Page 50 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

My cheeks flare with heat. "Don't test me."

"Too late." He lifts a brow, sliding the cocoa across the counter toward me.

We fall into an unexpectedly comfortable rhythm, moving around each other in the large space like nothing just detonated between us. Like we didn't just toe the edge of something we both want too much.

I read requirements from the recipe while Lucas locates items, occasionally suggesting substitutions for things we're missing. His knowledge of food and preparation surprises me.

"So, how did you learn to cook?" I measure flour into a bowl, creating a small cloud of white dust.

"By necessity." He cracks eggs single-handedly, talk about skill. "Growing up, it was just my dad and me after my mom left. He worked long hours, so I either learned to cook or lived on cereal."

The casual mention of his mother leaving drops like a stone in still water, ripples of unspoken history spreading outward. I wait, sensing there's more to the story if I give him space to tell it.

"My grandfather bought this place back in the day." Lucas continues, focusing on separating egg whites from yolks. "Everyone thought he was crazy—former mining lodge with rotting floors and a leaking roof. But he saw its potential."

"Like grandfather, like grandson." The observation slips out unbidden.

His smile holds a touch of melancholy. "He died before he could finish the renovations. Heart attack while shoveling snow, ironically enough. I was in my first year at business school."

"I'm sorry." The words feel inadequate for the loss I hear beneath his matter-of-fact tone.

"The resort was his dream, not mine. I was chasing corporate success, seven-figure bonuses, and corner offices. I nearly sold this place a dozen times." Lucas shrugs, but the deliberate casualness doesn't quite mask the emotion.

"What stopped you?"

"Memories, at first." He measures vanilla into a small bowl, the rich scent filling the space between us. "Then, gradually, I started seeing what he saw—a place that could bring joy and create moments that matter. Something real in a world of corporate artifice."

I absorb this glimpse into what shaped him, understanding blooming like the deep notes of vanilla in the air. "Yourgrandfather's atrium. Your grandfather's vision. No wonder this place means so much to you."

"Most people just see a business decision—why not sell to a hotel chain and cash out?"

He glances up, surprise flickering in his expression.

"I'm not most people." The words emerge softer than intended.

"No." His gaze holds mine across the kitchen island. "You're definitely not."

Then he glances down, catches the mess I've made of the flour, and chuckles low in his throat.

"You really suck as a sous chef."

I arch a brow, wiping flour from my wrist. "Yeah? Well, there's one thing I suck pretty damn well?—"

"Jesus, Amelia." Lucas groans, head tipping back like he's praying for strength.

"Just trying to be helpful." I grin wickedly, licking a dab of batter from my fingertip. "Just because I'm being punished… doesn't mean you need to suffer."

His eyes snap to mine—dark, focused, dangerous.

"You know damn well." His voice is low and lethal. "If I let you suck my cock, what'll happen next."

I freeze. My breath stutters.

"Don't try and manipulate me, and if it happens again…" He leans in, not touching me, but close enough that I feel the heat of his words on my skin. "I'll add even more time to your sentence."

I gape at him. "You can't be serious."

"Oh, I'm dead serious."

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