Page 47 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

"You're suggesting we helicopter in soufflé ingredients?" I can't keep the incredulity from my voice. "That seems… excessive."

"Says the woman who wanted hand-folded swan napkins for two hundred guests." His teasing lacks the edge it might have had days ago. "Besides, we need fresh supplies anyway. The roads won't open for at least another day, maybe two."

Hope stirs despite my attempts to remain realistic. "Would your contact fly in this weather?"

"Jason flew combat missions in Afghanistan. A little mountain snow is nothing." Lucas pulls out his phone. "Let me make the call. In the meantime, let's see what ingredients we do have. We should test the recipe before the wedding day anyway."

An hour later, Lucas has not only arranged for a supply drop but somehow convinced his friend to prioritize the specialty ingredients Charlene's recipe requires. I'm torn between admiration for his problem-solving and irritation at how effortlessly he seems to handle crises that would send me into a spiral of anxiety-fueled planning.

"Delivery scheduled for three this afternoon, weather permitting." He pockets his phone as we make our way to the resort's industrial kitchen. "Jason's already got most of the ingredients at his base. He does supply runs for several high-end resorts in the area."

"I'm impressed." The admission costs me nothing, I realize with surprise. "That was quick thinking."

"I've had practice with mountain emergencies." He pushes through the kitchen's double doors, flipping on lights that illuminate gleaming stainless steel workstations. "You learn to adapt, or you don't survive up here."

The kitchen stands ready and immaculate, designed to serve hundreds of guests at capacity. Now, with just the two of us in the cavernous space, it feels like we've stumbled into someone else's life—playing chef in a restaurant after hours.

Lucas strides ahead, already rolling up his sleeves. He doesn't hesitate.

"Apron." He grabs one from a hook and tosses it to me without looking. Then hands himself another and ties it around his waist efficiently. "We'll take inventory first. I want to see what we're working with before we start guessing."

I catch the apron mid-air, a little stunned at the sudden shift in command.

But I follow his lead, tying the strings around my waist as he moves like he's done this a thousand times. Calm. Controlled. Entirely at home.

"My chef preps for worst-case scenarios. We should have most of the basics." He opens one industrial fridge, scanning shelves.

I fall into step behind him, trying not to trip over the change in tone.

He's no longer the emotionally distant man avoiding couches and kisses—he's the boss now. Precise. Focused. Utterly in his element.

And I am not okay.

Because this?

This right here—Lucas in full command, quietly issuing instructions like it's second nature—is the exact version of him I've been begging for. Not out loud, obviously. But somewhere deep in my lizard brain, the part that short-circuits every time he says language in that voice, or steps a little too close and looks a little too hard…

This bossy kitchen commander thing?

Yeah. It's my own personal porn.

He moves like authority itself, and it makes my breath hitch—not from exertion, but from want.

I want his control. His attention. That sharp, quiet confidence that says he knows exactly what he's doing.

It's maddening.

He walks around like this is nothing—like he hasn't been drawing hard emotional boundaries and pretending what happened between us was some unfortunate blip.

Now he's tossing aprons and directing inventory like he's not holding the blueprint to every one of my goddamn fantasies.

I clear my throat. "You always this bossy in the kitchen?"

He glances at me. Smirks.

"You always this easily flustered by competence?"

I set the measuring cup down harder than necessary, flour puffing into the air like smoke off a fuse.

---