Page 46 of Stranded with the Resort Owner

Specialty ingredients. During a blizzard. With all the roads closed.

Perfect.

"I'll see what I can do." I keep my voice professionally neutral. "No promises, but we'll explore every option."

By the time I end the call, Lucas is standing in the doorway, leaning against the frame, casual and just-showered in a way that should not be legal this early in the morning.

His damp hair curls slightly at the ends, a dark, tousled mess that begs to be tugged. A towel hangs carelessly around his neck, catching droplets that trickle down the strong column of his throat, disappearing beneath the cling of a long-sleeved black thermal that fits entirely too well.

And those sweatpants?

Grey. Loose. Low on his hips.

Unforgivable.

My eyes betray me—trailing down, pausing at the sharp cut of his obliques where shirt meets waistband, then skimming the long lines of his legs until I force them back up. His arms are crossed now, muscles flexing beneath the fabric that hugs every inch like it was stitched for sin.

He raises an eyebrow, amusement flickering across his face as if he knows exactly where my brain has gone.

"Problem?" He asks.

Yes.

You.

In that shirt.

Looking like a walking contradiction of restraint and ruin.

But I clear my throat and offer a smile that's definitely more grimace than grace.

"The bride wants to add her late grandmother's chocolate soufflé to the menu." I rise to my feet, brushing imaginary dust from my borrowed jeans. "With specialty ingredients, we don't have, can't order, and can't access because we're snowbound on a fucking mountain."

Instead of the expected commiseration, Lucas's eyes spark with interest. "What kind of ingredients?"

I glance down as Charlene's email pings. "Valrhona chocolate, Tahitian vanilla beans, some special French butter I can't pronounce, and…" I scroll, "orange flower water? Is that even a real thing?"

"It is." He steps closer to peer over my shoulder, the clean scent of his soap curling around me like a trap. "This doesn't look impossible."

I turn to face him, instantly distracted by how close he is—his height, his heat, the quiet intensity in his gaze.

"We're stranded in a blizzard." I snap, trying to keep my footing. "Everything is fucking impossible right now."

"Language." His eyes flick down to mine, calm but sharp.

The single word lands like a gloved hand at the back of my neck—soft, but commanding. Not angry. Not judgmental. Just a quiet assertion of boundaries.

Of control.

A flicker of heat curls low in my belly.

Of course, he'd find a way to reassert control with one damn word.

I swallow. "Sorry."

"It's fine. Just don't take it out on the mountain." His mouth quirks. Just slightly.

His smile holds a hint of the arrogance I found so irritating days ago, now somehow transformed into something almost charming. "I know a guy with a helicopter service in Ridgeline. We've worked together before on supply emergencies."

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