Page 55 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

"Just?" I nearly choke on the word. "There's no 'just' about it. We have hundreds of details to coordinate in half the normal time."

The coffee maker gurgles to completion as Lucas regards me steadily—that gaze that both irritates and steadies me. "And we will. One step at a time."

He hands me a steaming mug, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The brief contact grounds me momentarily, pulling me back from the edge of complete panic.

"I need to shower and change." I cradle the mug, drawing strength from its warmth. "Then make about fifty calls before the staff arrives."

"I'll handle the lodge preparations." Lucas sips his coffee, watching me over the rim. "I'll make sure all systems are operational, and all the spaces are cleared and ready."

His calm competence should reassure me. Instead, it highlights how we approach problems differently—his steady adaptability versus my need for meticulous control. Yet somehow, over these past few days, those differences have become complementary rather than conflicting.

The thought settles me as I retreat to prepare for the day ahead. By the time we walk to the main lodge, I've armored myself in professionalism—hair pulled back, my day-before-the-wedding 'suit' as neat as possible, and all my mental checklists arranged in precise order of priority.

The first vehicles arrive shortly after noon, crunching over gravel and packed snow. Staff members I've only met through email introductions materialize in physical form—the executivechef and his team, florists laden with preserved arrangements, logistics coordinators with tablets and concerned expressions.

I meet them at the entrance with a clipboard in hand and a Bluetooth headset in place. "Welcome to Angel's Peak. We have significant adjustments to the original plan, so please hold all questions until I've completed the overview briefing."

What follows is a masterclass in crisis management, if I do say so myself. I direct teams to their stations, outline the venue changes, distribute updated timelines, and address concerns authoritatively. Years of handling last-minute wedding disasters have prepared me for exactly this moment—when control seems impossible but must be maintained anyway.

Lucas works the room differently, moving between teams effortlessly, smoothing ruffled feathers when my directives come too sharp, and providing context where my brevity leaves gaps. We orbit each other without direct coordination, somehow sensing where the other is needed, filling spaces the other leaves open.

"The pastry chef is stuck in Ridgeline with a broken-down van." A harried kitchen assistant appears at my elbow while I review floral placement with the design team. "Chef Morgan says we can't do the soufflé without him."

Before I can respond, Lucas materializes beside us. "I know a mechanic in Ridgeline. Give me the details."

While he handles that crisis, I pivot to address a delivery error with the linens—the wrong shade of ivory, requiring rapid steam treatment to brighten them to acceptable levels. The problem-solving dance continues through the afternoon—a missing sound system component here, a staffing gap there, each challenge met with solutions cobbled together from resources at hand.

"You're good at this." Lucas appears at my side during a rare quiet moment, voice low enough that only I can hear. "Better than good. Exceptional."

The unexpected praise warms me more than it should. "So are you. For someone so 'relaxed' about planning."

His smile holds a hint of pride—not in himself, I realize with startling clarity, but in me. "Different methods, synergistic results."

We're interrupted by the executive chef, who needs to make immediate decisions about the revised menu timing. I follow him to the kitchen, where chaos reigns as staff unpack deliveries and establish workstations. The confident chef resists my insistence on checking every element.

"With all due respect, Ms. Hayes, I've been preparing high-end events for twenty years." Chef Morgan crosses his arms, bristling at my suggested adjustments to his workflow. "My team knows what they're doing."

"And I'm responsible for ensuring every detail meets the client's expectations." I stand my ground, though he towers over me by nearly a foot. "The timeline has compressed significantly. We need redundancies built in."

"My kitchen, my methods." His expression darkens. "Mr. Reid has always trusted my judgment."

"Everything alright here?" As if summoned, Lucas appears behind me.

"Your event planner is micromanaging my kitchen." Chef Morgan's accent thickens with irritation. "It disrupts our established system."

I turn to Lucas, expecting him to side with his staff member. "I'm simply ensuring we have contingencies for every element, given the compressed timeline."

To my surprise, Lucas's expression hardens, his easy-going demeanor replaced by something sharper, more reminiscent of the corporate executive he once was. "Chef, a word?"

They step aside for a brief, intense conversation. I catch fragments—"exceptional circumstances" and "professional courtesy"—before the chef returns with a begrudging nod of acceptance.

"We will incorporate your... suggestions." He manages a tight smile. "Though I maintain they are unnecessary."

"Thank you." I match his professional tone, refusing to gloat. "I appreciate your flexibility."

As the kitchen team resumes work, Lucas gestures toward a quiet hallway away from the bustle. I follow, preparing arguments for my approach, certain he's about to lecture me on staff relations.

The moment we're alone, his controlled expression gives way to frustration. "You can't come into my resort and dictate to staff who have worked here for years."

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