Page 17 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

He disappears into the bedroom, leaving me alone with my racing thoughts and cooling pancakes. The spell of last night feels increasingly distant as reality reasserts itself.

What was I thinking, falling into bed with a man whose relaxed approach to business directly threatens my career? Onenight of mind-blowing sex doesn't change the fundamental conflict between us.

And yet, my body still tingles with the ghost of his touch. The memory of his voice, rough with desire, whispering exactly what he planned to do to me...

I shake my head, forcing my attention to the storm outside. The snow has stopped for now, though the accumulation looks significant. Drifts pile against the cabin's windows, transforming the world into a crystalline fortress of white.

Beautiful, but isolating.

Much like the connection we shared last night—intense but temporary, a product of extraordinary circumstances and steamy chemistry rather than any real compatibility.

Lucas returns dressed in jeans and a thick sweater, hair still damp from a quick shower. He tosses me a bundle of clothing.

"These will be too big, but they're warm. The path to the main building is covered, but the snow's deep."

I retreat to the bathroom to change, grateful for the moment alone to compose myself. The woman in the mirror looks different somehow—cheeks flushed, lips slightly swollen, eyes bright with lingering satisfaction.

I barely recognize her.

Dressed in his borrowed clothing—jeans rolled at the ankles, sweater slipping off one shoulder—I emerge to find Lucas by the door, pulling on heavy boots.

"Ready?" He holds out a thick parka. His expression is neutral.

He watches me cross the room, his eyes scanning over the oversized clothes hanging off my body—his clothes. And for the first time since waking, the easy confidence he's worn like a second skin… falters.

"You didn't finish your breakfast," he says, voice cool.

"Wasn't hungry." I tug the sweater's hem down self-consciously. "Too much on my mind."

"Right. The wedding." His jaw tightens. Something in his tone makes me glance at him, really look. He's not smiling. His gaze is distant. Shielded. "Guess I read the room wrong."

"It's not that," I start, then stop. Because it is that. At least partly.

Last night was mind-shattering, yes. But this morning? We're back to reality, and reality looks like a checklist with too many moving parts and a man who flips pancakes while casually threatening to tie me up again.

I reach for the parka, but he doesn't let go.

"I didn't expect flowers and promises, Amelia." His gaze meets mine, steady. "But I also didn't expect you to pretend last night didn't happen."

"It's not that." I stiffen.

The words come too fast. Too sharp.

Because if I don't say them fast, I'll start thinking about what last night actually was.

Not a hookup. Not a release.

It was… everything I crave but never ask for.

The edge I always chase.

Not sweetness. Not softness.

Control.

Total surrender.

And not the kind dressed up with safe words and candlelight.

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