Chapter 3
Avery
I wake up to my phone buzzing with a weather alert: WINTER STORM WARNING. SIGNIFICANT ACCUMULATION EXPECTED. TRAVEL NOT ADVISED.
Perfect. Because what this retreat needs is more chaos.
I check my schedule—second snowmobile tour, advanced backcountry route with Brennan. The tour I signed up for to prove I can handle spontaneity.
The tour that's probably cancelled.
Except when I get to the staging area, Brennan's there, checking equipment with practiced efficiency.
"We're still going?" I ask.
He looks up, and something crosses his face when he sees me. Something warm. "The storm's not supposed to hit until this afternoon. We'll do a shorter route and be back by noon. Should be fine."
"Should be?" I stutter.
"Nothing's guaranteed in the mountains, counselor. That's what makes it interesting." Brennan smiles and shrugs his shoulders.
I should say no. Should invoke the detailed safety protocols I researched. Should be the responsible one.
But yesterday's tour was... God, it was the most fun I've had in years. And a reckless part of me wants more.
"Alright. Let's go."
His smile is pleased and surprised. "That's the spirit."
Today's group is smaller—just six of us. The women who wanted the advanced experience after yesterday's beginner course were excited to try for more. Brennan's safety briefing is more serious given the weather, but he's confident, capable, and I trust him in a way that should alarm me.
I climb onto his sled without hesitation this time, arms around his waist, body pressed against his back. He smells of coffee and pine and something undefinable that makes my brain go fuzzy.
Focus, Avery.
We head into the backcountry, deeper than yesterday, into pristine wilderness where the snow is untouched, and the silence is profound. It's breathtaking. Humbling. The kind of beauty that makes you forget spreadsheets and billable hours exist.
Brennan navigates with easy confidence, pointing out landmarks, adjusting routes based on terrain. I'm in the moment, present in a way I never am, when—
The sky changes.
In minutes, the blue sky turns gray, then white. Wind picks up. Snow falls—not gentle flakes but hard, driven pellets.
The storm came early.
Brennan signals the group to stop, pulling out his radio. I can't hear the conversation, but his expression is serious. He waves everyone closer.
"The storm's moving faster than predicted," he shouts over the wind. "We're turning back. Stay close, I’ll follow you all."
We start the return journey, but visibility drops fast. Within ten minutes, I can barely see the sled in front of us. My heart hammers—this is bad, this is dangerous, and I'm the idiot who insisted I could handle adventure—
Our snowmobile stutters.
Then dies.
Brennan's cursing, working controls, but nothing happens.
Through the whiteout, I see the other sleds disappearing ahead, not noticing we've stopped.
"Radio them!" I shout.
"Already did. They're continuing to safety—protocol is not to stop in a storm. I know of a shelter nearby. We're going there."
"Can you fix the sled?"
"Not in this weather. We need to move. Now."
He pulls me off the sled, and we hike. I can't see more than a few feet ahead. Snow stings my face. Cold seeps through my expensive gear. Brennan's hand is iron around mine, pulling me forward, and I trust him because I have no choice. I’m not happy about it.
Time becomes meaningless. Five minutes? Twenty? I've lost all sense of direction when Brennan pulls me sharply left.
A cabin materializes out of the whiteout.
He gets the door open, drags me inside, slams it against the wind.
We stand in the darkness, breathing hard, and I realize I'm shaking.
"We're okay," Brennan says, voice steady. "We're safe. Let me get a light."
He finds a lantern, and a warm glow fills the small space. The cabin is basic—one room, fireplace, bench that converts to a bed, shelves stocked with emergency supplies.
"This is a backcountry emergency shelter," Brennan explains, already moving toward the fireplace. "The resort maintains several. Stocked with food, water, blankets, and first aid. We'll be fine here until the storm passes."
"How long?"
"The storm's supposed to clear by morning." He's building a fire with practiced hands. "Resort knows the protocol. They'll expect us here."
"So we're spending the night. Together. Alone."
He looks up, and something flickers in his eyes. "Yeah. Is that a problem, Ice Queen?" His tone is gentler than usual, but I hate the nickname.
"Don't call me that."
"Sorry. Habit." The fire catches, warmth beginning to spread. "You okay? Any injuries?"
"I'm fine. Just cold."
"Let's get you out of the wet outer layers."
He helps me remove my jacket, gloves, and outer snow pants. His hands are professional, careful, but I'm hyperaware of every touch. I’m down to base layers—thermal tops and leggings—and I feel naked despite being clothed.
Brennan removes his own outer layers, and I try not to notice how the thermal shirt clings to his chest and shoulders.
He finds emergency blankets, heats water for tea, and within thirty minutes we're sitting by the fire with hot drinks and protein bars, the worst of the adrenaline crash fading.
"I knew I shouldn’t have come. Should’ve stayed at the resort," I mumble.
"Why?"
My neck snaps as I look at him. “Seriously? Look at where we are.” I throw my hands around.
"Stop. This isn’t the first time and won’t be the last time weather happens. And we're safe." He looks at me seriously. "You did great out there, Avery. No panic, followed directions, kept moving. Many people would've frozen up. This is what living is all about."
"I was terrified."
"Me too. But we handled it."
We sit in silence, listening to the wind howl outside and the fire crackle inside. The cabin is cozy despite the circumstances. Intimate.
"Can I ask you something?" Brennan says.
"Sure."
"Why did you really come on this retreat? And don't say, “to relax.” Nobody schedules relaxation down to the minute if they want to relax."
I should deflect. Change the subject. Maintain professional distance.
But something about the storm, the cabin, the firelight makes me honest.
"My friends think I'm broken," I admit. "They're right. I'm twenty-five and I've never had a serious relationship because I'm too busy working. I don't have hobbies. I color-code my sock drawer. I brought case files on vacation."
"That doesn't sound broken. That sounds scared."
"Of what?"
"You tell me."
I stare into the fire, searching for words.
"My parents are academics. Brilliant, accomplished, emotionally distant.
They loved my achievements—scholarships, law school, job offers—but dismissed anything that couldn't be quantified.
Feelings were 'illogical.' Spontaneity was 'irresponsible.
' I learned early that control equals safety, emotion equals vulnerability, and vulnerability equals pain. "
Brennan's quiet for a long moment. "That sounds lonely."
"It is. Was. I don't know." I look at him. "Yesterday, on that snowmobile, I felt... free. For maybe the first time in my life. And it terrified me. Because if I let go of control, I don't know who I am."
"Maybe that's the point. Maybe you need to let go to find out."
"Is that what you did? When you left Seattle?"
He shifts, pulling the blanket tighter. "Yeah. And it destroyed me. I was so burned out I couldn't sleep, couldn't eat, couldn't function. My ex left because I 'wasn't ambitious anymore.' It took me two years in Evergreen Lakes to feel human again."
"Do you ever miss it? The corporate life?"
"Never. But I learned something dangerous after I left."
"What?"
"That it's safer never to care too much about anything. Career, person, dream—if you don't invest, it can't hurt you." He looks at me. "So I became the easy-going guide who takes nothing seriously. Including people."
"That sounds lonely too."
"It is." His voice is raw. "But it's safe."
We're staring at each other across the fire, and I realize we're the same. Two people so scared of pain that we built different kinds of armor—mine rigid, his casual—but armor, nonetheless.
"I don't want to be safe anymore," I whisper. "I want to feel something."
"Avery—"
"I felt something. When you told me I did well. When you explained your breakdown. When you look at me like..." I trail off, heart hammering.
"Like what?"
"Like maybe I'm not the Ice Queen you thought I was."
Brennan sets down his tea, and suddenly he's closer, the firelight casting shadows on his face. "You were never what I thought. From the first moment, you challenged every assumption I had."
"Is that good or bad?"
"Terrifying," he admits. "Because you make me want to care again. And that's the most dangerous thing I can feel."
We're inches apart now, the space between us electric.
"What if we were brave?" I hear myself say. "Just for tonight. What if we let go?"
"Avery, we're stranded in a storm. Adrenaline makes people do things they regret—"
"This isn't adrenaline. This is me being honest for the first time in my life." I touch his face, feel his beard scratch my palm. "I want this. I want you. If you want—"
He kisses me, and it’s fire meeting ice, creating steam. His hands frame my face, gentle despite the intensity, and I open to him like I've been waiting for this my entire life.
We break apart, breathing hard.
"We should stop," Brennan says, but doesn't move away. "This is a bad idea. Storm brain. Survival situation."
"Or maybe it's the first honest thing either of us has done in years."
"Avery—"
"I'm scared," I admit. "Terrified. But I'm more scared of going back to who I was. Of never knowing what this could be."
He searches my face, and I see the moment he decides.
"Okay," he breathes. "Okay. But we do this right. We do this honestly."
"Honest," I agree.
And when he kisses me again, deeper this time, I let go of every wall I've ever built.
Tomorrow I'll probably regret this. Tomorrow, reality will crash back in.
But tonight, in this cabin with the fire and storm and Brennan's hands learning my body, I'm finally, utterly alive. And I’m taking it.
And it's worth every moment of fear.