Page 52 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

"Like this." He demonstrates the gentle folding motion. "More of a cut and turn, not stirring."

I mimic his movement, concentrating so intently that I don't notice the streak of flour on my hand until it's too late. As I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, Lucas's lips twitch with suppressed amusement.

"What?" I glance up from the bowl.

"You've got a little..." He gestures vaguely toward my face, eyes dancing with mischief.

I reach up, feeling the telltale powder across my cheek. "Very mature. Are you going to tell me there's something on my shirt next?"

"No need." Without warning, he deliberately dabs a fresh smudge of flour on the tip of my nose. "Now you match."

For a heartbeat, I'm too stunned to react. Then outrage bubbles up, followed immediately by an unfamiliar playfulness. I retaliate by flicking egg white from my fingertips directly onto his shirt.

"Oh, it's like that, is it?" His expression of exaggerated shock only encourages me.

Before I retreat, he scoops a handful of powdered sugar and blows it gently in my direction. The white cloud settles across my hair and shoulders, turning me into a winter apparition.

"You did not just—" I grab the nearest weapon—a bottle of vanilla—and shake droplets at him, leaving dark speckles across his formerly clean shirt.

What follows can only be described as culinary warfare.

Flour flies.

Egg white splatters.

And chocolate smears across countertops.

Lucas's deep laughter echoes off the stainless steel surfaces as I dodge behind a workstation, seeking ammunition. I can't remember the last time I engaged in something so utterly childish and delightful.

"Truce." He finally holds up his hands, his face streaked with cocoa and hair dusted white. "I surrender."

I emerge from behind my makeshift barricade, breathless with laughter and equally covered in ingredients. "Look at this disaster. We're supposed to be professionals."

"Speak for yourself." He grins, reaching out to brush sugar from my cheek. "I'm just a humble innkeeper."

"And I'm a sexually frustrated wedding planner with an unfair sentence." I lean into his touch despite myself.

"Unfair?" His thumb traces along my cheekbone, eyes darkening. "You love the discipline as much as you need the incredible sex."

My breath catches. Because he's not wrong.

His touch lingers, warm fingers against my skin. The laughter fades, replaced by something quieter, more intense. For a moment, I think he might kiss me—I want him to kiss me—but he steps back, clearing his throat.

"We should clean up."

The kitchen restoration takes twice as long as the mess-making, filled with companionable conversation as we work. Lucas shares stories of his grandfather's early days running the lodge, of the property's evolution over the decades, and of his reluctant journey from corporate predator to preservationist.

I find myself sharing, too—my childhood fascination with organizing, my mother's elaborate dinner parties that sparked my career, and the satisfaction of creating perfect moments for clients.

"You never talk about yourself." Lucas wipes down a final counter as I load the dishwasher. "Always the job, never the woman behind it."

"The job is safer." The honesty surprises me. "Clearer boundaries and well-defined expectations."

"Who is Amelia Hayes outside of work?" His question holds genuine interest.

I consider deflecting, then find myself answering truthfully. "She's... a work in progress. Less certain than she appears."

"I like her." His simple statement warms something cold and dormant inside me. "Both versions."

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