Her throat works. For a heartbeat, the fight bleeds out of her. I catch a glimpse of the girl who spent hours in the darkroom, watching photos of this lodge bloom into existence under red light, like magic.
Then she blinks and the armor’s back. Stepping around me, camera swinging around her neck, she studies the light. I’ll need time with this alcove before anyone touches it,” she says briskly. “Fine,” I say. “Youcan have it this afternoon. I’ll hold John off until you’re done.”
“And the wall cover?” she presses. “You’ll let me see what you’re putting up? I need to know what’s happening where.”
“It’s a temporary Christmas mural, not a secret vault,” I say. “But sure. You can inspect the garland for historical accuracy if it makes you feel better.”
Her eyes narrow. “Careful, Morgan. I’m exhausted, probably hungover, and I’m one snowman joke away from declaring your stapler culturally significant and filing an injunction.”
“There it is,” I murmur. “There’s the crazy.”
She flips me off. Very mature. Very on brand.
And god, I’ve missed her.
I watch her stalk off, my chest a mess of heat and ache.
I scrub a hand over my face and head for my office while I wait for Roman, Caleb, and Nolan to join us.
I have three voicemails from vendors worried about our meager orders and what they mean for our contracts. I’ll take those over a father who thinks I’m dismantling his legacy just to make my mark, and a preservation officer who’d happily shackle herself to a baseboard to stop me from changing a light bulb.
Because the truth is simple and heavy and not going anywhere:
The lodge is in my name now. I have investors now. Those investors arefriends—brothers.
And if I’m going to save it—for Dad, for Grammie Bea, for the idiots who fall in love here, for myself—I’m going to have to break a few things first.
Chapter Nine
Sierra
The morning lighthits the alcove like it's auditioning for a starring role in my emotional breakdown.
I've been standing here for twelve minutes with my camera pressed to my face, pretending I'm just documenting any other architecture.
Professional. Sure. That’s me—just a totally composed adult trying not to cry on historic upholstery.
Angle after angle, the soft clicks of my mother’s Leica M3 camera the only comfort as I capture every crack, every worn edge, every place where generations of Morgans left their fingerprints on this wood.
Raw studs lay exposed like bones beneath skin.
The damage is worse than I expected—dark stains bleeding up from the sill, the kind of rot that doesn't announce itself until it's already halfway to catastrophe.
Kind of like feelings you've been ignoring for eleven years.
Focus, Barrett.
I adjust my aperture and frame the shot. The display cabinet still holds Grammie Bea's forty-seven snowmen—for now.
The one from Reykjavik judges me with its coal eyes as though the little turd has receipts.
Yeah, yeah. I know. I'm a mess. Good thing you can’t talk, you judgy little bastard.
I fire off another shot, hiding behind the click because avoidance is totally in season.
Then another.
The shutter’s click is the only thing keeping me grounded right now—that mechanical rhythm I've known since I was eight years old and my mother first pressed a camera into my hands.
