Page 40 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

But sleep doesn't come easy for me.

Not when I can still feel his kiss ghosting over my lips.

And not when I know—absolutely know?—

This isn't over.

Chapter 9

Damage Control

Morning light filtersthrough the cabin windows, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets. I blink awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings, before memories of last night flood back. The tender kiss by the firelight. The way Lucas held me afterward, neither of us pushing for more. The quiet goodnight as he retreated to the bed, and I slept on the couch.

My fingers drift to my lips, still sensitive from his kiss. So different from our previous encounters, less about physical dominance and more about... connection. The shift unsettles me more than I care to admit.

"Focus, Amelia," I mutter, throwing back the covers. Today is about wedding preparation, not the complicated thing between me and the resort owner.

The cabin is quiet as I dress. There is no sign of Lucas in the kitchen or living area. Just a note propped against the coffee pot:Gone to check generator. Coffee's fresh. Help yourself.

Relief and disappointment war in my chest. Professionalism wins—this distance is exactly what we need. Whatever happened last night was an anomaly, a momentary lapse fueled byisolation and wine. Today, we return to being professionals with a job to accomplish.

I pour coffee into a ceramic mug emblazoned with the resort logo, the rich aroma momentarily drowning my complicated thoughts. Outside, the world remains transformed by snow, pristine white stretching to the horizon. Beautiful, but isolating.

The cabin door opens with a rush of frigid air, revealing Lucas stamping snow from his boots. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and his dark hair is dusted with crystalline flakes that catch the light. Our eyes meet across the room, and for a moment, everything else falls away.

"Morning." He breaks the silence first, shrugging out of his heavy coat. "Sleep well?"

Such an ordinary question carries so much subtext. "Yes, thanks. Any luck with the generator?"

"Some good news and bad news." He pours himself coffee, maintaining a careful distance between us. "I've got the generator functioning again, but the weather report isn't promising. Roads will be closed for at least two more days."

My stomach drops. "Two days? That puts us right against the wedding deadline."

"The plows are working around the clock, but the accumulation is significant." He sips his coffee, eyes studying me over the rim. "We should check the main building for any new damage from overnight freezing."

"Right." I set down my mug. "I'm concerned about the reception hall with those high ceilings and older windows."

We bundle up against the cold, and the walk to the main resort building is conducted in professional silence. The tension from last night has evolved into something more complex—not awkwardness exactly, but a heightened awareness. Every accidental brush of the shoulders feels deliberate. Every exchanged glance carries weight.

The resort's grand entrance hall welcomes us with restored electricity, lights gleaming against polished wood and stone. At least something's going right. However, as we approach the main reception hall, the sound of dripping water grows increasingly ominous.

I push open the double doors and freeze in horror. Water cascades down one wall where a massive window meets the ceiling, pooling on the hardwood floor below. Ice has forced a gap in the sealing, allowing melting snow to penetrate. Already, dark stains spread across the carefully restored flooring.

"No, no, no." I rush forward. "This is catastrophic. The reception is supposed to be here."

Lucas examines the damage without the panic that currently has my heart hammering against my ribs. "It's not as bad as it looks. The water damage is localized to this corner."

"Not as bad?" I gesture wildly at the spreading pool. "This room is the centerpiece of the wedding reception. It's featured in every plan, every layout, every discussion with the clients."

Rather than matching my escalating tone, Lucas remains calm. "We'll handle it. First, let's stop the active leak."

He disappears, returning minutes later with maintenance tools and materials. I watch in conflicted admiration as he efficiently seals the gap, stopping the immediate water intrusion. His competence both impresses and irritates me—shouldn't he be more concerned about this disaster?

"The floor will need professional restoration." He says, kneeling to examine the damaged wood. "That won't happen before the wedding."

"So we're doomed." I sink onto a chair, mind racing through inadequate contingency plans.

"Or." Lucas stands, brushing dust from his knees, "We use the Mountainview Room instead. It's slightly smaller but has better natural light and a more intimate feel."

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