Page 63 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

Surprised applause fills the room as a spotlight finds me at the dessert station. Lucas appears equally startled on the opposite side of the room. His eyes find mine across the distance.

"And." Brock continues mischievously. "They've requested that these two extraordinary individuals share a dance with them."

Heat rises to my cheeks as Lucas approaches, offering his hand with a slight shrug that says, We have little choice.

The band transitions to a slow melody as we move to the center of the floor. His hand settles at my waist carefully despite the electric awareness that sparks between us.

"Ambushed." His whisper carries humor as we begin to move to the music. "Though I can't say I mind."

"Very professional." I maintain enough distance to appear appropriate while hyperaware of every point of contact between us—his hand at my waist, mine on his shoulder, our fingers intertwined.

"Professional went out the window days ago, Amelia." His voice drops lower, for my ears only. "Somewhere between blizzards and soufflés and elevator encounters."

The reminder of our more intimate moments sends heat cascading through me. "Lucas, I?—"

"I know we need to talk." His eyes hold mine, honest and direct in a way that makes my chest ache. "About whatever this is between us. About what happens after tomorrow."

The music swells around us as we move perfectly together—another example of how naturally we fit together. Our bodies remember steps neither of us consciously leads. I'm acutely aware of guests watching, of Miranda's calculating gaze tracking our every move, of the precipice we stand upon.

"I've been offered Paris." The words escape before I can reconsider, quiet but clear between us. "Running Elite's European division. It's the promotion I've worked toward for years."

"When?" His rhythm falters almost imperceptibly before he recovers.

"Immediately after the wedding concludes." I search his expression for a reaction. "It's a tremendous opportunity."

"It is." His agreement comes without hesitation, though something flickers in his eyes—disappointment, perhaps, or resignation. "When do you leave?"

"I haven't accepted yet."

"Why not?" This surprises him. His hand tightens slightly at my waist. "It's everything you've worked for, isn't it?"

The question echoes my internal struggle. "It was. Before..."

"Before what?" He prompts me when I don't continue.

Before you.

Before us.

Before I discovered that perfection might look different than I've always believed.

The words crowd my throat but remain unspoken as the music draws to a close. Applause surrounds us as we step apart, the moment for confession lost in the social requirements of the reception.

The remainder of the evening passes in a blur of professional obligations. Lucas and I orbit each other cautiously, both aware of unfinished conversations and uncertain futures.

As guests gradually depart and the newlyweds retreat to their suite, we oversee the final breakdown of the venue, directing staff efficiently as always.

"You should get some rest." Lucas appears beside me as I check the final vendor departure list. "Tomorrow will be another long day."

Tomorrow.

When the bubble bursts completely. When reality reasserts itself in the form of departing guests, returning to normal operations, and decisions about Paris that can no longer be postponed.

"You too." I try for professional detachment despite the weight of everything unsaid between us. "It's been a successful event. The resort will certainly see increased bookings from this exposure."

"Is that what we're doing?" His voice carries quiet challenge. "Pretending this was just a business transaction?"

"Isn't it?" The question emerges more vulnerable than intended.

---