"Let me guess. Lawyer?"
I hate that he's right. "Corporate litigation. And before you say whatever condescending thing you're thinking, yes, I'm here to relax. My friends seem to think I need it."
"They're not wrong."
"Excuse me?"
He pushes off the wall, and he's closer, smelling like pine and something woodsy I can't name. "You're holding yourself as if you're about to give closing arguments. We're at a mountain resort, not a courtroom. Try letting go a little."
"I don't need advice from someone who showed up late to his own orientation."
"And I don't need judgment from someone who has an opinion on the thread count of the resort's sheets."
"Eight hundred. And they could be higher quality for what they're charging."
He laughs with surprise and sincerity, which somehow annoys me even more because I noticed it’s a pleasant laugh.
"Alright, Ice Queen. Fair point." He steps back. "I'm leading a snowmobile tour tomorrow at ten. You signed up, right?"
"Yes. And I expect professional conduct during actual activities, even if you can't manage it during orientations."
"Oh, I'm always professional." His smile is wicked. "Question is—can you handle a little adventure? Or are you going to need me to file a flight plan with detailed waypoints and estimated arrival times?"
I want to argue and prove I'm not some uptight city lawyer who can't handle spontaneity.
But I already looked up the snowmobile route online and cross-referenced it with weather patterns and safety statistics.
So instead, I say, "I can handle anything you throw at me."
"We'll see about that." He walks past me, and I catch another whiff of that woodsy scent. "See you tomorrow, counselor. Try not to over-prepare."
I stand there fuming as he leaves, very aware that several other retreat women watched the entire exchange with obvious interest.
Great. Now I'm the uptight lawyer everyone will whisper about.
Back in my room, I stare at my laminated itinerary and fight the urge to throw it in the trash. Brennan Shaw might be an infuriating, unprofessional slacker, but he's not wrong.
I am wound too tight. I do over-control everything. And the thought of a snowmobile tour with no detailed plan makes my chest tighten.
My phone buzzes.Melissa:How's day one? Meet anyone interesting?
Me:The snowmobile guide is insufferable. Called me Ice Queen within five minutes of meeting me.
Melissa:LOL. He's not wrong, though.
Me:Whose side are you on?
Melissa:Yours! Which is why I want you to RELAX this week. Have fun. Be spontaneous. Maybe even flirt a little.
I stare at her message. Flirt. With Brennan Shaw. The man who looked at me like I'm everything wrong with uptight corporate America.
Absolutely not.
Although... There was a moment when he smiled, and something flipped in my stomach. Something I absolutely cannot afford to feel for someone who represents everything I'm not: easy-going, casual, spontaneous, free.
I change into pajamas—matching set, obviously—and climb into bed with case files I shouldn’t have brought on vacation except I did.
But I can't concentrate.
