The suite was more spacious than I'd expected—a living area with a loveseat and armchair arranged around a coffee table, and a compact kitchenette in one corner. Mini fridge, microwave, two-burner stove top with a kettle waiting. The bedroom beyond held two queen beds separated by matching nightstands and a desk beneath the window. Everything was done in warm woods and soft grays. It smelled like cedar and cinnamon.
I dropped my duffel on the loveseat and moved to the bedroom window. The sun was starting to set behind the peaks, painting the sky in shades of amber and rose. Beautiful. Peaceful.
Everything I'd supposedly come here to find.
My phone buzzed. A text from Rob, my ex:Hope the retreat goes well. You've got this.
I stared at the message for a long moment before typing back a simpleThanksand shoving the phone into my pocket. Rob meant well. The breakup three months ago had been mutual, amicable even—we'd both been too busy with our respective careers to maintain a relationship. But his concern still felt like a reminder of everything I'd let slip through my fingers while chasing bestseller lists.
I moved back to the living area and unpacked my laptop. Voices drifted down the hallway. The suite door opened and I turned.
A man stood in the doorway, arms full of notebooks and what looked like an entire manuscript printed and bound with binder clips. Sandy brown hair stuck up in the back like he'd been running his hands through it. Dark glasses sat slightly crooked on his nose. He tried to push them up with his arm since his hands were full—an earnestly awkward gesture that made my chest tighten unexpectedly.
He was cute. The thought caught me off guard. I hadn't expected to notice anyone that way this week. But there was appeal in the combination of his slightly rumpled academic look and the determined set of his jaw as he wrestled with his precarious load.
"Oh." He froze when he saw me. His eyes—soft gray-blue behind his glasses—widened. "Hi. Sorry. I'm—this is Suite Seven, right?"
"It is." I moved to help him with the stack, and when I took the manuscript our fingers brushed. Brief, but I noticed the warmth of his skin, the ink stains on his fingertips. "I'm Brent. Looks like we're roommates."
"Jason." He let me take the manuscript. Up close I could see faint freckles across his nose, barely visible. The kind of detail I'd normally file away for a character, except I was acutely aware this wasn't research. "Jason Foster. Thanks. I always overpack when it comes to—" He stopped mid-sentence, his gaze catching on my face. Recognition dawned. "Wait. You're... are you Brent Lafferty?"
My stomach sank. So much for anonymity. "Guilty."
"As in B.L. Cross?" His voice went up. "The B.L. Cross who wrote the Redline series?"
"That would be me." I set his manuscript on the desk in the bedroom, bracing for the inevitable fanboy enthusiasm or, worse, the litany of questions about plot twists and character motivations.
But Jason stood there, blinking at me like I'd appeared out of thin air. Then his expression shifted into disbelief. Not star-struck excitement—closer to wonder. "And we're... roommates?"
"Apparently." I tried for a smile. "Hope that's not a problem."
"No! No, not at all. I—" He set his remaining bags down and ran a hand through his hair, which only made it stick up more. The gesture drew my attention to the line of his shoulders, the way his sweater hung on his frame. I looked away. "I'm sorry. I'm being weird. I finishedShadow Protocollast week, and it's in my top five thrillers of all time, so this is... unexpected."
There it was—the praise that should have felt good but instead made me tired. Because I knew exactly how that book ended, knew every trick I'd used to manipulate the reader'semotions, and couldn't remember a single moment of writing it that had felt genuine.
"Thanks," I said, because what else was there to say? "I appreciate that."
Jason seemed to sense my discomfort because he quickly changed tack, moving through the living area to the bedroom and the unclaimed bed. He started unpacking and I tried not to watch the economical way he moved, organizing his space with care. "So you're here for the retreat too? I guess that makes sense. Even professionals probably need... I don't know, creative renewal or whatever they're calling it."
"Or whatever they're calling it." I watched him organize his notebooks on the nightstand—color-coded. Three different ones. "What about you? What are you working on?"
"Oh, um." He pushed his glasses up again, a gesture I was beginning to recognize as a nervous habit. The self-consciousness of it made him more endearing. "Literary fiction. Small-town character study. Nothing as exciting as international espionage."
"Literary fiction isn't nothing," I said, surprised by the defensive note in my voice. "It's harder than what I write."
Jason glanced at me and I saw his expression shift—surprise, maybe, or appreciation. When he smiled, it transformed his whole face, softening the anxious energy into warmth. "That's... generous of you to say."
"It's true." I leaned against the bedroom doorframe, suddenly very aware that we'd be sharing this space for a week. Sharing a suite. A bathroom. Getting ready for bed within feet of each other. The thought sent an unexpected flutter through my stomach. "Commercial fiction has formulas. Literary fiction has to mean something."
"I'm not sure my manuscript means much of anything yet." He gave me a self-deprecating smile. "But I'm hoping this week will help me figure it out."
Before I could respond, a bell chimed somewhere downstairs—one of those genuine bells, not a recording.
"Dinner," Jason said, checking his phone. "Welcome reception at six."
***
We made our way down to the dining room, which turned out to be an extension of the great room with long tables set for communal dining. The other writers were gathering, and I immediately felt the shift in energy when people recognized me. Whispers. Sideways glances.
