Chapter 5
Brent
I woke up with Jason Foster in my arms.
Not literally—we were in separate beds, the suite's morning light painting stripes across the hardwood floor between us.
But I'd woken thinking about him, which was essentially the same thing.
Thinking about the way he'd kissed me last night like he'd been waiting his whole life to do it.
The way he'd smiled against my mouth, breathless and beautiful and undone.
The way I'd felt more real in his arms than I had in months.
I rolled over and looked at his bed. Empty, but recently vacated—the covers were thrown back, his glasses sitting on the nightstand. The bathroom door was closed, water running softly behind it.
Day five at Elk Haven Lodge. Three days left of this retreat, this suspended reality where I got to be someone other than B.L. Cross. Three days left with him.
I should get up, but instead I lay there watching the bathroom door.
The door opened, and Jason emerged in a cloud of steam, wearing jeans and a soft blue sweater that brought out his eyes behind those glasses. His hair was damp and slightly messy, curling at the ends where he'd missed with the towel.
He looked unfairly good for six-something in the morning. Our eyes met, and a smile spread across his face—shy but pleased, like he couldn't help it.
"Morning," he said softly.
"Morning." I sat up, running a hand through my hair. "You're up early."
"Old habits." He moved to the kitchenette. "Coffee?"
"God, yes."
I watched him make coffee, and when he brought me a mug, our fingers brushed. Heat sparked between us at the simple contact.
"Thanks," I managed.
"Welcome." He retreated to his bed with his own mug, maintaining careful distance. But he was smiling, this private smile that made me want to cross the room and mess up his hair again.
"So," he said after a moment. "This is going to be interesting."
"Interesting how?"
"Continuing to try to act normal during workshops when all I'm going to be thinking about is kissing you again and again."
"I have the same problem." I grinned. "Except I'm supposed to be the professional instructor, so it's even worse for me."
"True. Though you did manage to teach for four days while wanting to kiss me, so you've got practice. And you made it through yesterday."
"Fair point." I took a sip of coffee. "Though now that I know what kissing you is really like, it's going to be much harder."
His smile turned wicked. "Good."
I laughed and stood, stretching. "Good. Okay. Shower. Character motivation workshop. Pretending to be B.L. Cross instead of a guy who spent half the night making out with his roommate."
"You say that like those are mutually exclusive."
"Jason."
"What? I'm saying, maybe B.L. Cross is more fun than you give him credit for."
I threw a pillow at him. He caught it, laughing, and the sound made my chest ache in the best way.
***
By the time we made our way down to breakfast, we'd fallen into an easy rhythm of careful distance. We walked together but not too close. Talked but kept our conversation appropriately casual.
The dining room was transformed this morning—someone had hung garland wrapped in white lights along the windows and the scent of gingerbread and coffee filled the air.
Christmas music played softly in the background.
It should have felt festive, but all I could focus on was maintaining the right amount of distance from Jason.
When we filled our plates at the buffet, we didn't sit together—I ended up at a table with a few of the more advanced writers, while Jason joined his usual group with Claire and Marcus.
But twice, across the dining hall, our eyes met. And both times, I looked away before I smiled too obviously.
Rebecca Thorn, unfortunately, missed nothing.
"You seem relaxed today," she said, appearing at my elbow with predatory timing. "The mountain air must agree with you."
"It does." I kept my voice neutral, polite but not encouraging.
"Or maybe it's the company?" She glanced pointedly toward Jason's table. "I've noticed you and Mr. Foster have become quite friendly. You walked down together this morning. And yesterday. And the day before that."
So she was keeping track. Of course she was.
"We're roommates," I said easily. "Hard not to run into each other."
"Mm." She leaned in slightly, like we were sharing confidences. "Still. It must be nice having a built-in workshop partner. Very convenient. He seems so... attentive to your feedback."
I recognized the fishing expedition for what it was. Rebecca had been angling for one-on-one attention since day one—sitting next to me at every session, asking questions designed to keep me talking to her specifically, finding excuses to catch me in hallways.
"Jason's a talented writer," I said, keeping my tone professional but cool. "So are several people here."
"Of course." She smiled, undeterred. "Though I did notice him slipping out of the social early last night. And you leaving not five minutes after. I thought maybe you two had a late workshop session planned?"
There it was—the pointed question wrapped in innocence. Not accusatory exactly, but making sure I knew she'd noticed. Making sure I knew she could mention it to others if she wanted.
I met her eyes steadily. "I'm not sure why you're tracking people's movements, Rebecca, but I'd left some notes in my room that I needed."
"Oh, I'm not tracking anyone." She laughed lightly. "Just observant. It's the writer in me, I suppose."
She drifted away, looking pleased with herself, and I felt the irritation settle in my chest. Not fear—there was nothing actually wrong with what Jason and I were doing—but frustration at having something private turned into potential gossip fodder.
Whatever was happening between us was too new, too uncertain to have Rebecca Thorn narrating it to the rest of the group.
When I risked another glance at Jason's table, he was deep in conversation with Claire, unaware of Rebecca's commentary.
I intended to keep it that way.
***
The morning session was an exercise in restraint.
I'd taught this material dozens of times—character motivation, internal versus external goals, how to craft satisfying character arcs.
I could do it in my sleep. But with Jason sitting in the third row, looking at me with those intelligent eyes behind his glasses, taking careful notes in his neat handwriting, every word felt charged with double meaning.
When I talked about characters making choices that revealed their deepest desires, I was thinking about him kissing me in the moonlight. When I discussed internal conflict, I was thinking about the way he'd looked at me this morning—wanting to touch but holding back.
Halfway through, I made the mistake of calling on him.
"Jason, what would you say is the central internal conflict for your protagonist?"
He looked up from his notes, and for a second heat flickered in his expression—memory, want, affection. Then he collected himself, and when he answered, his voice was professional and thoughtful.
"He's caught between his fear of being seen as weak and his desire for real connection. He's built this whole identity around being self-sufficient, but what he really wants is to let someone in. To be known."
"Exactly." I had to clear my throat before continuing. "And that tension—between what we show the world and what we secretly want—that's where the real story lives."
Our eyes held for a beat too long. Then I forced myself to look away, to call on someone else, to keep the workshop moving.
But I felt the weight of his gaze for the rest of the session as I fielded other questions.
"But how do you show that internal conflict without just telling us what the character is thinking?"
"Good question." I paced to the other side of the circle, putting more distance between Jason and me.
"You show it through contradiction. What a character says versus what they do.
The choices they make when they think no one's watching.
The small moments that reveal the truth beneath the performance. "
Rebecca was watching me with that calculating expression again. I ignored her and called on Claire instead.
"Claire, in your manuscript, your protagonist claims she doesn't want to get married. But what does she actually do?"
"She keeps a wedding Pinterest board," Claire said, smiling. "That she thinks her boyfriend doesn't know about."
"Perfect. That contradiction tells us everything about her internal conflict. She wants the commitment but is afraid to admit it. To herself or to him."
I glanced at Jason again—couldn't help it—and found him looking right back at me. The corner of his mouth quirked up slightly, and I had to look away before anyone noticed.
By the time we broke for lunch, my nerves were frayed from the constant attention.
***
The rest of the afternoon dragged. We did scene work, discussed pacing, and I managed to keep my eyes from seeking out Jason more than I should have.
But God, it was hard.
Every time someone asked a question, I glanced his way to see his reaction. When he raised his hand to contribute, my pulse jumped. And once, when he met my eyes across the room and smiled—that small, secret smile that was only for me—I completely lost my train of thought mid-sentence.
By the time the evening social rolled around, I was exhausted from the effort of pretending. From keeping my distance when all I wanted to do was pull him into a corner and kiss him until neither of us could breathe.
Someone had decorated the great room with more lights, and the scent of mulled wine and cinnamon filled the air. Holiday music played—jazzy versions of Christmas classics. The holiday season was taking over and people clustered in small groups, wine glasses in hand, talking shop and laughing.