Though the audience didn’t seem to notice, Kaz tensed, clearly furious with Hammond. Darian was a bit shocked, too. He had a feeling that little exchange would inspire some further discussion later. Kaz was not the type to let a public insult go, he suspected. In this case, he would be justified not to. Darian couldn’t imagine himself undermining a fellow instructor’s authority in front of a roomful of students, or mentees, or whatever they were supposed to call the aspiring writers.

  Hammond shifted his attention from Kaz, and Darian realized it was his turn to speak. He kept his remarks brief and kept the focus on Hammond, as was apparently expected.

  “Confidence is the key,” he said, keeping his voice neutral while he flashed Kaz a sympathetic look. “Surround yourself with people who believe in you. Anyone who doesn’t, keep them at arm’s length and don’t discuss your work with them. They’ll only shoot you down, and who needs that? Maintain faith in your work and persevere, and you can’t go wrong, whatever happens as far as agents or publishers.”

  Everyone applauded. Darian got the sense they were as eager to move on from the snafu with Kaz as Kaz probably was. Even Hammond nodded with approval at Darian’s generic encouragement.

  A heavyset guy with an impressive handlebar moustache spoke up next.

  “Is Highway to Him based on real life experiences and people? A lot of readers still comment on some of the unsavory people your lead character gets involved with. Would you say you’ve had encounters with people like the ones in the book?”

  “I told you we weren’t going to drift into autobiographical detail.” Hammond’s voice turned cold. “However, since this keeps coming up, let me say for the record that any attempt to connect me to the characters and situations in my book will lead you nowhere. It’s fiction, pure and simple. The emotions are real, of course, but none of the details.”

  He signaled to Aubrey, clearly ready to end the Q and A.

  “One more question!” Marc stood up before either Hammond or Aubrey had chance to clear the room.

  “Yes?” Hammond paused. His wince suggested he’d encountered Marc earlier.

  “What role does your husband play in your writing career? Is it easier or harder to write when you’re in a committed relationship?”

  Hammond tensed up for a moment, but soon relaxed into an easy smile. A dreamy look crept into his eyes.

  “My husband, Cole, is the best inspiration I ever had. Of course it can be a challenge to balance a home life, a marriage, and a writing schedule. As I said before, if you find someone who will support you unconditionally, he can only speed you on your way. Cole is one hundred percent supportive of me—twenty-four seven.”

  Marc wasn’t finished. His fawning smile twisted just enough to turn into a smirk. “Why haven’t you published anything recently, then?”

  “Cole and I have been married less than a year.” Hammond flushed. “It was sudden. I have new works in the pipeline. Never fear. In fact, I should work on them now. Thank you.”

  With that, he turned and left the room, leaving Aubrey to grab the microphone. “This concludes our opening event. No doubt we all enjoyed hearing from our featured author and we all look forward to getting our pens and keyboards out tomorrow. Please, everyone, feel free to go back to your cabins and rest a bit before dinner. I’d like to invite all of you to enjoy a bonfire right after the meal. We won’t serve any alcohol, but there will certainly be flames, fun, and, with any luck, the beginning of some beautiful friendships. See you then.”

  Noise filled the room as the workshop participants got up and began milling around on their way to the door. Near the back row, Argo stood and moved toward Darian, who beckoned him closer. Everyone, it seemed, was on the move except for Darian’s fellow moderator.

  “He’s got some nerve.” Kaz sat, immobile in his seat, seething. Darian assumed he was referring to Hammond and not Aubrey. An invitation to an evening event, after all, hardly rose to the level of outrageous.

  “I’m sure people thought he was kidding around,” Darian said in an attempt to defuse the situation.

  “The joke will be on him if he doesn’t watch his step,” Kaz said. Just as Argo reached the table, he jumped up and stomped out of the room.

  “Nervous about tomorrow?” Argo asked as they made their way across the darkening lawn to the bonfire, which Greg Hodge had just finished building. Aubrey provided a pile of old blankets and tarps for the guests to stretch out on. Hodge gave them a sour look, clearly not pleased at their early arrival, but Argo pointedly ignored him and Darian followed his lead.

  “You mean my opening lecture? Nah. Piece of cake.” He watched Argo shake out a blanket and then joined him on it. They curled into one another instinctively and without the slightest awkwardness. Their bodies seemed to fit like puzzle pieces these days, Darian thought happily. At the moment, nothing could dampen his mood…not even the increasing tension he sensed brewing among Hammond, Aubrey, Cole and especially Kaz. At dinner, the four had kept scrupulously separate, with Aubrey taking his food back to his office and Cole and Hammond sitting alone and then heading back to their cabin, presumably for the rest of the evening. Kaz had sat with Darian, Argo, and a few other participants at a corner table, listening politely to the guys at his table but not engaging in conversation himself. Darian suspected he was still angry at the way Hammond insulted him during the Q and A session.

  “The food was good, at least.” Argo patted his stomach contentedly. “Barbecued ribs, chicken, and potato salad? Can’t beat that for a rustic summer meal, even if it did feel like we were back in the high school cafeteria for a while.”

  “Let’s hope everyone calms down and gets too absorbed in writing to keep these petty quarrels going,” Darian said with a sigh. “I guess time will tell. For now, we can kick back and enjoy the bonfire.”

  Soon others straggled over from dinner and joined them. Greg Hodge, grumbling to himself, retreated into the growing darkness while the circle grew. Someone brought marshmallows and long wooden skewers. Many were drinking soda or bottled water—no alcohol, out of deference to Aubrey’s sobriety rule. Though he wouldn’t have said no to a beer, Darian was grateful he wouldn’t need to deal with hung-over writers at the workshop the following day. At one point Lanislaw, of all people, appeared with a guitar and began strumming and singing folk songs. It was like a scene from an old Frankie and Annette beach movie, Darian mused, only with an all-male cast. Lanislaw had even altered his song so the pronouns in it were exclusively masculine.

  Soon quite a crowd had gathered, singing along and chatting. He saw no sign of Hammond, Cole, or Kaz though. Aubrey strolled by a few times, as if to check on things, but didn’t stop to talk to anyone. Still, Darian found it hard to care what any of them were up to when Argo slung an arm over his shoulder and Darian casually reached up and threaded his fingers through his hand. The heat from the fire warmed every bit of him. As fun as this part of the retreat felt, he definitely looked forward to getting back to the cabin later. No sooner had he drifted off in a peaceful reverie when a stocky figure stepped between him and the glow of the flames.

  “Hey, how’s it going?” a loud voice boomed. “I’m Marc. Remember?”

  “Yep,” Argo said as Darian wrenched open his eyes. “The aspiring erotica author.”

  Marc chuckled. “So you were paying attention after all.” He turned his head. “You’re Darian, right?”

  “That’s right.” A bit resentfully, Darian sat up straighter. “And this is my partner, Argo Sullivan.”

  “Cool,” said Marc. “You guys are cute together. So how’d you meet?”

  “At work.”

  “Yeah?” Marc eyed Argo with a mixture of skepticism and fresh interest. “You’re not a teacher, too? Wait. Let me guess. I can tell you work out a lot. Phys ed? ROTC?”

  “Not a chance,” said Argo. “I couldn’t teach for more than an hour or two without blowing my top. Darian’s the one with all the patience in our household.”

  “Yeah? So were you taking a writing class from him, like we’ll all be doing tomorrow?”

  “It’s a long story,” Darian said when Marc turned to him instead with a look of expectation. Secretly, he was thrilled Argo used the word household to describe their new arrangement. It sounded so comfortable and normal, but not in a boring way.

  “I’d love to hear it when you have some time.” Marc grinned. “Not now, of course. Later, like over a meal or something.”

  “Collecting material for your book?” Argo asked bluntly His eyes narrowed, and not just because of the heat from the fire.

  “Not necessarily.” Marc shrugged. “I’m sure you know it’s tough out there for us single guys, especially the ones like Darian and me, who are into books and writing and all that introverted jazz. I just figure, if there’s hope for me I’d better get some tips from someone who beat the system, played the market, or however you want to put it.”

  “Maybe that’s the book Darian should write, then,” Argo said.

  “Oh, I know some guys would be into me for my looks.” Marc puffed out his broad chest humorously, and Darian noted he was in reasonably good shape, with a smudge of blue-black stubble around his jaw. Attracting suitors shouldn’t have been a problem. “But I want something deeper, you know? Some kind of intellectual as well as physical connection. Unfortunately, I tend to assume the worst about people. They sense it and get turned off.”

  “Hard to believe,” Argo muttered.

  “Sometimes I wonder—why is this such a deal breaker for me? I mean, look at Hammond, right? He’s at least as cynical as I am, and he’s a lot older and saggier. How’d he bag a dude like Cole? Wait, don’t say money. I’m not exactly broke, even if I’m not a famous author yet.”

  “Fame,” Darian suggested. “People are drawn to success and celebrities. For some of them, reflected limelight is just as good as the real thing.”

  “Nah, you can’t tell me Cole likes being in that guy’s shadow. I get the sense when I watch them together that some other agenda is in play. Wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m afraid we wouldn’t know,” Argo said. Darian felt his arm go rigid over his shoulders. Their bodies shifted apart when Argo moved. His guard was going up, his cop instincts kicking in. The chitchat seemed innocent enough to Darian, but was he missing something? “We haven’t spent much time with them.”

  Marc laughed and stepped back. The heat from the fire returned to fill the space between them. “Yeah, makes sense. Why would you? You’re all set in that department. Listen, forget I brought it up. Just call me a writer doing research. Like Hammond said, we’ve got to find something new and groundbreaking. Hey, how about a serial killer romance? That would be different, wouldn’t it?”

  Without waiting for an answer, he disappeared into the darkness. Lanislaw went on playing the guitar. The guys around the flames were talking, singing, and feeding each other marshmallows. Argo leaned back and moved his arm back up Darian’s shoulders. But the talk of serial killers had hit a little too close to home and spoiled the mood.

  Chapter 6

  The next morning, Darian emerged from the bathroom in his robe, rubbing his hair with a towel, to find Argo already dressed and seated at the dinette. He tapped his fingers on the table in thought.

  “So what was with that guy last night?” Argo asked as Darian dropped into a chair beside him. “The marshmallows weren’t the only thing getting grilled out there.”

  Deciding to play devil’s advocate, Darian shrugged. “Probably just making conversation. Trying to get the most out of the workshop.”

  “By using us as a source of dating tips? Or material for his stories?” Argo scoffed. “Take your pick. One’s as believable as the other.”

  “Is it really so bizarre? You have to admit, we’re a cute couple. I wouldn’t mind one of the writers here basing a novel on our relationship. As long as it wasn’t too racy, I mean. That would be a little weird.”

  “So you bought his spiel about wanting to become a professional writer?”

  “Not necessarily. He could just be dabbling. So what if he is? Plenty of these guys came to this event to try something new. And it’s not hard to imagine they’d want to hook up with someone while they’re here. Why not? It’s the perfect setting. “

  “I’m glad you said so. Because I’d bet money that guy’s never written a word before he came here. He doesn’t seem anything like the people at your school.”

  “There are different kinds of writers.” Darian’s confident tone faltered.

  “Nope. He was manipulating the direction of our discussion. I know how to do that myself, so I can spot it in someone else. Gotta tell you, he got my hackles up.”

  “Hmm.” Darian did a quick mental replay of their conversation with Marc Fresno at the firepit. Sure, the dude might just be socially awkward, like many other writers both published and aspiring. On the other hand, he agreed with Argo. Marc had attempted to squeeze information out of them. What, he couldn’t imagine. “Could he be a Hammond fanboy, trying to dig up something he can profit on, or post on social media for kicks?”

  “Possibly.” Argo didn’t seem convinced in the slightest.

  “Well, whatever his deal is, as you said in a different context, it’s not for us to pass judgment on. He’s here to learn, and I’m here to teach. I’d like to remind you that you, Arthur Sullivan, are not here in any official capacity at all. You’re here as my plus-one. This time, I’m at work, not you. So I insist you relax. I don’t suppose you started writing that poem you promised me in the car?”

  “I made no such promise.” Argo feigned offense. “Besides, the workshop hasn’t officially begun yet. I need instruction along with inspiration.”

  “It just so happens you’re in luck. Your assigned cabin mate can provide both of those things…simultaneously.”

  Argo brightened. “No embarrassing personal questions required?”

  “Nope.” Darian got up from his chair, moved over one seat, and settled himself on Argo’s lap. “Well, okay. Just one.”

  Argo leaned forward, brushed his lips against Darian’s neck, and started to say “Go for it” when someone banged on their cabin door.

  “Damn,” Argo whispered as they pulled apart, startled. “Is that Marc with another series of questions, this time about our bedroom habits?”

  “No way,” Darian said, though he decided to peer out the window to be sure. He angled his head so he could see who was standing on their porch. He failed to suppress a groan. “Time for the proverbial good news and bad news. It’s not Marc. It’s Lanislaw.”

  “Did he bring the guitar with him?” Argo asked, less irritated by the intrusion than Darian would have liked.

  “No, though it looks like he brought breakfast.”

  “You’re right. That is good news.” As Argo got up to open the door, Darian wondered if he had really misunderstood him or was only pretending to. Lanislaw’s arrival on their doorstep at such an inopportune moment didn’t strike him as worth celebrating.

  Some of Darian’s annoyance faded when Lanislaw held up a cardboard box. It contained three tall take-out coffee cups, complete with lids, a few bananas and oranges, and a heap of fluffy, sugar-glazed pastries.

  “I got to the lodge early and raided the buffet,” Lanislaw explained as he walked in and set the box on the table. “Thought we could eat here and catch up a little. We won’t be able to talk freely once the workshop begins.”

  “Speaking of work, let me get dressed,” Darian said. He hastily retreated to the bedroom, stripped off his robe, and pulled on the clothes he’d set out to wear to his first class. Nothing as formal as he’d wear to teach at Birchwood, but no stretched-out t-shirt with a lame slogan on it, either. He’d opted for a crisply pressed blue polo shirt, tan khakis, and polished brown loafers with tassels. Pausing to examine himself in the mirror, he took pride in the contrast between his outfit and Lanislaw’s ultra-casual rope sandals, acid-washed cutoffs, and salmon Henley. Yet somehow Lanislaw still looked hotter than he did. No one ever said life was fair.

  “Darian and I wondered if you were going to serenade us from the doorstep,” Argo said when Darian returned. Lanislaw had taken the seat he’d vacated, forcing Darian to move one spot over. Darian picked up a Danish and mentally penciled in another jog around the lake to burn off all these calories.

  “That was some impressive plucking last night,” he said. “A singing cop. Who knew?”

  “Ahh, no big deal.” Lanislaw waved a dismissive hand. “It’s been a while since I’ve played for anyone but myself. The guitar is actually Aubrey’s. I spotted it in his office and asked if I could tune it up for him. He keeps an old karaoke machine stashed in the corner, too.”

  Argo groaned. “Great. Another musical blockbuster event to look forward to.”

  “Well, hopefully no one else noticed and it’ll stay hidden until we leave. As for the guitar, my performance was a whim. Just thought it might be fun to relive my own summer camp days from way back when. The setting seemed perfect.”

  “You were pretty good,” Darian admitted grudgingly.

  “Took some lessons when I was a kid. The instructor was cute, and I thought it would make me more popular at parties.” Lanislaw shrugged, but Darian didn’t doubt the strategy had worked to perfection. He’d probably inspired a few new admirers the night before, too. “Anyway, I’m not here to discuss the merits of my acoustic performance. I’m more interested in what you think about this retreat so far—both of you. Interesting group of people, wouldn’t you say?”

  “Very,” Argo agreed. “I have to say, though, they don’t seem like the type of guys you normally hang out with. Darian and I have been wondering what prompted you to enroll in this workshop.”

  “I already told you.” Lanislaw grinned in a way he had to know would fool no one. “I figured Prescott Hammond and Darian would help me polish my memoir. Okay, Kaz too, though poetry’s not exactly my thing.”