We're halfway to the food station when Tara Greene materializes out of nowhere, tablet in hand, that predatory gleam in her eye.
“Sierra! Just who I was looking for.”
My stomach drops. “Oh?”
“The footage we got this morning—the beard competition, the kids, Everett with the craft table—it's gold. Absolute gold.” She's practically vibrating with producer energy.
It’s actually a lot like Caleb’s endless energy. Youknow, if you drained all the good out of it and injected it with human suffering.
“The story is really coming together.”
“That's... great?”
“I want to get a few more shots. You and Everett together. Working the festival.” She taps something on her tablet. “The dynamic between you two is fascinating on camera. Very compelling.”
Holly's arm tightens on mine.
“I don't know what you mean,” I say, voice carefully neutral. “We're both just helping with the event.”
“Of course.” Tara's smile is all teeth. “That's what makes it so interesting. Two people who clearly know each other well, working toward a common goal, all that shared history...”
“Family friends. The Barretts and Morgans go way back.”
“So I've heard.” She glances toward where Everett is trying to extract himself from the child attached to his leg. “Tell me, Sierra—what was it like? Growing up around him?”
The question seems innocent. It's not.
“Normal,” I say. “He was my brothers' friend. I was the annoying little sister. Standard stuff.”
“And now?”
“Now I'm the preservation consultant and he's the client.”
Tara studies me with those sharp eyes. “You know what I've noticed? Neither of you ever says 'just friends.' You say 'family friends' or 'professional colleagues' or 'client and consultant.' But neverjust friends.”
The observation lands too close to home.
“Because we're not friends,” I say, which is technically true. “We're both professionals working toward saving this lodge.”
“Interesting word choice. 'Saving.'” Tara tilts her head. “Most consultants would say 'restoring' or 'preserving.' You said saving. Like it's personal.”
Holly steps in before I can spiral. “Everything at this festival is personal, Tara. That's kind of the point. Family legacy. Community. All the stuff you're here to capture.”
Tara's smile sharpens. “Of course. Well, if I don’t manage to get footage of you together, I’ll find something to fill the space with I’m sure. Thank you both—this has been enlightening.”
She drifts away toward the sausage demonstration, probably to extract confessions from Caleb about his childhood or something equally invasive.
“I hate her,” I mutter.
“She's good at her job,” Holly says. “That's what makes her dangerous.”
Across the lawn, Everett finally frees himself from the clingy child and heads toward the lodge.
He doesn’t look at me as he passes.
But his shoulder brushes mine—barely. Just enough.
My body responds—like a camera on autofocus—twitchy, too sensitive, absolutely useless under pressure.
