Suddenly,Who Put theStump in My Rump?starts playing in my head like my brain’s been hijacked by horny elves with direct access to my dirtiest Christmas list.
Laughter bubbles up, borderline hysterical.
“You okay?” Holly asks.
No. Not even close.
Because somehow, getting a stump shoved up my rump no longer sounds like a cautionary tale and more like a Morgan Mountain Daddy side quest I’m spiritually prepared to accept.
“I’m fine,” I say.
Not at all dying inside, my heart and hormones locked in some brutal arm-wrestling match where my hormones went fullOver the Topand slammed my heart into oblivion.
I raise my camera and get back to work.
But my hands shake through each shot, and my heart is somewhere between the beard competition and the boy who looked at those children like they were everything he ever wanted.
The boy I could have given that to.
The boy I let go.
Chapter Twenty
Everett
Two a.m.and the lodge finally stopped screaming at me.
I gave up on sleep an hour ago. Showered. Changed. Draped the Mountain Daddy sash I won in the best beard contest across my chest like the legacy-shaming disgrace my father thinks I am.
You saved the lodge and shamed every Morgan who built it.
Fuck I wish it didn’t still ache.
Merry fucking Christmas to me.
Lamplight burns throughout the lobby and great room. Morgan tradition with a full house. A warm light waiting so no one ever feels alone walking through.
So they feel like this is their lodge as much as ours.
I head for the bar. Okay, maybemostlyours. If I ever find someone behind that counter helping themselves? We’ll revisit the meaning of “hospitality.”
Luckily no one’s crossed that line.
Yet.
I turn the corner, replaying the gray sweatpants night in my head, and she’s there.
Like I conjured her out of the memory.
Only she’s…onthe bar.
Not behind it. Not sitting on one of the stools like a normal person.
No, Sierra Barrett is stretched out on the polished wood like it's a fainting couch in some Victorian drama, her head pillowed on one arm, camera resting on her stomach, fuzzy socks pointing toward the ceiling.
Her flannel hangs open just enough to make my pulse trip, the tank top beneath dipping lower than my sanity can afford.
Her loose hair spills over the edge of the bar and fucking hell—I’m never getting over this.
