Which, naturally, leaves me forever alone—like Chance and Charlie’s sister, Eve, perched on a barstool like she’s either about to pounce or deliver a TED Talk on disappointment.
Alone again post-breakup, she’s sipping something violently pink that matches the streak in her hair—both of which scream bad decisions, great storytelling. She’s quiet now, but her eyes are doing the heavy lifting, scanning the room like she’s mentally scripting a documentary voiceover laced with award-winning sarcasm and zero mercy.
I’m not as cool as Eve.
Then there’s Dixie North next to her—badass roller derby chick, Eve’s teammate, and head of the ski school. She swears like a pirate on a holy day and somehow makes it sound like a sermon.
Definitely not as cool as her either.
And yes, there’s Everett. Behind the bar. Not drinking. Not laughing. Not being fun—at least, not to me. Not anymore.
Despite all the possessive bullshit bubbling up earlier like emotional indigestion, I definitely did not almost accidentally mark my territory like a feral cat. Figuratively, of course.
And even if he thinks I did—he can’t prove it.
So suck that, you bearded pain in my ass.
I force a smile and head toward Uncle Seth, my stomach flipping with every step.
“You look like you saw a ghost,” he says, using his boot to push out a stool for me. “Or a man without a beard. Both equally horrifying.”
“Long day,” I mutter, shrugging out of my vest and hanging it on the hook under the counter.
“Aww, c’mere.”
He slings an arm around me like it’s muscle memory, like he’s still dealing with the kid who used to trail behind him on ski patrol. “You look like you need whiskey or a hug. Probably both.”
Wrapping an arm around his shoulders, I lean in just enough to make sure Everett sees every deliberate second I claim his uncle as my own.
If I’m going down in emotional flames tonight, I’mnot going down alone. Why should I be the only one off balance?
I kiss Seth’s cheek—light, casual, intentional. “I’ll start with the whiskey. But keep the hug supply on standby. Just in case.”
“Everett!” he booms, blissfully unaware he’s basically juggling a live grenade with the pin half-pulled. “Pour something strong for our girl—she’s had a day!”
Our girl.
Everett stumbles on the words.
Direct hit.
Uncle Seth’s got more game than he thinks.
Everett’s shoulders tighten. His jaw ticks.
Oh, good.
Maybe someone else can be emotionally destabilized for a change.
This is what happens when you cross a line with your brothers' best friend. Every memory we share is cross-stitched into the same damn story—even if I'm the idiot who lit the blanket on fire. He doesn’t look at me. Doesn’t speak. Doesn’t acknowledge me as anything beyond oxygen occupying square footage.
But he does pour the whiskey.
And he does set it down a little harder than necessary.
“Here.”
One word.
