Chapter 3
Brent
The lodge library was quiet except for the scratch of pens and the occasional rustle of paper.
Morning sunlight streamed through the tall windows, catching dust motes in the air and making the space feel almost sacred.
Outside, fresh snow blanketed the pines—the first real snowfall of the season, transforming the lodge into something from a postcard.
I'd claimed a corner desk with a good view of the mountains, but my attention kept drifting to the armchair fifteen feet away where Jason sat with his manuscript pages spread across his lap.
He was muttering dialogue under his breath—a habit I'd noticed yesterday—and the intensity of his focus was both endearing and distracting.
This was our third morning at Elk Haven Lodge and we'd fallen into an easy routine. Morning coffee in our oom, breakfast in the dining room, then retreating to separate corners to work. Except we always seemed to end up in the same room. Finding each other without discussing it.
I turned my attention back to my laptop, where I'd been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes. The words felt hollow. Forced. Everything I wrote lately felt like trying to trick myself into believing I still knew how to do this.
Jason made a frustrated sound. I looked up to find him running his hand through his hair—the gesture that always made it stick up in ways that shouldn't be attractive but were.
"Stuck?" I asked, keeping my voice low so as not to disturb the other writers scattered around the library.
He looked up, and his expression softened. "Always. You?"
"Perpetually." I closed my laptop. "Want to talk through it?"
"We're in a public space." He echoed my words from yesterday with a small smile. "I don't want to monopolize your time."
"You're not." I gathered my things. "Come on. Let's go back to the room."
***
The suite felt different in daylight—more intimate, somehow. Or maybe I was more aware of what this space was becoming for us. A refuge from the having to be on at the retreat. A place where I didn’t have to be B.L. Cross.
We ended up on my bed instead of our usual separate ones, backs against the headboard, legs stretched out toward the window.
The space between us felt casual at first, easy.
Then Jason shifted to get comfortable, and his thigh brushed mine.
I could feel the warmth of him, could catch that scent of cedar soap and him underneath.
Neither of us moved away.
“So what’s the problem?” Jason asked, drawing one knee up and looping an arm around it. The motion brought him even closer, our sides pressed together from shoulder to hip.
I focused on my laptop screen instead of the heat of him against me. "I keep trying to write action—my protagonist making choices, doing things. But every scene feels hollow."
"Because he doesn't know what he wants yet." Jason leaned in to look at my screen. His breath ghosted across my neck, and I forgot what I was saying. "Sorry—can I?"
He reached for my laptop and I passed it to him.
Watched his eyes scan the words I'd written, the small furrow between his brows when he concentrated.
His fingers moved across the trackpad with unconscious grace, and I tracked the movement, remembering how those fingers had brushed mine over coffee mugs and manuscript pages.
"See, here?" He turned the laptop so we could both see and the movement brought his face inches from mine. I could count the faint freckles across his nose. "You have him deciding to leave. But you never show him feeling trapped first. Show us what he's running from."
"That's it." My voice came out rougher than I intended. "That's exactly it."
Jason looked up and suddenly we were too close. His eyes dropped to my mouth for just a fraction of a second before snapping back up. Color flooded his cheeks.
"I should—" He started to pull back, but I caught his wrist without thinking.
"Wait." I didn't know what I was asking him to wait for. I wasn't ready for him to move away yet. "Show me what you mean. About the feeling."
His pulse jumped under my fingers. We both looked down at where I was touching him and I realized I should let go. Should put distance between us. Should remember that he was a retreat participant and I was the instructor and there were about a dozen reasons this was a terrible idea.
I let go.
Jason cleared his throat and turned back to the laptop, but his hands weren't quite steady as he typed. "Like this. Instead of 'he left,' try 'the walls pressed in until he couldn't breathe, until leaving was the only option.' Make us feel it."
I took the laptop back, our fingers brushing again, and started typing.
The words came easier now, flowing in a way they hadn't in months.
Jason went back to his own manuscript, and we fell into that parallel productivity, but I was aware of him beside me.
The sound of his breathing. The occasional shift of his body.
The way his knee would brush against mine and neither of us would move away.
When I finally looked up, I'd written almost two thousand words.
"Holy shit," I said.
"Good session?"
"The best I've had in months." I met his eyes, and the intensity there made my chest tighten. "Thank you. For whatever you did there."
"I asked questions." But his gaze dropped to my mouth again, lingering this time before he forced himself to look away. "We should probably head down. The craft session starts in thirty minutes."
***
The afternoon craft session on structure and pacing went well, despite my distraction. I'd given this particular workshop dozens of times, so I could run on autopilot while my brain kept circling back to Jason.
The way he listened during the session, his intelligent questions that showed he was thinking about the concepts, not trying to impress me.
The way he'd defended my answer when Rebecca tried to pick it apart.
The way he'd caught my eye across the circle and smiled, a small private smile that felt like it was only for me.
My pulse kicked up every time our eyes met. This was a problem.
After the session, people headed to various corners of the lodge. I claimed a spot in the sun room, needing some space to think. But I'd barely opened my laptop when Rebecca appeared.
"Brent, do you have a minute?"
I suppressed a sigh. "Sure. What's up?"
She settled into the chair across from me uninvited. "I wanted to ask your opinion on something. My manuscript—I'm trying to decide if it's commercial thriller or literary thriller. I think it straddles both but my critique group is divided."
For the next twenty minutes, she talked at me about her book, her vision, her concerns about the market. I made appropriate noises and gave constructive feedback, but mostly I wanted her to leave so I could get back to my own work. Or more honestly, so I could find Jason.
I'd spent the entire session aware of where he was in the room, catching glimpses of him talking to Claire, watching him laugh at something she said.
The spike of jealousy had been irrational and immediate, and I'd had to physically stop myself from crossing the room to interrupt their conversation.
Finally, she stood. "Thanks for your time. I know having access to your expertise is such a privilege."
After she left, I sat there staring at my blank document and thinking about how different that conversation had been from the one with Jason this morning.
With Rebecca, I'd felt like a resource to be extracted.
With Jason, I'd felt like a person. Like someone worth knowing beyond what I could do for his career.
"She corner you?" Jason appeared in the doorway, two bottles of water in his hands.
He passed me one, and when our fingers brushed this time, he didn't pull away immediately.
The contact lasted a beat too long, deliberate, before he settled into the chair Rebecca had vacated.
"I saw her making a beeline for you after the session. Figured you might need rescuing."
"How did you know?"
"I've been watching you." The admission came out more intense than he probably meant it to. His cheeks colored. "I mean—you get this look when people are exhausting you. Your smile gets fixed in place and your shoulders tense up."
"You've been paying that much attention?" I couldn't keep the warmth out of my voice.
"Hard not to." His eyes met mine, and electricity crackled between us. "You're kind of... magnetic when you're teaching. The way you talk about craft, it's—" He stopped, looking flustered. "Never mind. That probably sounds weird."
"It doesn't." I leaned forward, elbows on knees, and watched him process that.
"For what it's worth, I've been watching you too.
The way you listen in workshops like every word matters.
How you defend my points when Rebecca tries to pick them apart.
That thing you do with your glasses when you're thinking. "
Jason pushed his glasses up self-consciously and we both laughed. The sound eased some of the tension, but not all of it. The awareness was still there, humming between us.
"Want to hide out here for a bit?" he asked.
"God, yes."
We relaxed into the sunroom's worn leather chairs, angled toward each other. Outside, snow had started falling again, fat flakes drifting past the windows. The room felt separate from the rest of the lodge, insulated. Private.
Jason pulled out his phone, scrolled for a moment, then smiled at something on the screen.
"What?" I asked.
He turned it toward me—a photo of a scruffy golden retriever wearing reindeer antlers, looking deeply offended. "Garrett just sent this. No context, just the photo."
I laughed. "Does he do that often?"
"Constantly. It's his way of checking in without actually checking in." He pocketed the phone, settled deeper into his chair. "What about you? Anyone sending you reality checks?"