Page 41 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

"The Mountainview Room wasn't in any of the plans." I resist the immediate rejection my perfectionist tendencies demand, forcing myself to consider alternatives. "Show me."

He leads me through corridors to a room I hadn't noticed during our initial tour. Double doors open to reveal a space with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, offering breathtaking views of snow-covered peaks. The room has a warmth the grand reception hall lacks, with rich wood paneling and a massive stone fireplace at one end.

"It's beautiful." I admit, mental calculations already rearranging tables and decorations to fit the new space.

"And more practical for winter weddings." Lucas moves to the fireplace, checking that it's operational. "The heating is more efficient here, and the views are unmatched."

I pace the perimeter, measuring steps and visualizing the transformation. "I need to rearrange the seating chart completely. The dance floor would work better near the windows. The head table would face this way instead..."

Lucas watches me with something like admiration. "You're already seeing it, aren't you? The whole event reconfigured in your mind."

"It's my job." I continue my assessment. My professional focus momentarily displaces personal fears. "It could work. We'd need to document the changes thoroughly for the client's approval."

"I'm sure they'll understand, given the circumstances." He joins me at the windows, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.

"You don't know Charlene Morton." I turn to face him, suddenly aware of our proximity. "She's had this wedding planned since childhood. Every detail matters."

Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a subtle curve of lips. "Sounds like someone else I know."

The observation lacks mockery, offered with gentle understanding that disarms my defensiveness. "We're not alike. She's driven by fantasy, and I'm driven by excellence."

"And never the twain shall meet?" His voice holds amusement.

"Occasionally, they overlap." I step back, needing distance to maintain professional focus. "Let's inventory what we'll need to transform this space. I'll draft alternative layouts while you handle the technical elements."

We fall into surprisingly effective teamwork, moving around each other without conscious coordination. I draft new seating arrangements while Lucas assesses the room's lighting capabilities. I recalculate table placements while he tests the sound system. The tension between us remains, but transforms into something productive—energy channeled into creative problem-solving rather than awkward avoidance.

Hours pass in focused work, and the room gradually takes shape. By late afternoon, we've created a comprehensive plan that improves upon the original design. The smaller space feels more intimate and romantic, better suited to a winter wedding than the cavernous reception hall.

"We should document the changes," I suggest, surveying our work with cautious satisfaction. "I need to send updates to Miranda and the client."

"Use my phone." Lucas offers his device. "Better camera than yours."

I accept it, snapping photos of the room from various angles. The results are underwhelming—flat images that fail to capture the room's potential.

"These aren't going to convince anyone." I scroll through the inadequate photos, frustration mounting. "They can't see what we're envisioning."

"Let me try." Lucas takes the phone, adjusting settings before approaching the first shot differently. "Photography was a serious hobby of mine before the resort took over my life."

He moves through the space purposefully, finding angles I never considered, capturing how light plays across surfaces. I watch, fascinated by this new dimension of skill, another layer to the increasingly complex man before me.

"Check these." He hands the phone back, our fingers brushing briefly.

The difference is striking. Where my photos showed an empty room, his captures potential—the majestic mountain backdrop, the warm intimacy of the space, and the way the late-afternoon light creates golden pools on the polished floor.

"These are..." I search for a word that won't inflate his already considerable ego.

"Professional quality?" He suggests with a grin.

"Adequate." I counter, fighting a smile. "But we need more. Every element that's changing needs documentation."

"Then let's do a proper session." He takes the phone back. "We'll stage key elements, get samples of the linens and centerpieces, really show how it will all come together."

The prospect of continued collaboration both thrills and unnerves me. "How about food first? I'm starving."

We retreat to the resort's kitchen, raiding supplies for an impromptu meal. Lucas proves as competent at cooking as photography, whipping up pasta from ingredients salvaged from the walk-in refrigerator. We eat at the prep counter, discussing wedding logistics interspersed with companionable silence.

My phone rings just as we finish—Miranda's name flashes on the screen. I answer, dreading the conversation.

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