Page 33 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

His confidence should irritate me, but I find it oddly reassuring. "You're remarkably calm for someone whose entire business is at risk."

"Panic doesn't solve problems." He shrugs. "Besides, I've faced worse."

"Corporate takeovers?" I recall his mention of his previous career.

"Among other things." He leans back, shadows dancing across his face.

"You don't sound proud of it."

"I'm not." His admission carries the weight of hard-earned perspective. "I was good at it—ruthlessly efficient. Received bonuses based on how much I could cut while maintaining minimum service standards."

I try to reconcile this image with the man before me—the one who splashed through puddles checking for leaks, who laughed over mangled napkins. "What changed?"

"Everything." His fingers trace patterns on the polished wood. "Eighty-hour work weeks. Living in hotels. Three relationships that couldn't survive my schedule and priorities."

The generator kicks back on briefly, lights illuminating the room before fading again, leaving us in the gentler glow of lanterns.

"We should move to the cabin." Lucas stands, gathering the lanterns. "It's warmer, and I've got some decent wine we can salvage from this day."

We bundle up against the biting cold, and the short walk to his cabin is a journey through a crystalline wonderland. Snow crunches beneath our boots, the night sky clearing to reveal a canopy of stars impossible to see in the city. My breath forms white clouds that dissipate into the darkness, each inhalation sharp with cold that burns all the way to my lungs.

Lucas's cabin welcomes us with residual warmth from the battery-powered heaters. He busies himself building a fire in the stone hearth while I shed my outer layers.

"You mentioned relationships that didn't survive your schedule." I settle onto the worn leather couch, watching him arrange kindling. "I've had similar experiences."

"Let me guess. They complained you were too driven, too focused on your career." The firelight catches the curve of his smile.

"Something like that." I tuck my legs beneath me, memories surfacing of arguments with exes who couldn't understand my dedication. "My last boyfriend said I loved my color-coded planner more than him."

"Was he right?"

The question lacks judgment, offered instead with genuine curiosity. "Maybe. I've built my reputation on perfection. It doesn't leave much room for compromise."

The fire catches, flames licking upward. Lucas straightens, dusting his hands on his jeans before disappearing into the kitchen. He returns with two glasses and a bottle of red wine.

"To imperfection." He hands me a glass of ruby liquid that gleams in the firelight.

I accept it, the glass cool against my fingers. "Is that a toast or an accusation?"

"Neither." He settles beside me, close enough that I feel the warmth radiating from his body. "Just an observation that sometimes the best things in life aren't planned."

The wine tastes rich and complex, warming me from within. "Is that your philosophy for everything? Just let things happen?"

"Not everything." His gaze holds mine, intensity simmering beneath the casual surface. "But I've learned control is often an illusion. The more desperately you cling to it, the more elusive it becomes."

Coming from anyone else, the statement would sound like new-age nonsense. From Lucas—a man who's mastered iron control in his corporate life and the art of letting go in his current one—it resonates with hard-earned wisdom.

"I'm not sure I know how to let go." The admission slips out quieter than I mean it to. Raw. Vulnerable. "Planning, organizing, anticipating problems—it's not just what I do. It's who I am."

"No. It's what you do." He shakes his head gently. "Not who you are."

His voice is calm. Certain.

That distinction lands hard.

Who am I without my color-coded schedules? My perfectly scripted contingencies? Without being the one who never cracks, never lets anything slip?

I don't realize I'm staring at the fire until I feel his eyes on me again.

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