Chapter 2
Brennan
She's wearing expensive snow gear that looks like it came straight from an REI catalog—designer, fitted, in coordinated shades of navy and gray. With her dark hair pulled back in a sleek ponytail and minimal but flawless makeup, she studies the snowmobiles like she’s about to take the bar exam on Arctic Cat specifications.
I should not find this attractive.
But I do, which pisses me off.
Ten years ago, I was her. High-strung, over-achieving, burning myself out in a Seattle finance job that paid well and killed my soul. It took a full breakdown at twenty-eight to realize I was living someone else's definition of success.
So I moved to Evergreen Lakes, became a snowmobile guide, and built a life around not caring too much. Not investing too deeply. Not letting intensity back in.
Which is why Avery Montgomery bothers me. She reminds me of everything I left behind. Everything I don't want to become again.
"Morning, counselor," I call out. "Sleep well? Or were you up late researching avalanche safety protocols?"
She turns, and for a second I see something vulnerable flash across her face before the Ice Queen mask snaps back into place. "Good morning, Mr. Shaw. I slept fine. And yes, I reviewed the safety protocols. They're adequate, though I have some questions about—"
"Of course you do. And call me Brennan."
Her jaw tightens. "Is there a problem with guests being informed, Brennan?"
"No problem at all. I love when people show up on my tours having already decided they know better than the guide with ten years of experience."
"That's not what I—" She stops, takes a visible breath. "I'm trying to be prepared. That's not a character flaw."
"Never said it was."
"You implied it."
"I implied you might have more fun if you let someone else be in control for a few hours."
The air between us goes electric for a second. Her cheeks flush, and I realize how that sounded.
Before I can clarify, the other retreat women arrive in a chattering group, and the moment breaks.
I run through the safety briefing with practiced efficiency, demonstrating controls, reviewing hand signals, establishing our route. Avery asks three technical questions, all of which are smart, which irritates me further.
Time for partner assignments. The resort policy is to pair guests with guides on lead sleds for safety.
"Avery, you're with me," I announce, watching her stiffen.
"I'd prefer—"
"You'd prefer to ride with someone else? Unfortunately, I'm the lead guide, and you signed up for the advanced route. So unless you want to switch to the beginner tour..." I let the challenge hang.
She meets my eyes, and I see the exact moment she decides she'd rather endure my company than admit defeat. "Fine. Let's go."
Getting her onto the snowmobile behind me is an exercise in patience. She climbs on like she's afraid of touching me, maintaining a solid three inches of space between us.
"You'll need to hold on tighter than that," I say over my shoulder.
"I'm fine."
"Suit yourself."
I start the engine and pull out onto the trail. We're maybe thirty seconds in when I take the first turn and Avery gasps, grabbing my waist.
Her hands are tight against my jacket, her body pressed against my back, and—nope. Not thinking about that. Not thinking about how she's all soft curves despite the professional armor. Not thinking about the little sound she made when we hit that turn.
Focus on the trail, Shaw.
The morning is perfect with the powder-blue sky, fresh snow glittering in sunlight, mountains rising like sentinels. The other sleds follow in formation as I lead us through the backcountry, navigating terrain I know like my own heartbeat.
And slowly, incrementally, I feel Avery relax.
Her death grip loosens. Her posture softens. She leans into the turns instead of fighting them, trusting the machine and, whether she'll admit it, trusting me.
We stop at a scenic overlook twenty minutes in. The women dismount, exclaiming over the view, taking photos. Avery climbs off my sled, and her face is transformed.
Windswept. Flushed. Alive.
She's not beautiful in a conventional magazine way. She's striking. Sharp features, intelligent eyes, full curves that her expensive snow gear can't hide. And when she smiles, looking out at the valley—
Damn it.
"That was..." She trails off, searching for words.
"Fun?" I supply. "Exhilarating? Unplanned?"
Her smile fades. "I was going to say amazing. But sure, mock me for being impressed."
I feel like an ass. "Sorry. That wasn't fair."
She looks surprised at the apology. "It's fine. I'm used to people thinking I'm uptight."
"You're not uptight. You're..." I search for the right word. "Controlled. There's a difference."
"Is there?"
"Yeah. Uptight is being wound tight for no reason. Controlled is being wound tight because you're scared of what happens if you let go."
Her eyes widen, and I realize I've hit something true.
Before she can respond, one of the other women calls out, "Hey, you two! Smile for a photo!"
We turn, and I'm very aware of how close we're standing. Avery's looking at me like I just said something significant.
The camera clicks, and the moment breaks.
"Can I ask you something?" Avery says as we walk back to the sleds.
"Shoot."
"Why did you call me Ice Queen? You don't even know me."
Fair question. Complicated answer.
"Because you reminded me of someone I used to be," I admit. "And I wasn't ready to deal with that."
"Who were you?"
"A finance guy in Seattle. Worked eighty-hour weeks, had an ulcer at twenty-six, a breakdown at twenty-eight. Moved here to rebuild. Decided never to care that much about anything again."
She's quiet for a moment. "And now?"
"Now I lead snowmobile tours and go home to a quiet cabin and don't let things get complicated."
"That sounds..." She hesitates. "Lonely."
"It's peaceful."
"Same thing sometimes."
Before I can respond, we're mounting up again. This time, Avery doesn't hesitate wrapping her arms around my waist and settling against my back like she belongs there.
Which is dangerous thinking.
The return route is more challenging with steeper terrain, tighter turns, requiring actual skill and trust. It’s just us and another guide and his charge since we’re doing the more advanced trek.
I navigate carefully, hyperaware of Avery behind me, the way she moves with the machine now instead of fighting it.
At one sharp turn, she laughs—pure, delighted sound that does things to my chest.
Back at the resort, the women dismount, chattering excitedly. Several thank me, already asking about tomorrow's advanced tour.
Avery lingers, pulling off her gloves.
"That was incredible," she says. "Thank you."
"You're welcome. You did well. Natural sense of balance."
"Really?"
"Really. Most first-timers fight the machine. You learned fast."
She blushes again—I'm realizing she does that when she receives compliments. Like she's not used to them.
"I should go," she says. "I have... actually, I have nothing scheduled until dinner. That's unusual for me."
"Must be uncomfortable."
"Terrifying." But she's smiling.
"Try leaning into it. See what happens."
"Is that your philosophy? See what happens?"
"Most of the time."
"And does it work?"
I look at her and study her. This woman came on a snowmobile tour in full makeup because, God forbid, she appear less than perfect.
Who asked smart questions because preparation makes her feel safe.
Who laughed with pure joy on a mountain turn because for thirty seconds she forgot to control everything.
"Sometimes," I say. "Sometimes it works beautifully."
We're staring at each other, and I should look away, should crack a joke, should maintain the emotional distance I've perfected over the years.
But I don't.
"Avery!" one of the other women calls. "We're heading for cocktails! Want to join?"
The spell breaks. Avery blinks, steps back. "Yes. I'll—yes."
She walks away without looking back, and I'm left standing by the snowmobiles, wondering what the hell just happened.
One of the other guides, Matthew, appears at my elbow. "Dude. The Ice Queen?"
"Don't call her that."
"You called her that yesterday."
"Yeah, well. I was wrong."
Matthew grins. "Oh man. You're into her."
"I'm not—"
"You are. This is amazing. You've been emotionally unavailable, and now you're falling for the most uptight woman to visit Evergreen Lakes."
"She's not uptight. She's scared."
"Of what?"
Good question. "I don't know yet. But I'm going to find out."
He claps my shoulder. "Good luck, man. Something tells me Ice Queen melting is going to be a hell of a show."
“Don’t call her that.” But he's not wrong.
And that should terrify me.
But all I am is curious. And maybe a bit hopeful.
Which is the most dangerous feeling of all.