Tara notices. Of course she notices. Her smile barely moves, but her eyes sharpen like she's found my soft underbelly.
“I had a lovely conversation with her yesterday,” Tara continues. “She's fascinating. So passionate. So protective.” She pauses, letting the silence stretch. “The way she talked about this lodge... you'd think she owned it herself.”
“She cares about preservation. It's her job.”
“It's more than a job to her. We both know that.” Tara shifts in her chair, angling toward me like she's about to share a secret. “She corrected me before you could. Fifth generation, not fourth. That's not casual knowledge, Everett. That's someone who's been paying very close attention to your family for a very long time.”
“The Barretts and Morgans go way back.”
“So I've heard. Multiple times now. It's becoming a bit of a refrain.” She scrolls through her tablet. “Here's what interests me. Sierra Barrett. Twenty-eight years old. Successful career. Beautiful woman, by any measure. And according to my research, she’s never had a serious relationship.”
My pulse kicks up. “I don't see how that's relevant.”
“Don't you?” Tara looks up. “A woman that passionate. That present. That deeply connected to a place—and she's been alone for eleven years? That's not career focus, Everett. That's someone waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“That's what I'm trying to figure out.” She sets down her tablet. “What was Sierra like growing up? You knew her, right? Your best friends' baby sister.”
Shy. Fierce. Hiding behind her camera until she trusted you enough to lower it. The most beautiful thing I'd ever seen, even before I understood what that meant.
“She was always around,” I say carefully. “Part of the furniture, you know? Roman and Caleb's kid sister tagging along.”
“Part of the furniture.” Tara repeats the phrase slowly. “That's an interesting way to describe someone you're now working closely with. Very... detached.”
“We're professional colleagues.”
“So Sierra said. Almost word for word, actually.” She smiles. “You two are very aligned in your messaging. Almost like you prepared your answers together.”
The trap snaps shut around my ankle.
“We didn't.”
“I believe you.” She doesn't sound like she believes me. “Here's what I think, Everett. I think something happened. Between you and Sierra. A long time ago. Something neither of you has ever told anyone.”
A cold flush rolls through me. “That's quite an assumption.”
“I'm very good at assumptions. They're usually right.” She leans forward. “The way she looks at that window seat. The way you tensed when I said her name. The way you've both been single for over a decade despite being—let's be honest—extremely eligible.” She spreads her hands. “Those are facts that don't quite add up to a story. But they will.”
“There's no story.”
“There's always a story.” She stands, smoothing her clothes. “You know what I noticed during my interview with Sierra? She touched her mouth twice when I asked about romantic history. Right here.” She presses two fingers to her lower lip. “That's a tell. People touch their mouths when they're thinking about kissing someone.”
I don't move. Don't breathe. Don't give her a goddamn thing.
“The festival is the story,” I say, voice flat. “Heritage. Community. The lodge staying open. That's what we're here for.”
Tara collects her tablet, tucking it under her arm.
“Of course it is.” She pauses at the door, turning back with that sharp, hunting smile. “Oh, one more thing. I found something interesting in the lodge's oldsocial media archives. Some kind of holiday party, years back.”
She pulls out her phone, scrolls, and turns it toward me.
The photo is grainy. Low resolution. A crowded room full of people I half-recognize from a lifetime ago.
And in the background—barely visible, easily overlooked—two figures standing too close together near a window.
Sierra and me. Not looking at the camera. Looking at each other.
