Danica appeared at the front of the room, tapping a fork against her wine glass. "Welcome, everyone! We're so glad you're here. Before we eat, I want to introduce someone very special. This year, we're honored to have bestselling thriller author B.L. Cross—Brent Lafferty—joining us as our guest instructor for the week!"
The room erupted in surprised murmurs and a smattering of applause. I felt a dozen pairs of eyes turn to me. I managed what I hoped was a gracious nod.
Beside me, Jason had gone very still. "Guest instructor?" he whispered.
"News to me too," I muttered back.
Danica was still talking, explaining how I'd graciously agreed to lead workshops and one-on-one sessions throughout the week. Which was absolute news to me, but I supposed I should have read the fine print more carefully when Cassandra had handed me the workshop paperwork. She’d probably known about this all along.
As people began to settle at the tables, several writers immediately gravitated toward me, introducing themselves withvarying degrees of starstruck enthusiasm. I shook hands, made polite conversation, and tried not to think about how exhausting the next seven days were going to be.
Jason, I noticed, had claimed a seat at the far end of the table, deep in conversation with a woman about narrative structure. He wasn't looking at me, wasn't trying to monopolize my attention like some of the others. His glasses caught the light as he leaned forward, animated about whatever point he was making.
That made him more interesting.
Dinner was roasted chicken with root vegetables and fresh bread—comfort food that would have been enjoyable if I wasn't fielding questions about my writing process and how I hashed out my characters. I answered on autopilot, watching Jason down the table. He was listening intently to the woman beside him, occasionally scribbling notes on his napkin. When he laughed at something she said, his whole face lit up.
I wanted to be down there, having that conversation instead of this one.
After dessert—apple crisp with vanilla ice cream—I escaped back to Suite Seven, grateful for the quiet. Jason wasn't there yet. I'd heard him tell someone he was staying behind in the lodge's library.
I changed into sweats and a t-shirt, pulled out my laptop, and stared at the blank document I'd been staring at for three months. The cursor blinked. Accusatory.
Write something. Anything.
Nothing came.
The door opened quietly. Jason slipped in, looking apologetic. "Sorry. Didn't mean to disturb you if you're working."
"I'm not." I closed the laptop, watching as he shrugged out of his cardigan. Seeing him in his button-down and jeans,more relaxed than he'd been earlier, made the suite feel smaller. More intimate. "Pretending to."
He smiled at that, understanding in his expression. "Writer's block?"
"Or whatever they're calling it." I watched him move around the room, tried not to notice the efficient grace of his movements, the way his hands handled his belongings with care. "You settling in okay?"
"Yeah. This place is amazing." He sat on the edge of his bed in the bedroom. I followed, leaning against the doorframe. The silence between us felt charged. "I know you probably didn't expect to be put on the spot as guest instructor. That must have been awkward."
"That's one word for it." I ran a hand through my hair. "I came here to write, not teach."
"For what it's worth, I think people will be excited to learn from you." Jason's expression was earnest behind his glasses. "Your books have helped a lot of people fall in love with reading. That's not nothing."
The tightness in my chest loosened. Not the defensive praise of a fan, but genuine appreciation from someone who understood what stories could mean to people.
"Thanks," I said quietly. "That's... yeah. Thanks."
We sat in comfortable silence for a moment. I studied him—the way he'd made this space his own with his color-coded notebooks and the dog-eared paperback on his nightstand. There was grounding in his presence, relief from the performative exhaustion of the evening.
"So," Jason said, breaking the silence. "What are you working on? Or is that a forbidden question?"
I almost deflected, almost gave him the standard line about not discussing works-in-progress. But the late hour and the unexpected comfort of this room made me honest.
"I don't know," I admitted. "I've been trying to figure that out for months. Every thriller I outline feels hollow. Every character feels like a retread. I think I'm..." I paused, searching for the right word. "Creatively bankrupt."
Jason considered this, then leaned forward. The movement brought him closer. I caught a hint of his scent—clean and bookish, like old paper and coffee. "Maybe you're not bankrupt. Maybe you're trying to write the wrong thing."
"What do you mean?"
"You said literary fiction has to mean something." His eyes held mine, and I felt the full weight of his attention. It was intense, being seen that clearly. "Maybe you need to write work that means something toyou. Not for the publisher or the audience. For yourself."
