"We were just exploring," Madison says. "Want to come with us? There's still time before orientation."
"I should unpack—"
"Unpack later!" Joelle grabs my arm. "Come on, we'll show you around. Plus, we need to scope out the instructors before orientation. Strategic planning."
I let myself be dragged along, oddly grateful. They keep up a steady stream of chatter as we wander through the resort. They point out the dining hall, the spa, and the equipment rentalroom. Other retreat participants wave as we pass, everyone buzzing with first-day energy.
"Okay, but did you see the guy at the front desk?" Claire fans herself. "The one with the tattoos?"
"I saw the hiking guide," Madison says. "Tall, dark, and broody. Very my type."
They're at ease in a way I envy. Like they know they're allowed to want things. Like desire is something natural instead of embarrassing.
We end up back in the suite with thirty minutes until orientation. I stare at my suitcase, debating. I packed options—safe baggy sweaters, and a few fitted thermal tops Shayna insisted I bring.
Be visible, she'd said.
I pull out a deep green thermal henley that hugs my curves, and pair it with jeans that fit instead of hiding me. I stand in front of the bathroom mirror and immediately want to change.
The fabric stretches across my chest, clings to my waist and hips. I look... curvy. Undeniably, obviously curvy.
"That color is gorgeous on you!" Joelle appears behind me, touching up her lipstick. "You should wear it."
"It's not too... much?"
She meets my eyes in the mirror. "Honey, there's no such thing. You look hot."
I don't believe her, but I don't change either.
The orientation takes place in the main lodge, a soaring space with a massive stone fireplace and mounted snowshoes on the walls. Organizers arrange chairs in a semicircle facing a small stage area. Women trickle in, filling seats, and I move toward the back.
"Where are you going?" Madison tugs me toward the front. "Best view from here."
My stomach flips. Front row means visible. Means if I make a fool of myself, everyone will see.
But isn't that why I came? To be seen?
I sit between Madison and Joelle, twisting my fingers together in my lap. Kelly takes the stage with that same perky energy, welcoming us and walking us through the week's schedule. Skiing, snowshoeing, spa treatments, group dinners, and something called "fireside connection circles" that sounds both wholesome and mortifying.
"And now I'd like to introduce our incredible activity staff," Kelly says. "These folks will be leading your adventures this week, keeping you safe, and making sure you have an unforgettable experience."
A line of people files onto the stage. I scan faces, trying to seem interested and not terrified, when my eyes catch on the man at the end of the line.
Tall, broad-shouldered, in a fitted thermal pullover. Dark hair silvering at the temples, close-trimmed beard following a firm jaw. Maybe mid-thirties, with the weathered look of someone who spends more time outside than in. When he crosses his arms, the fabric pulls tight across his chest and biceps, and I forget how to breathe.
"This is Nick Callahan, our lead ski instructor," Kelly says. "He's been teaching for over a decade and knows these mountains better than anyone. You're in excellent hands."
Nick steps forward, nodding at the crowd. His voice is deep and warm when he speaks, like aged whiskey. "Looking forward to getting you all on the slopes this week. We've got everything from beginner bunny hills to advanced runs, so whatever your level, we'll find your sweet spot."
His eyes scan the crowd as he talks about safety and respecting your limits, and I tell myself he's just doing his job, looking at everyone equally.
But then his gaze lands on me.
Holds for a beat too long.
I freeze, heat flooding my cheeks. He doesn't look away. Doesn't scan onto the next person. His eyes—gray, maybe blue, I can't tell from here—stay on mine, and something flickers across his face. Recognition? Interest?
No. Impossible.
