“But,” Roman continues, because there's always a but with him, “we also can't pretend yesterday didn't happen. The brand is out there now. #MountainDaddyTour exists whether you like it or not.”
“I'm aware.” God, am I aware. I've seen the memes. I've seen the TikToks. I've seen things that will haunt me until I die, and probably after. “But what happened yesterday is never happening again.”
“Define 'what happened yesterday.'” Caleb's eyes narrow. “Because the torchlit tour was a hit. The storytelling angle worked. The?—”
“The fake plaques. The made-up history. The suggestion that my ancestors had the collective staminaof a Roman orgy.” I tick them off on my fingers. “All of that? Done. Over. We're not doing it anymore.”
Silence falls over the office.
Nolan finally speaks from his post by the window. “So what do you want to do instead?”
“Real stories. Real history.” I push off the desk and pace . “This lodge has over a century of actual history. Scandals, love stories, family drama—all of it real. We don't need to make shit up.”
“And I get that, but we’re going to have to tread carefully. Last night happened.”
“Last night was completely out of control.” I spin on them and brace my hands on my desk. “You ever know me to drink whiskey straight from the bottle in public? At my own fucking lodge where anyone can see me?”
“No. But here’s the thing, we need a balance. We can’t do a complete one-eighty. People will think it’s bait and switch. Cheap bait and switch at that.” Nolan slides his hands in his pockets. “I know you hate where we are, but we have to find a balance or this blows up in a whole different way.”
“People responded to the humor,” Caleb argues. “The irreverence. If we go back to dry history lectures?—”
“I'm not saying dry. I'm saying honest.” I turn back to face them. “You want to lean into the 'rugged mountain men' thing? Fine. But it has to be true. The Morgans were loggers, builders, bootleggers during Prohibition—there's plenty of real material to work with.”
“Bootleggers?”Caleb's ears perk up. “Now you're talking.”
“My point is that we can be entertaining without being dishonest. The atmosphere stuff—the torches, the storytelling, the experience—that can stay. But the content needs to be real.” I meet each of their eyes in turn. “You're investors. I respect that. But this is my name on the building. My family's legacy. And I'm not going to let it become a joke just because jokes trend.”
Roman nods slowly. “That's fair.”
“I can work with bootleggers,” Caleb concedes. “Prohibition-era scandals have potential. Forbidden liquor. Secret stashes. Very romantic.”
“I’m really starting to hate that fucking word, Caleb. Find a new one.” I sweep my gaze over all three of them. “And tonight's fireside storytelling needs to be actual stories,” I add. “Not 'which ancestor had the biggest?—'”
“Got it.” Caleb grins. “No more dick jokes. At least not in the official programming.”
“Official programming is almost as bad as romantic. Cut it out.”
“There’s something else,” Nolan says as he pushes off from the window frame.
The way he says it makes my stomach clench.
“Tara Greene pulled me aside this morning,” he continues. “Asked about Sierra. How long she's been working with you. Whether your relationship is purely professional.”
The air in the room changes.
Roman's eyes sharpen.
Caleb goes uncharacteristically still.
“And? What’s your point?” My voice comes out even. Calm. The bartender mask, firmly in place.
“I told her that Sierra's a professional doing a job. That the Barretts and the Morgans have been friends for decades. That there's nothing to find because there's nothing there.” Nolan's gaze holds mine a beat too long. “Is there?”
The question hangs in the air.
It’s too close. It’s all too close.
How long have I wanted to just tell them. How long have I hoped we’d just fucking get caught so we could stop hiding.
