Page 53 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

My phone rings before I can respond, Miranda's name flashing on the screen. I answer with apprehension, knowing her calls rarely bring good news lately.

"Please tell me you've solved the soufflé situation." Her voice carries the strained patience of someone nearing their breaking point.

"We have the ingredients and are testing the recipe now." I move toward the window for better reception, lowering my voice. "We'll have it perfected before the wedding."

"Good. Because the Mortons…" Her tone sharpens. "We both know what that would mean for your future at Elite Events."

The implied threat lands as intended. "I understand."

"Do you? Because if this wedding fails, your career at Elite is over. No Paris promotion, no future with the firm at all. Everything you've worked for—gone." The connection crackles with static or perhaps just the chill in her voice. "Don't disappoint me, Amelia."

I end the call, hand trembling slightly as I set the phone down. When I turn, Lucas stands closer than expected; his expression hardened into something I haven't seen before—the corporate shark surfacing beneath the mountain innkeeper.

"Your boss is a real piece of work." His voice holds controlled anger. "Threatening your career over circumstances beyond anyone's control."

Heat rushes to my face. "You were eavesdropping?"

"Not intentionally, but I heard enough." He steps closer, protective indignation radiating from him. "Does she always manipulate you like that?"

"It's not manipulation. It's business." I straighten my spine, defensive despite my misgivings about Miranda's tactics. "The Mortons are major clients."

"That doesn't justify threatening someone who's moved mountains—literally—to salvage their event." His eyes narrow, calculating in a way that reminds me of his former corporate life. "What's this about Paris?"

I hesitate, then sigh. "A promotion. Running Elite's new European division."

"Is that what you want?"

The question catches me off guard with its simplicity. Is it what I want? I've been so focused on achieving it and proving myself worthy that I've barely considered whether the goal aligns with my desires.

"It's a tremendous opportunity." I sidestep the actual question. "Career-defining."

"That's not what I asked." Lucas studies me with unsettling perception.

Before I can formulate a response, the kitchen lights flicker ominously. We both glance upward, holding our breath until the electricity stabilizes.

"Storm's picking up again." Lucas moves to the window, peering at the darkening skies. "We should head back to the cabin before we lose power completely."

The walk to the cabin is a battle against strengthening winds and snow swirling in chaotic patterns that steal breath and obscure vision. When we reach the door, we're both shivering despite our heavy coats.

Inside, Lucas immediately builds a fire while I prepare hot drinks. The flames gradually warm the small space as daylightfades outside, snow accumulating against windows that are already half-buried. We eat a simple dinner; our conversation carefully steered toward wedding preparations rather than the more personal territory we'd been approaching.

When the dishes are cleared and we're running out of practical topics, Lucas glances toward the bedroom. "You should take the bed tonight. I've noticed you rubbing your neck after sleeping on the couch."

"We could share." The suggestion emerges before I can analyze its wisdom. "The bed's enormous, and we're both adults."

"Are you sure?" His eyebrows lift slightly.

"Strictly practical." I maintain a matter-of-fact tone despite the sudden dryness in my throat. "We both need proper rest to handle whatever tomorrow brings."

He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Practical."

The bedtime routine unfolds carefully—separate bathroom use, changing in private, deliberate space maintained between us as we settle under the covers. The mattress dips with his weight, the sheet pulling slightly taut between us like a border neither dares cross.

I sleep under the sheets. He sleeps on top of them. An effective, if not infuriating barrier. Once settled in, Lucas covers us both with two layers of blankets. I've never been so close to a person I literally can't touch.

Darkness envelops the room as Lucas extinguishes the bedside lamp. Only the faint glow from the fireplace in the other room filters through the partially open door, casting elongated shadows across unfamiliar terrain. I lie rigidly on my side, hyperaware of his presence mere inches away—the subtle rhythm of his breathing, the faint warmth radiating across the no-man's-land of sheet between us.

This is absurd. We've shared far more intimate contact than sleeping in the same bed. Yet somehow, this feels more vulnerable and meaningful than the passionate encounters that came before. Those could be dismissed as physical responses or isolation-induced attraction. This quiet coexistence requires a different kind of trust.

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