"I know what you mean. These lodges are always so intimidating at first." She lowered her voice. "Can you believe B.L. Cross is here? And teaching? I nearly died when Danica made the announcement."
"It's definitely a surprise," I said carefully.
"Have you met him yet? What's he like?"
I thought about Brent last night—tired and vulnerable, admitting creative bankruptcy, genuinely interested in my quiet literary fiction. About this morning, making terrible jokes about minimalist novels over coffee.
"He seems nice," I said. "Down to earth."
"God, I hope so. Some of these famous authors are such divas." She grabbed a croissant. "I'm hoping he doesn't tear my manuscript to shreds. I've been working on this thriller for three years."
"I'm sure he'll be constructive."
I found a seat at one of the long tables. Other writers gradually filled in around me. Everyone buzzed with excitement about the day ahead. Claire outlined her goals for the week. A younger guy was asking about one-on-one sessions with Brent.
And there was another writer—Rebecca—who kept making pointed comments about "real writers" versus "hobbyists." She had that particular brand of competitive energy that felt less like healthy ambition and more like insecurity with teeth. My stomach clenched each time she spoke.
Brent appeared at the front of the room right at eight, coffee cup in hand. The conversations quieted. I tried not to stare at the way his henley fit across his shoulders, the confident way he moved through space.
"Morning, everyone." His smile was professional but warm. When his eyes swept the room, they lingered on me forjust a fraction too long. "Danica tells me you have questions before we dive into the official workshop this afternoon. So consider this your chance to ask anything—process, craft, the industry, whatever's on your mind."
Hands shot up immediately.
The next hour was a masterclass in watching Brent navigate being "on." He answered questions about his plotting method, his research process, how he'd gotten his agent. He was generous with details, patient with the more invasive questions, and somehow managed to make every person feel like their question mattered.
But I could see the tension creeping back into his shoulders. The way his smile became more fixed. He was putting on his author act and it was costing him.
Our eyes met across the room at one point. A flash of understanding passed between us.This is exhausting,his expression seemed to say.I know,mine replied.
Then Rebecca asked a question about commercial versus literary fiction—pointed, clearly designed to establish her own superiority. I watched Brent's jaw tighten before he answered with diplomatic grace.
"All writing that connects with readers has value," he said. "Commercial fiction isn't less-than because it entertains. Literary fiction isn't pretentious because it aspires to art. They're different tools for different stories. The best writers understand both."
Rebecca looked disappointed that he hadn't taken the bait.
After breakfast, we had free writing time until the afternoon workshop. Most people scattered to various nooks around the lodge—the library, the sun room, private corners with good light. I headed back to the suite, craving the quiet and the familiar safety of my own space.
Brent was there when I arrived, sitting at the desk in the bedroom with his laptop open and the same frown from this morning.
"Hey," I said softly.
He looked up and relief crossed his face. His expression warmed when he saw me, like I was exactly who he'd been hoping would walk through that door. "Hey. Needed to escape for a bit."
"I get that." I moved into the bedroom, overly aware of the limited space, of how close we'd be working. I settled onto my bed with my manuscript. "The Q&A went well, though. You handled Rebecca's question perfectly."
"There's one in every group." He turned his chair to face me. Suddenly we were looking directly at each other across the small room. Close enough that I could see just how green his eyes were. "The writer who's so busy proving they're serious that they forget to write."
"Harsh but probably fair." I opened my manuscript to the section I'd been revising. "Do you want quiet? I can work in the living room if—"
"No, this is good. I like..." He paused. His expression shifted. "I like having you here. It helps."
The words settled between us, weighted with more than their surface meaning. My pulse jumped.
"Yeah. Me too."
We worked in companionable silence for the next hour. But I was aware of him in a way I hadn't been last night—the sound of his breathing, the way he'd pause and tap his fingers against his thigh when thinking, the occasional frustrated sigh. Once I looked up and found him watching me. We both looked away quickly.
I caught myself staring—at the concentration on his face, the way he rubbed his temple when he was stuck, theunconscious grace of his movements. I forced my attention back to my own pages again and again, but the words kept blurring.
