Chapter 4
Jason
I woke to the sound of Brent's phone buzzing insistently on his nightstand. In the gray pre-dawn light, I could see him fumble for it, squinting at the screen before silencing it with a frustrated sigh.
"Sorry," he muttered, his voice rough with sleep. "My agent. She forgets about time zones."
"It's okay." I pushed myself up on one elbow, watching him scrub a hand over his face. His hair was sticking up in ways that made my fingers itch to smooth it down. "You okay?"
"Yeah." He looked at his phone again, then set it face-down on the nightstand with more force than necessary.
"She wants to know when I'm turning in pages. Like being at a retreat means I should magically have a book written. Even though she’s the one who signed me up to teach instead of just write. "
There was an edge to his voice I hadn't heard before—frustration bordering on anger. Not at me, but at the pressure weighing on him even here, even in this space that was supposed to be a refuge.
"Want to talk about it?" I asked.
He looked at me for a long moment, vulnerability crossing his face. "Not really. But thanks."
We lay there in the growing light. I wanted to say something comforting. Wanted to cross that space between our beds and—
No. Not helpful.
"Coffee?" I offered instead.
His expression softened. "God, yes."
***
We moved through our morning routine with the ease of people who'd been doing this for weeks instead of days. I made coffee while he showered. He emerged in running clothes and when I raised an eyebrow, he shrugged.
"Need to clear my head. Want to come?"
I considered the manuscript pages waiting for me, the workshop later this morning. Then I looked at his face—the tension around his eyes, the tight set of his jaw.
"Give me five minutes."
The morning air was crisp and cold, our breath fogging as we stretched on the lodge's front steps.
Fresh snow had fallen overnight, blanketing the pines and turning the world into something from a Christmas card.
Other writers were still sleeping, the lodge quiet except for sounds from the kitchen where staff prepared breakfast.
"I haven't run in months," I admitted as we started down the path that wound through the pines. "Fair warning, I might die."
Brent laughed and some of the tension left his shoulders. "We'll take it easy. I need to move."
We fell into a comfortable pace, feet crunching on the snow-dusted trail, mountains rising around us in shades of gray and green.
For the first ten minutes, we didn't talk.
But I was aware of him beside me—the rhythm of his breathing, the way he moved with easy athletic grace that I wasn't matching.
"So your agent," I said when we slowed at a steep incline. "She's really pushing?"
"She's always pushing. That's her job." He paused to catch his breath, hands on hips, looking out at the view of the valley below.
"She practically manipulated me into coming here, said it would be good for my creative process.
Now she's worried I'm proving her wrong.
Wasting time instead of writing the next B.L.
Cross thriller like I'm supposed to—" He stopped.
"Supposed to what?"
He was quiet for a moment, and I watched him work through it.
"I think she hoped I'd find clarity here. Figure out what comes next for B.L. Cross." He turned to face me, and the vulnerability in his expression made my chest ache. "But all I can think about is being here. With you."
The words hung between us, weighted with meaning. I was suddenly aware that we were alone on this trail, that the lodge was a twenty-minute run behind us, that if I stepped closer—
"Jason." His voice was low, rough. A warning or an invitation, I couldn't tell.
"We should keep going," I said, even though everything in me wanted to stay right here, in this moment. "Before I die on this mountain."
He smiled, but disappointment flickered in his eyes. "Come on. There's a viewpoint ahead. Worth the climb."
He was right. Ten minutes later, we emerged onto an outcropping of rock with a view that stole what little breath I had left.
The sun was breaking over the eastern peaks, painting the sky in shades of rose and gold.
The valley below was a patchwork of snow and shadow, and the air was so cold it burned my lungs.
"Wow," I breathed.
"Yeah." But when I glanced at him, he was looking at me instead of the view.
My pulse jumped. "Brent—"
"I know." He looked away, jaw tight. "I know we can't. That there are a dozen reasons this is a terrible idea. But I'm having a really hard time remembering what those reasons are when you look at me like that."
"Like what?"
"Like I'm not B.L. Cross. Like I'm Brent and that he's enough."
The rawness in his voice undid me. I took a step closer, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him despite the cold morning air. "You are enough. You've always been enough."
"Jason." My name was half plea, half prayer. "If we do this—if we cross this line—there's no going back."
"I know."
"You live in Colorado. I live in New York. This ends in four days." His voice caught. "How does this not just become something that hurts?"
"I don't know," I admitted. "But I know I can't spend the next three days pretending I don't feel this. Pretending I don't—" I stopped, the words caught in my throat.
"Don't what?" He stepped closer. We were inches apart now, his breath ghosting across my face.
"Want you," I whispered. "I want you."
For a heartbeat, neither of us moved. Then his hand came up to cup my face, his thumb brushing across my cheekbone. I stopped breathing.
"We should get back," he said, but he didn't move. His thumb traced my jawline, his eyes dark and intense. "We have the workshop in two hours."
"We should," I agreed, but I was leaning into his touch, my eyes drifting closed.
"Jason." His voice was strained. "If you don't step back right now, I'm going to kiss you."
I opened my eyes and met his gaze. "What if I don't want to step back?"
The sound he made was half groan, half laugh. "You're killing me."
"Good." I was emboldened by his reaction, by the way his hand was still cupping my face like I was precious. "Because you've been killing me since I walked into that suite four days ago."
"Four days," he repeated, like he couldn't believe it. "It feels like longer."
"Or shorter. I can't tell anymore." I reached up and covered his hand with mine, holding it against my face. "Time feels different with you."
"We really should get back." But his other hand had found my hip, his fingers pressing into me through my running clothes.
"Probably."
Neither of us moved.
Then voices echoed up the trail—other early risers—and we sprang apart. By the time two women from the retreat appeared around the bend, Brent and I were standing a respectable distance apart, both breathless in ways that had nothing to do with the run.
"Beautiful view," one of them said cheerfully.
"Yeah," I managed. "It really is."
***
The run back to the lodge was faster, more urgent. Neither of us spoke, but the tension between us crackled with every accidental brush of our arms, every stolen glance.
We slowed to a walk as we approached the lodge, both breathing hard.
"Jason." Brent caught my wrist, stopping me on the front steps. His thumb found my pulse point, and I knew he could feel how fast my heart was racing. "Tonight. After the evening session. Can we talk? Really talk about this?"
"Yes." My voice came out rough. "We need to."
He nodded, then let go of my wrist and headed inside. I stood there for a moment, trying to get myself under control, trying to remember how to be normal when everything had shifted.
***
The morning workshop was torture. Brent was teaching about dialogue—subtext, what characters weren't saying—and I had to sit there listening to him talk about unspoken desire and longing while trying not to make eye contact.
Every example felt like it was meant for me.
Every observation about what lay beneath the surface of conversations felt pointed.
Rebecca kept shooting me suspicious looks. Claire smiled knowingly.
"The best dialogue," Brent said, and his eyes found mine across the circle, "is what happens between the words. What the characters want to say but can't. What they're feeling but won't admit."
I looked away before I did anything obvious. Like crossed the room and kissed him in front of everyone.
After the workshop, people headed to lunch. I grabbed a sandwich and escaped to the suite, needing space to think. To process what had almost happened on that trail.
I was sitting on my bed, manuscript pages spread around me but ignored, when the door opened.
Brent stood in the doorway, still in his workshop clothes, looking as wrecked as I felt.
"We're alone," he said.
"We are."
He closed the door behind him and leaned against it, hands shoved in his pockets like he didn't trust himself. "This morning—"
"I know."
"If those people hadn't shown up—"
"I know."
He pushed off the door and crossed to sit on his own bed, facing me. Close but not touching. For a moment, neither of us spoke. He looked down at his hands, then back up at me.
"I've been thinking about what you said. About not being able to pretend for the next three days."
My heart hammered against my ribs. "And?"
"And I can't either." He ran a hand through his hair, messing it up. "I've been trying to convince myself this is because we’re sharing space, focused on the retreat. The intensity of being in a creative space together. But it's not. Is it?"
"No," I said quietly. "It's not."
"I like you, Jason. Really like you. And it's terrifying because I don't know what to do with that."
I set aside my papers and moved to the edge of my bed, close enough now that our knees were almost touching. My mouth went dry. "What do you want to do with it?"