Page 20 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

Professional. Detached. Warm enough to be polite and cool enough to remind me we're no longer tangled up in bedsheets.

"My grandfather built this place in the sixties." He kneels before a panel and flips a few switches. "It was just a small lodge then. Ten rooms, a shared dining space. No plumbing in half the units."

He glances over his shoulder, a faint smile appearing. "Pretty sure he'd have a stroke if he saw the spa additions."

I nod, because what else can I do?

He turns back to the panel, testing pressure valves and jotting notes onto a pad he pulls from his back pocket. All competent efficiency. No tension. No awareness of the fact that I'm still wearing thermal leggings over bare skin that's bruised and tender from the way he held me last night.

I fold my arms, trying not to fidget. Trying not to feel.

Because this is who he really is, right? The resort owner. The man with old keys and a legacy to protect. Not the one who bent me over and whispered how good I looked when I begged.

And me? I'm just the event planner. One night in a blizzard doesn't change that.

"You've expanded it considerably." I run my fingers over the rich wooden paneling lining the hall, letting the texture distract me from the ache in my chest.

"He left it to me five years ago." Lucas's voice softens, threaded with something almost nostalgic. "I'd just quit my corporate job—burnout, classic case. Eighty-hour weeks, constant travel, and relationships that couldn't survive my schedule. I was a mess."

The quiet honesty in his tone catches me off guard. It's not teasing. Not flirtatious. Just… real.

"What did you do before?" I ask, more softly than intended.

"Acquisitions and restructuring for ZentCorp." He moves toward another panel, checking gauges. "I specialized in hospitality properties. Buying struggling hotels, streamlining operations, flipping them for profit."

The information jolts me. "You were a corporate raider?"

"I preferred 'efficiency expert.'" His smile holds no humor. "I was very good at cutting costs and maximizing shareholder value."

"That doesn't align with..." I gesture vaguely around us.

"The laid-back mountain man?" His laugh is self-deprecating. "That's the point. This place—caring for something instead of dismantling it—saved me."

He glances over at me, then, expression unreadable. "Hard to know what you want when you're pretending nothing matters."

The words hit low. Direct. And not entirely about him.

I swallow, pulse flickering in my throat.

He's not looking at me anymore. He's already walking ahead, stepping around a drift of snow that's crept inside the building.

And that's when it hits me.

He's doing exactly what I said I wanted. Professional. Polite. Emotionally detached. No mixed signals. No flirtation.

No follow-up to the things he did to me with his mouth, his hands, and his voice.

And somehow… it's worse than if he teased me. Worse than if he made a joke or thrown a smug look my way.

Because now, I'm the one who wants more.

And he's the one pretending last night didn't mean anything.

Exactly like I told him to.

We move deeper into the resort, checking rooms for damage. The contrast between the man before me and the corporate shark he describes is difficult to reconcile—yet it explains the surprising control he exhibited in bed, the precision with which he'd taken me apart and put me back together.

It also explains his need to overwhelm and dominate completely.

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