Christmas Hideaway (Juniper Bluff Christmas #4)

Chapter 1

Brent

I should have known my agent was up to something when she led with "trust me."

I shifted my phone to my other ear, navigating through Denver traffic toward the mountains. "Cassandra, I appreciate your concern, but I don't need to 'reconnect with my creative spirit' or whatever self-help podcast you've been binging."

"It's not self-help, it's business." I could hear the eye roll in her voice. "You haven't turned in a new manuscript in eighteen months. Your publisher is getting antsy. And the last three proposals you sent me were—"

"Garbage. I know." I merged onto the highway, watching the city skyline shrink in my rearview mirror. "That's why I didn't submit them."

"Exactly. Which is why this retreat is perfect. One week. No distractions. You and other writers who understand what it's like."

I'd reluctantly agreed three weeks ago, mostly because Cassandra was right—I was creatively bankrupt.

Every thriller I outlined felt like a pale imitation of my previous work.

Every character felt hollow. The truth was, I didn't want to write another B.L.

Cross commercial thriller. I wanted to write work that mattered.

But that wasn't what my six-figure contracts paid for.

"Fine," I'd told her. "But I'm using my real name. I'm not doing this as B.L. Cross."

"Even better." She'd sounded far too pleased. "More authentic that way."

Now, two hours later, I pulled into the circular drive of Elk Haven Lodge, regretting every decision that had led me here.

The retreat center was admittedly beautiful—a sprawling timber-and-stone structure nestled among towering pines, warm light spilling from every window.

Expensive. The kind of place that charged three thousand dollars a week for the privilege of sitting in a room with other writers and pretending we all knew what we were doing.

I grabbed my duffel from the passenger seat and headed inside.

The main lodge was everything the website had promised: soaring ceilings with exposed beams, a massive stone fireplace crackling with fresh wood, and enough cozy writing nooks to make even the most antisocial author feel inspired.

A handful of people milled around the check-in area, clutching tote bags and looking nervous, excited, or both.

"Mr. Lafferty!" A woman in her fifties with short gray hair and an enthusiastic smile rushed over. "We're so thrilled to have you. I'm Danica Hale, the retreat director."

"Please, just Brent." I shook her hand, feeling the familiar weight of being "on." This was why I'd wanted to come as myself, not as B.L. Cross. I needed a break from performing.

"Of course, of course." Danica beamed. "We've prepared a private room for you, naturally, and—"

"I registered under standard accommodations," I interrupted gently. "Shared room is fine."

Her eyes widened. "Oh! Well, if you're sure. We do have the space available if you'd prefer—"

"Shared is fine." I repeated it partly because I didn't want special treatment, but mostly because a roommate meant accountability. Someone to notice if I spent the entire week staring at a blank screen.

Danica's smile returned, though uncertain. "Wonderful! Let me grab your packet."

While she bustled off, I surveyed the other arrivals. A woman in her forties studied the welcome board with intense concentration. A younger guy, maybe mid-twenties, photographed the architecture. Two women were deep in conversation about their works-in-progress.

People who probably still loved writing. Who hadn't turned it into a cynical machine for churning out predictable plots and cardboard characters.

I was going to hate this week.

"Here we are!" Danica returned with a folder stuffed with papers. "You're in Suite Seven, which you'll be sharing with—" She consulted her list. "Brent Lafferty. Oh! That's you. Sorry." She laughed at herself. "Your roommate is Jason Foster. He hasn't checked in yet but should be here soon."

"Thanks." I took the folder and room key. Danica's hand landed on my arm.

"Oh, one more thing." Her eyes sparkled with poorly contained excitement. "We'll be announcing the surprise at tonight's welcome dinner. I think everyone will be very pleased."

Wonderful. Surprises. Exactly what I needed.

I made my way up the wide staircase to the second floor, found Suite Seven at the end of the hall, and let myself in.

The suite was more spacious than I'd expected—a living area with a loveseat and armchair arranged around a coffee table, and a compact kitchenette in one corner.

Mini fridge, microwave, two-burner stove top with a kettle waiting.

The bedroom beyond held two queen beds separated by matching nightstands and a desk beneath the window.

Everything was done in warm woods and soft grays. It smelled like cedar and cinnamon.

I dropped my duffel on the loveseat and moved to the bedroom window. The sun was starting to set behind the peaks, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Beautiful. Peaceful.

Everything I'd supposedly come here to find.

My phone buzzed. A text from Rob, my ex: Hope the retreat goes well. You've got this.

I stared at the message for a long moment before typing back a simple Thanks and shoving the phone into my pocket.

Rob meant well. The breakup three months ago had been mutual, amicable even—we'd both been too busy with our respective careers to maintain a relationship.

But his concern still felt like a reminder of everything I'd let slip through my fingers while chasing bestseller lists.

I moved back to the living area and unpacked my laptop. Voices drifted down the hallway. The suite door opened and I turned.

A man stood in the doorway, arms full of notebooks and what looked like an entire manuscript printed and bound with binder clips.

Sandy brown hair stuck up in the back like he'd been running his hands through it.

Dark glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose.

He tried to push them up with his arm since his hands were full—an earnestly awkward gesture that made my chest tighten unexpectedly.

He was cute. The thought caught me off guard. I hadn't expected to notice anyone that way this week. But there was appeal in the combination of his slightly rumpled academic look and the determined set of his jaw as he wrestled with his precarious load.

"Oh." He froze when he saw me. His eyes—soft gray-blue behind his glasses—widened. "Hi. Sorry. I'm—this is Suite Seven, right?"

"It is." I moved to help him with the stack, and when I took the manuscript our fingers brushed. Brief, but I noticed the warmth of his skin, the ink stains on his fingertips. "I'm Brent. Looks like we're roommates."

"Jason." He let me take the manuscript. Up close I could see faint freckles across his nose, barely visible.

The kind of detail I'd normally file away for a character, except I was acutely aware this wasn't research.

"Jason Foster. Thanks. I always overpack when it comes to—" He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze catching on my face.

Recognition dawned. "Wait. You're... are you Brent Lafferty? "

My stomach sank. So much for anonymity. "Guilty."

"As in B.L. Cross?" His voice went up. "The B.L. Cross who wrote the Redline series?"

"That would be me." I set his manuscript on the desk in the bedroom, bracing for the inevitable fanboy enthusiasm or, worse, the litany of questions about plot twists and character motivations.

But Jason stood there, blinking at me like I'd appeared out of thin air. Then his expression shifted into disbelief. Not star-struck excitement—closer to wonder. "And we're... roommates?"

"Apparently." I tried for a smile. "Hope that's not a problem."

"No! No, not at all. I—" He set his remaining bags down and ran a hand through his hair, which only made it stick up more.

The gesture drew my attention to the line of his shoulders, the way his sweater hung on his frame.

I looked away. "I'm sorry. I'm being weird.

I finished Shadow Protocol last week, and it's in my top five thrillers of all time, so this is. .. unexpected."

There it was—the praise that should have felt good but instead made me tired. Because I knew exactly how that book ended, knew every trick I'd used to manipulate the reader's emotions, and couldn't remember a single moment of writing it that had felt genuine.

"Thanks," I said, because what else was there to say? "I appreciate that."

Jason seemed to sense my discomfort because he quickly changed tack, moving through the living area to the bedroom and the unclaimed bed.

He started unpacking and I tried not to watch the economical way he moved, organizing his space with care.

"So you're here for the retreat too? I guess that makes sense.

Even professionals probably need... I don't know, creative renewal or whatever they're calling it. "

"Or whatever they're calling it." I watched him organize his notebooks on the nightstand—color-coded. Three different ones. "What about you? What are you working on?"

"Oh, um." He pushed his glasses up again, a gesture I was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit. The self-consciousness of it made him more endearing. "Literary fiction. Small-town character study. Nothing as exciting as international espionage."

"Literary fiction isn't nothing," I said, surprised by the defensive note in my voice. "It's harder than what I write."

Jason glanced at me and I saw his expression shift—surprise, maybe, or appreciation. When he smiled, it transformed his whole face, softening the anxious energy into warmth. "That's... generous of you to say."