Page 1 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

Chapter 1

Perfect Plans Interrupted

The snow falls in delicate,lazy spirals as I navigate the winding mountain road up to the small town of Angel's Peak. My knuckles turn white against the steering wheel as my grip tightens. Each curve brings The Haven at Angel's Peak closer, and with it, the culmination of six months of obsessive planning. My checklist cycles through my mind on an endless loop: centerpieces, seating arrangements, backup generators for the outdoor lighting.

Everything must be flawless.

Executed to perfection.

The resort materializes through the curtain of snowflakes, a sprawling timber and stone structure that commands the mountainside. Light glows from windows like beacons against the darkening afternoon sky. The view steals my breath, just as it did in the glossy brochures I showed the Mortons when convincing them this remote location was worth the extravagant price tag.

I park near the entrance, gathering my leather portfolio and the color-coded binder that has become my third arm since landing the Morton-Wells wedding. Charlene Morton—daughterof tech billionaire Richard Morton—deserves nothing less than perfection, and I intend to deliver exactly that.

The memory of my last conversation with Miranda, my razor-sharp boss at Elite Events, surfaces unbidden.

"This isn't just any wedding, Amelia." She leaned across her immaculate glass desk, red fingernails tapping an ominous rhythm. "This is the social event of the season—of the decade. Every detail will be scrutinized by people who can make or break careers—yours and mine. Don't disappoint me."

The weight of that responsibility settles deeper into my shoulders as I step from the car, the cold air slicing through my wool coat. The Mortons and two hundred of their closest friends and business associates arrive in four days. Everything must be ready.

I adjust my grip on the binder and portfolio, tightening my scarf against the biting wind. The snowfall has intensified during the drive, no longer picturesque flurries but determined flakes with purpose and weight. My boots connect with the first of the wide stone steps leading to the grand timber entrance, and I mentally rehearse my opening speech to the resort staff.

That's when gravity betrays me.

My foot slides on an invisible patch of ice. My arms pinwheel in a desperate bid for balance, sending my precious binder flying. The world tilts sideways, and I brace for impact.

It never comes.

Strong hands grip my elbows, steadying me against a solid chest. Heat radiates through my coat, a stark contrast to the frigid air whipping around us.

"Easy there." The voice above me holds a hint of amusement. "The mountain doesn't surrender her secrets to those in a hurry."

I push away, regaining my footing and my dignity in one movement. My rescuer stands before me, tall and broad-shouldered with dark hair dusted in snowflakes. His eyes crinkle at the corners, deep blue and entirely too self-satisfied.

"My binder!" I scan the steps frantically, spotting pages and tabs scattered across the snow like colorful confetti. The leather organizer lies half-buried in a snowdrift, its contents spilling out in a disastrous rainbow. "No, no, no!"

I lunge for the nearest pages, nearly slipping again. Dropping to my knees, I frantically grab at color-coded tabs and meticulously organized schedules before the wind can carry them away. Six months of work disintegrating in the snow.

"You're welcome." The man crosses his arms, amusement deepening the lines around his eyes. "Most people say thank you after being saved from a concussion."

"Most people would help pick up these papers instead of standing there smirking." I snatch at a floating seating chart, my fingers numb with cold and panic. The wind mocks me, lifting another sheet just as I reach for it.

He sighs, then kneels beside me, gathering pages with efficient movements. "We're not expecting any guests today."

"I'm not a guest." I snatch a page from his hand, shoving it haphazardly into the binder. My perfectly organized system is now complete and utter chaos. "I'm Amelia Hayes, event coordinator for the Morton-Wells wedding."

Recognition flickers across his features, followed by something that looks suspiciously like dismay. It vanishes quickly, replaced by an easy smile that transforms his face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones.

"Lucas Reid." He extends a hand, still holding several of my rescued papers. "Owner and manager of The Haven at Angel's Peak."

The revelation hits like a splash of icy water. This is the man I've exchanged countless emails with over the past six months?The meticulous resort owner who assured me every detail would be addressed with the utmost care?

His hand remains extended. I shift my binder and grasp it briefly, noting calluses that seem out of place for a luxury resort owner. His palm radiates warmth against my cold fingers.

"Let's get you inside before you turn into an overly organized icicle." He reaches for my portfolio, but I clutch it closer.

"I can manage."

"Suit yourself." He shrugs and moves toward the heavy wooden doors, holding one open. "After you, Ms. Hayes."

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