then pauses, his thumb hovering over the screen. “Sierra. You're included.”
It's not a question. It's barely even an invitation. But something about the way he says my name makes my heart stutter.
“Obviously,” Caleb says before I can respond. “She's the heritage expert. Can't do this without her. She's basically the whole reason this might work.”
The heritage expert. Right. That's why I'm being included. Professional competence. Nothing else.
I ignore the flutter of disappointment in my chest. It's fine. This is fine. Everything is fine.
“Speaking of which.” Roman turns to me, his expression shifting into that annoyingly perceptive big brother mode. “You staying?”
“What?”
“At the lodge. For the event.” He raises an eyebrow. “We’re going to be here so we’re on site to help out. If you stay, it’ll be just like old times.”
“I have work. Projects. Developing to do?—”
And staying here means staying near him.Walking past the window seat every day knowing exactly what almost happened there.
“It’d be like old times,” Nolan points out.
“And by old times,” Caleb adds, “I mean we can bully you into making us look emotionally deep in candids again.”
“Come on, Shutterbug.” Roman's voice softens. “Stay. We haven't all been together in years. And you know this place better than any of us.”
“Better than Everett?” I deflect with sarcasm because vulnerability is for people who haven't built their entire adult life around emotional avoidance.
“Different than Everett,” Nolan corrects. “He knows the business side. You know the bones.”
“The darkroom's still here.”
Everett's voice catches me off guard. I look at him—really look at him—and find something complicated in his expression.
He knows exactly what he's offering. Exactly which strings he's pulling.
Bastard.
“You kept it?”
“My dad closed it up. It hasn’t been touched since… well, it’s been empty for a couple of years.”
Since Grammie Bea died.
He shrugs, but it's not casual. Nothing about this is casual. It’s a direct challenge and we both know it.
“After all this time, seemed wrong to get rid of it. Like throwing away?—”
Like throwing away what we had.
“Okay.”
I won’t throw our past away and he can’t run.
