He turns and walks toward the house, carrying my bag like a briefcase. I scramble after him, tote sliding off my shoulder, laptop bag banging against my hip. Very dignified.
Inside, the foyer is all gleaming hardwood and fresh flowers and the faint, unmistakable scent of old money trying to seem casual. A woman with a clipboard spots me immediately.
"Kassidy Monroe? Welcome! I'm Renee, the retreat coordinator." She gestures toward the back of the house. "I'll get you checked in and show you to your room. We have a welcome mixer at five on the veranda."
"Wonderful." I reach for my suitcase, but the tall man is already setting it down beside me. His hand brushes the handle near mine—barely, just the ghost of contact—and I jerk back like I've been shocked.
"All set?" he asks. There's that twitch again. Not quite a smile, but the scaffolding for one.
"Yes. Thank you. I appreciate the bellhop service."
Now the twitch becomes an actual smile, small but real, and it does something inconvenient to my stomach. "Anytime."
He gives a short nod to Renee—who looks like she's trying very hard not to laugh—and disappears down the hallway.
"Who was that?" I ask, aiming for casual and landing somewhere around desperate.
"That's Tucker Brennan," Renee says, leading me toward the staircase. "He's with Salt and Steel Security Group. They're handling the security detail for the retreat."
Security detail. Not estate staff. Security.
"Why does a writer's retreat need a security detail?"
Renee lowers her voice. "Diana Hartwell is attending. She's been getting some concerning messages from a reader. Her publisher insisted on protection."
Diana Hartwell. The Diana Hartwell. Twelve bestsellers, two film adaptations, a TED Talk about the power of storytelling that has fourteen million views. She's the headliner for this retreat, the reason the fee was triple what I'd normally pay, the reason my agent said go, it'll be worth it.
And she has a stalker. Fantastic.
"So Mr. Brennan is her bodyguard?" I ask.
"Part of the team, yes. There are a few of them on the property. You probably won't even notice."
I will absolutely notice. Specifically, I will notice the one I just ordered to carry my luggage like a pack mule.
The mortification hits as Renee shows me to my room—a beautiful corner suite with ocean views and a writing desk positioned perfectly to catch the morning light. The writing desk faces the ocean, and the light is so perfect it practically begs for a manuscript. But all I can think is: I told a professional security operative to grab my bags.
I flop onto the bed and press a pillow over my face.
"Get it together, Monroe. You're here to write a book. Not to think about—" I remove the pillow. "Nope. Not thinking about him at all."
By five o'clock, I've unpacked, reorganized my writing supplies twice, and changed outfits three times before settling on a sundress that says I'm a serious professional who also happens to have shoulders. The veranda overlooks the ocean, and the golden hour light turns everything soft and cinematic. If I can't find inspiration here, I'm beyond saving.
The other retreat attendees trickle in. There's a poet from Vermont with round glasses and a gentle voice. A thriller writer from Atlanta who keeps scanning exits like she's researching inreal time. A memoirist who introduces herself by saying, "I'm writing about my divorce, so if I cry at dinner, just pass the wine."
And then there's Diana Hartwell herself, sweeping onto the veranda in a linen jumpsuit, every detail so casually perfect it probably took three hours and a team to achieve. She's magnetic—silver hair cut into a sleek bob, dark eyes that seem to catalog everything, a laugh that fills the space without trying.
"Writers!" she announces, lifting a glass of champagne. "We are here to bleed on the page. Let's start with a toast."
Everyone raises their glasses. Mine trembles slightly.
"To honesty," Diana says. "To writing the thing that terrifies you. And to drinking enough wine that you actually do it."
Laughter, clinking glasses, the warm flush of belonging to a tribe. For about thirty seconds, I feel like maybe this retreat was a good idea. Maybe the block will break. Maybe the words will come.
Then I spot Tucker Brennan moving along the perimeter of the property, and my brain short-circuits.
He's changed into something more tactical—dark pants, fitted shirt, the radio on his hip crackling intermittently. He moves like someone who's spent years learning how not to be noticed, which, ironically, makes him impossible not to notice. Every few paces, he pauses, scans, moves on. Professional. Controlled.
