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?"
"Honestly?" His laugh was shaky. "I want to stop fighting it. I want to see where this goes. But I also know that's selfish. That it complicates your retreat experience. That I'm supposed to be professional and—"
"Brent." I reached out and took his hand. The contact sent a jolt through me. "I'm an adult. I know what I'm doing. And what I want is to stop fighting it too."
His fingers threaded through mine. We sat there for a moment, holding hands, and it should have felt silly but instead felt monumental. Like we were standing at the edge of everything changing.
"There are going to be complications," he said.
"I know."
"Rebecca's going to have a field day."
"Let her."
"When the week ends—"
"We'll figure it out." I squeezed his hand. "But right now—"
I didn't finish the sentence. I leaned forward, closing the space between us, and pressed my lips to his.
For a heartbeat, he froze. Then he made a sound low in his throat and kissed me back, his free hand coming up to cup the back of my head, pulling me closer. His fingers threaded through my hair.
The kiss was everything I'd imagined and nothing like I'd expected. Soft but intense. Gentle but desperate. His mouth moved against mine like he was memorizing the feeling, and I opened for him, tasting coffee and mint and him underneath.
I shifted closer, and suddenly we were pressed together, chest to chest. My glasses were crooked—probably smudged—but I didn't care. All I cared about was the way his hand tightened in my hair, the way his other hand had found my hip and was pulling me closer, the soft sound he made when I deepened the kiss.
