Page 59 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

"Oh come on, don't be modest." Brock turns to me, eyes bright with mischief. "This man was the most ruthless acquisitions specialist in the business. 'The Executioner,' they called him. Could find a company's weakness and exploit it before the CEO finished his morning coffee."

"Brock exaggerates." Lucas's jaw tightens imperceptibly.

"Do I?" Brock raises an eyebrow. "Tell that to the Thompson family. Three generations building a respectable hotel business, and you dismantled it in what, six weeks?"

An uncomfortable silence falls between them. I watch Lucas's expression, searching for signs of the corporate shark beneath the mountain innkeeper.

"People change, Brock." Lucas's voice remains calm but carries a warning edge. "Or at least, some of us do."

The subtle jab hits its mark. Brock's smile falters before he forces a laugh. "Fair enough. However, I'm surprised to find you running a place like this instead of owning it. Last I heard, you were buying properties, not preserving them."

"I own it." Lucas's correction comes swiftly and firmly. "And I'm preserving it because some things deserve to be protected, not dismantled for parts."

The conversation shifts to safer territory—mutual acquaintances, the upcoming wedding, and Brock's latest business ventures. I excuse myself to continue my preparations, but Lucas's words echo in my mind. Some things deserve to be protected. The sentiment reveals more about his transformation than any explanation he's offered before.

The rehearsal dinner unfolds in the smaller dining room, which our team has transformed into an elegant alpine retreat. Candles flicker in rustic lanterns, casting warm light across linen-draped tables adorned with arrangements of winterberries and evergreens. The Morton party fills the space with conversation and laughter that grows louder as the wine flows freely.

I remain on the periphery, watchful for potential issues, and coordinate with staff through discreet signals and quiet instructions. Lucas moves among the guests, the consummate host, though he maintains a professional distance from me whenever Miranda's gaze falls our way.

The crisis, when it comes, arrives with dessert. As servers present the test version of Grandmother Rose's chocolate soufflé to Charlene and her family, the bride's face crumples in disappointment.

"This isn't right." She pokes at the delicate dessert with her spoon. "The texture is all wrong. Grandma's was lighter, almost cloud-like."

"I thought you said you could recreate the recipe precisely." Her mother's expression sharpens.

"Madame, I assure you this soufflé is technically perfect." Chef Morgan emerges from the kitchen, affronted by the criticism.

"Perfect but wrong." Charlene pushes the plate away, tears threatening. "It was the one thing I wanted—something of Grandma's at my wedding."

"Chef, could it be the folding technique? The recipe mentioned a specific method." I step forward, my mind racing for solutions.

Lucas appears at my side, seamlessly joining the problem-solving. "What if we reduce the cooking time slightly? That might create the lighter texture Charlene remembers."

Together, we herd the increasingly agitated chef back to the kitchen while Lucas smoothly directs the servers to offer alternative desserts to the guests. In the relative privacy of thekitchen, we huddle over the recipe, analyzing each step for potential adjustments.

"We need more egg whites." I point to the ingredient list. "And a gentler fold, just like Lucas showed me during our test batches."

"That would defy classical technique—" Chef Morgan bristles.

"This isn't about classical technique." Lucas cuts in, voice firm but not unkind. "It's about recreating a specific memory for our bride. A grandmother's recipe carries emotional weight beyond culinary precision."

The chef studies us both, professional pride warring with the reality of the situation. Finally, he sighs. "Very well. We will try your adjustments for tomorrow's service."

"Thank you, Chef." Lucas's relief is palpable. "Let's prepare a small test batch tonight so Charlene can approve the changes."

As the kitchen team assembles ingredients, Lucas pulls me toward the large pantry, ostensibly to search for the specific vanilla mentioned in the recipe. The moment the door swings shut behind us, he exhales heavily.

"That was close." He runs a hand through his hair. "For a moment, I thought we might have a mutiny on our hands."

"Chef Morgan's ego is almost as big as his talent." I scan the shelves for the elusive vanilla, trying to ignore how small the space feels with Lucas's tall frame blocking the exit. "But you handled him perfectly."

"We handled him perfectly." He steps closer to help with the search. "Your instinct about the folding technique was exactly right."

I'm acutely aware of his proximity in the confined space, surrounded by the rich scents of spices and herbs. We haven't been truly alone since the staff arrived and haven't had amoment to address the question that hung between us this morning.

"Lucas." His name emerges softer than intended. "About what happens after the wedding?—"

"I've been thinking about that." He turns to face me, close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from his body. "These past days have been... unexpected."

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