Page 7 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

"You don't have to," I say, too fast. "It's your bed."

I try to make it sound casual. Light. Like I'm unaffected. I'm not.

He shrugs, that same maddening half-smile playing at the corner of his mouth. "I insist." A beat. "Like I said… the couch is comfortable."

His eyes flick to mine, deliberate. And there's something in his tone—something too smooth to be innocent.

My gaze drops because I can't look at him when he says things like that. Not when my brain is still running slow-motion reels of the bedposts and ceiling hooks. I focus on the couch. The tiny, insufficient, going-to-fold-him-in-half couch.

Right. Comfortable. Sure.

"Right," I murmur. "Well. This is… cozy."

He chuckles, low and quiet, as he moves toward the fireplace. Stokes it with the kind of ease that says he doesn't need to fill silences with noise.

"This is temporary," he says, still not looking at me as he stokes the fire. "Just tonight. In the morning, I'll fix the main generator. Get you back to the lodge."

Back to normal. Back to safe.

"And if the storm doesn't let up?" I ask, my voice softer now. Less sure.

He glances over his shoulder, firelight carving shadows along his cheekbone, his mouth curved just slightly—like he already knows the effect he's having.

"Then you're stuck here," he says, tone low and unhurried. "Trapped in my cabin. With me."

A pause. A flicker of heat in his eyes.

"Could be worse."

Silence stretches between us. Heavy. Loaded.

I force myself to move, walking to the fireplace with arms crossed tight across my chest like that'll hold in the storm building under my skin. My thoughts are spiraling again—rope, rough hands, control, surrender. The same reel, playing louder now. Closer.

He watches me. Says nothing.

But I feel his eyes on me.

I rub my arms—not from cold, but to ground myself against the buzz crawling along my nerves. It doesn't help.

Lucas moves past me, crouching at the hearth. He stokes the fire with casual precision that makes everything worse. Each movement is quiet and deliberate, and his body language is easy—like he's in control of the room, the fire, and me.

His broad shoulders shift beneath that damn sweater. His sleeves are still pushed up, revealing forearms that should come with a warning label—tan skin, corded muscle, thick ropey veins that disappear under the edge of his cuff.

I should be setting boundaries. Making a plan. Saying something smart and responsible.

Instead, I say, "So… are you always this prepared for weather-related emergencies, or is this your subtle way of luring unsuspecting women into your lair?"

He straightens, slow and fluid, and when he turns to face me, his expression strips the air from my lungs. His eyes are darker now. Focused. Heat curling in their depths like he's already undressing me in his head—and maybe retying me in something else.

"Only the ones who look like they need it," he says, voice low, intimate. "Or want it."

My stomach flips.

My thighs clench.

The silence between us thickens, buzzing with the things we're both pretending we're not thinking. I force myself to breathe. To blink. Don't look down.

I fail.

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