Page 61 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

But here, in this place, something else has taken root—something unplanned, imperfect, and terrifying. Something that makes the thought of leaving feel like losing a piece of myself I've only just discovered.

For the first time in my meticulously organized life, I have no contingency plan.

Chapter 14

True Vows

Dawn breaksover Angel's Peak in watercolor strokes of pink and gold. I've been awake for hours, reviewing checklists and contingency plans until the words blur together.

The wedding day has arrived—the culmination of months of planning, days of crisis management, and countless moments of unexpected connection with the resort owner who has upended my carefully structured world.

I haven't seen Lucas since the rehearsal dinner. He sent a text late last night—an apology for being caught up with last-minute lodge issues and a promise to connect in the morning. I drafted a dozen responses, each attempting to convey the complicated tangle of emotions churning inside me before settling on a simple acknowledgment.

We both have jobs to do. Personal revelations will have to wait.

The bridal suite bustles with activity when I arrive. Makeup artists and hair stylists orbit Charlene like planets around a sun while bridesmaids in matching silk robes snap photos and sip mimosas. The bride herself sits eerily calm at the center of the chaos, meeting my eyes in the mirror as I enter.

"Amelia." She smiles, genuine warmth replacing her usual entitled demeanor. "Everything looks magical. The flowers, the atrium—it's better than I ever imagined."

Her sincerity catches me off guard. "I'm glad you're pleased. How are you feeling?"

"Strangely peaceful." She accepts a mimosa from a hovering bridesmaid. "After all the changes and challenges, I realized something important: the perfect wedding isn't about perfect details. It's about marrying the right person in a place that feels special."

The simple wisdom lands unexpectedly. I manage a smile, though her words echo uncomfortably against the tangle of my thoughts about perfection and priorities.

"We still have a few hours before the ceremony." I check my watch, redirecting to safer territory. "I'll make sure everything is on schedule."

The morning unfolds in a whirlwind of final preparations. Florists make last-minute adjustments to the atrium's floral archway. Audio technicians test sound levels for the string quartet. Catering staff transform the Mountainview Room into a reception worthy of society pages.

I'm inspecting the cake placement when the first crisis hits—a frantic call from the makeup artist. The mother of the bride has decided she hates her look and is demanding a complete restart, throwing off the entire preparation timeline.

The second crisis emerges before I can address the first. One of the quartet musicians has food poisoning, leaving them without a cellist for the ceremony music.

The third crisis arrives via text from the best man: the groom has lost the wedding rings.

Breathe, I remind myself, ducking into a quiet alcove.

Crises are just problems waiting for solutions. I've handled worse with fewer resources. Yet the pressure of perfectionweighs heavier today, with Miranda's watchful gaze and the Paris position hanging in the balance—not to mention my confusion about what I want.

"There you are." Lucas's voice pulls me from spiraling thoughts.

He stands in the hallway, devastatingly handsome in a charcoal suit that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders and the lean strength of his frame. For a moment, all the professional chaos recedes, replaced by the simpler chaos of my feelings for this complicated man.

"Crisis central." I gesture to my phone, where messages continue to arrive. "Standard wedding day emergencies."

"Anything I can help with?" He steps closer, careful professionalism in his posture despite the warmth in his eyes.

I hesitate only briefly before dividing the list. "Can you track down the rings? The best man says Brock last had them during the poker game last night."

"Consider it handled." His confidence steadies me. "What else?"

"We need a cellist. One of the quartet is sick."

He thinks for a moment, then nods. "My maintenance manager, Paul, played professionally before moving to the mountains. I'll call him."

"Thank you." Relief flutters through me. "I'll handle the mother-of-the-bride makeup crisis."

We separate, each tackling our assigned problems. The pattern continues throughout the morning—one of us identifying an issue, the other stepping in with a solution, moving in harmony without the need for extensive communication.

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