Chapter 1
Avery
The color-coded relaxation itinerary mocks me from the resort nightstand.
I printed it on cardstock. Laminated it. Created a backup digital version synced across three devices. Because I'm the person who needs a detailed schedule to learn how to relax.
My best friends thought this single women’s escape retreat would be good for me. "You're wound tighter than a courtroom stenographer's fingers," Melissa had said, booking the trip without my permission. "Seven days at a mountain resort. Spa treatments. Gentle activities. No briefs, no billable hours, no pressure."
What she didn't mention: I'd be surrounded by women who've mastered the art of not caring what anyone thinks, while I'm over here having a minor panic attack because the resort's check-in process didn't follow standard hospitality protocols.
I'm a mess.
A professionally dressed, perfectly composed, utterly exhausting mess.
I smooth my cashmere sweater—slate gray, because colors are for people who don't take themselves seriously according to my mother—and head to the welcome orientation in the main lodge. The other retreat women are already gathering, laughing, hugging like old friends even though they just met.
I take a seat in the back, spine straight, hands folded in my lap. Professional. Controlled. Definitely not having an internal crisis about whether I'm fundamentally broken.
The resort staff files in to introduce themselves and the week's activities. I take mental notes: spa coordinator, yoga instructor, ski patrol captain, hiking guide—
And then he walks in.
Late. Hair messy like he just rolled out of bed. Wearing a faded flannel shirt over a thermal, jeans with actual wear on them, boots that have seen actual use. He's tall, broad-shouldered, maybe mid-to-late-thirties, with the casual confidence that comes from not caring what anyone thinks.
He leans against the wall instead of standing with the other staff, arms crossed, expression somewhere between amused and bored.
Everything about him irritates me.
"This is Brennan Shaw," the activities coordinator says with a smile. "Our lead snowmobile guide. He'll be taking you on backcountry tours this week."
Brennan gives a lazy salute. "Hey. Looking forward to showing you ladies the mountains. Fair warning though." His eyes scan the crowd and somehow land on me. "Some of you might find the experience a little too... unpredictable. Mountains don't follow schedules."
Is he looking at me specifically? Am I so uptight that a complete stranger can clock me in under thirty seconds?
My face heats, which makes me angrier. I don't blush. Blushing is for people who care what others think.
"Any questions?" Brennan asks.
A woman in the front raises her hand. "Is the tour suitable for beginners?"
"Absolutely. We'll start easy, work up to more challenging terrain if everyone's comfortable." His gaze drifts back to me. "Though some people prefer to stick to the beginner hills. Which is fine. Safe. Predictable."
Oh, he's definitely talking about me.
The orientation wraps up with a reminder about tomorrow's activities. I'm halfway to the door when I hear, "Hey, Ice Queen."
I freeze. Turn slowly.
Brennan's standing there, that infuriating half-smile on his face. "Sorry, I didn't catch your name. But you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look that says you've got a printed itinerary color-coded by activity level and meal times."
How dare he. How dare he be completely, humiliatingly accurate.
"My name is Avery Montgomery," I say coldly. "And I don't appreciate assumptions based on—"
