Escaping with Brennan (Winter Retreat in Evergreen Lakes #3)

Chapter 1

Avery

The color-coded relaxation itinerary mocks me from the resort nightstand.

I printed it on cardstock. Laminated it. Created a backup digital version synced across three devices. Because I'm the person who needs a detailed schedule to learn how to relax.

My best friends thought this single women’s escape retreat would be good for me.

"You're wound tighter than a courtroom stenographer's fingers," Melissa had said, booking the trip without my permission.

"Seven days at a mountain resort. Spa treatments.

Gentle activities. No briefs, no billable hours, no pressure. "

What she didn't mention: I'd be surrounded by women who've mastered the art of not caring what anyone thinks, while I'm over here having a minor panic attack because the resort's check-in process didn't follow standard hospitality protocols.

I'm a mess.

A professionally dressed, perfectly composed, utterly exhausting mess.

I smooth my cashmere sweater—slate gray, because colors are for people who don't take themselves seriously according to my mother—and head to the welcome orientation in the main lodge. The other retreat women are already gathering, laughing, hugging like old friends even though they just met.

I take a seat in the back, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. Professional. Controlled. Definitely not having an internal crisis about whether I'm fundamentally broken.

The resort staff files in to introduce themselves and the week's activities. I take mental notes: spa coordinator, yoga instructor, ski patrol captain, hiking guide—

And then he walks in.

Late. Hair messy like he just rolled out of bed. Wearing a faded flannel shirt over a thermal, jeans with actual wear on them, boots that have seen actual use. He's tall, broad-shouldered, maybe mid-to-late-thirties, with the casual confidence that comes from not caring what anyone thinks.

He leans against the wall instead of standing with the other staff, arms crossed, expression somewhere between amused and bored.

Everything about him irritates me.

"This is Brennan Shaw," the activities coordinator says with a smile. "Our lead snowmobile guide. He'll be taking you on backcountry tours this week."

Brennan gives a lazy salute. "Hey. Looking forward to showing you ladies the mountains. Fair warning though." His eyes scan the crowd and somehow land on me. "Some of you might find the experience a little too... unpredictable. Mountains don't follow schedules."

Is he looking at me specifically? Am I so uptight that a complete stranger can clock me in under thirty seconds?

My face heats, which makes me angrier. I don't blush. Blushing is for people who care what others think.

"Any questions?" Brennan asks.

A woman in the front raises her hand. "Is the tour suitable for beginners?"

"Absolutely. We'll start easy, work up to more challenging terrain if everyone's comfortable." His gaze drifts back to me. "Though some people prefer to stick to the beginner hills. Which is fine. Safe. Predictable."

Oh, he's definitely talking about me.

The orientation wraps up with a reminder about tomorrow's activities. I'm halfway to the door when I hear, "Hey, Ice Queen."

I freeze. Turn slowly.

Brennan's standing there, that infuriating half-smile on his face. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name. But you've got that look."

"What look?"

"The look that says you've got a printed itinerary color-coded by activity level and meal times."

How dare he. How dare he be completely, humiliatingly accurate.

"My name is Avery Montgomery," I say coldly. "And I don't appreciate assumptions based on—"

"Let me guess. Lawyer?"

I hate that he's right. "Corporate litigation. And before you say whatever condescending thing you're thinking, yes, I'm here to relax. My friends seem to think I need it."

"They're not wrong."

"Excuse me?"

He pushes off the wall, and he's closer, smelling like pine and something woodsy I can't name. "You're holding yourself as if you're about to give closing arguments. We're at a mountain resort, not a courtroom. Try letting go a little."

"I don't need advice from someone who showed up late to his own orientation."

"And I don't need judgment from someone who has an opinion on the thread count of the resort's sheets."

"Eight hundred. And they could be higher quality for what they're charging."

He laughs with surprise and sincerity, which somehow annoys me even more because I noticed it’s a pleasant laugh.

"Alright, Ice Queen. Fair point." He steps back. "I'm leading a snowmobile tour tomorrow at ten. You signed up, right?"

"Yes. And I expect professional conduct during actual activities, even if you can't manage it during orientations."

"Oh, I'm always professional." His smile is wicked. "Question is—can you handle a little adventure? Or are you going to need me to file a flight plan with detailed waypoints and estimated arrival times?"

I want to argue and prove I'm not some uptight city lawyer who can't handle spontaneity.

But I already looked up the snowmobile route online and cross-referenced it with weather patterns and safety statistics.

So instead, I say, "I can handle anything you throw at me."

"We'll see about that." He walks past me, and I catch another whiff of that woodsy scent. "See you tomorrow, counselor. Try not to over-prepare."

I stand there fuming as he leaves, very aware that several other retreat women watched the entire exchange with obvious interest.

Great. Now I'm the uptight lawyer everyone will whisper about.

Back in my room, I stare at my laminated itinerary and fight the urge to throw it in the trash. Brennan Shaw might be an infuriating, unprofessional slacker, but he's not wrong.

I am wound too tight. I do over-control everything. And the thought of a snowmobile tour with no detailed plan makes my chest tighten.

My phone buzzes. Melissa: How's day one? Meet anyone interesting?

Me: The snowmobile guide is insufferable. Called me Ice Queen within five minutes of meeting me.

Melissa: LOL. He's not wrong, though.

Me: Whose side are you on?

Melissa: Yours! Which is why I want you to RELAX this week. Have fun. Be spontaneous. Maybe even flirt a little.

I stare at her message. Flirt. With Brennan Shaw. The man who looked at me like I'm everything wrong with uptight corporate America.

Absolutely not.

Although... There was a moment when he smiled, and something flipped in my stomach. Something I absolutely cannot afford to feel for someone who represents everything I'm not: easy-going, casual, spontaneous, free.

I change into pajamas—matching set, obviously—and climb into bed with case files I shouldn’t have brought on vacation except I did.

But I can't concentrate.

All I can think about is Brennan Shaw's infuriating smile and the challenge in his voice: Can you handle a little adventure?

I'm a litigator. I've handled hostile witnesses, jury trials, opposing counsel who'd sell their souls to win.

Of course, I can handle one snowmobile tour with an unprofessional guide who thinks I'm an Ice Queen.

Right?