And what? Complicate everything? Ruin the fragile thing we were building?
I rolled onto my side, facing away from him and running things through my mind. Tomorrow's craft session. The one-on-one appointments Danica wanted me to schedule. The email from my agent I'd been ignoring.
Anything but the way Jason had looked at me tonight. The way his pulse had jumped under my fingers. The way his eyes had dropped to my mouth not once but twice.
"Brent?" His voice was soft in the darkness, tentative.
My heart hammered against my ribs. "Yeah?"
"I can't sleep."
I rolled back over, and in the dim light from the window I could just make out his shape in the other bed. "Me neither."
"This is..." He trailed off, and I heard him take a shaky breath. "I don't know what this is. What we're doing."
"I don't either." The admission felt dangerous. Honest. "But I know I'm going to be disappointed when this week ends."
"What if we didn't have to?" The question was barely a whisper. "Go back, I mean. What if—" He stopped. "Never mind. That's crazy."
"What if what?"
"Nothing. Just... wishful thinking."
I wanted to push, wanted to know what he'd been about to say. But maybe it was better not to know. Better to keep this in the realm of possibility instead of crashing into reality.
"Goodnight, Jason," I said again.
"Yeah. Goodnight."
But I lay awake long after his breathing evened out into sleep, thinking about how three days ago I'd been a burned-out thriller writer coming to a retreat to find inspiration.
And now I was lying in the dark, wanting someone I had no business wanting, feeling things I had no business feeling, and wondering how the hell I was going to survive four more days of this.
Four more days of almost touching. Almost kissing. Almost crossing that line.
The thought terrified me. The thought thrilled me.
And I wasn't sure which feeling was stronger.
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—
