Stranded with the Resort Owner (Angel’s Peak #3)

1. Perfect Plans Interrupted

Perfect Plans Interrupted

The snow falls in delicate, lazy spirals as I navigate the winding mountain road up to the small town of Angel's Peak.

My knuckles turn white against the steering wheel as my grip tightens.

Each curve brings The Haven at Angel's Peak closer, and with it, the culmination of six months of obsessive planning.

My checklist cycles through my mind on an endless loop: centerpieces, seating arrangements, backup generators for the outdoor lighting.

Everything must be flawless.

Executed to perfection.

The resort materializes through the curtain of snowflakes, a sprawling timber and stone structure that commands the mountainside.

Light glows from windows like beacons against the darkening afternoon sky.

The view steals my breath, just as it did in the glossy brochures I showed the Mortons when convincing them this remote location was worth the extravagant price tag.

I park near the entrance, gathering my leather portfolio and the color-coded binder that has become my third arm since landing the Morton-Wells wedding. Charlene Morton—daughter of tech billionaire Richard Morton—deserves nothing less than perfection, and I intend to deliver exactly that.

The memory of my last conversation with Miranda, my razor-sharp boss at Elite Events, surfaces unbidden.

"This isn't just any wedding, Amelia." She leaned across her immaculate glass desk, red fingernails tapping an ominous rhythm. "This is the social event of the season—of the decade. Every detail will be scrutinized by people who can make or break careers—yours and mine. Don't disappoint me."

The weight of that responsibility settles deeper into my shoulders as I step from the car, the cold air slicing through my wool coat. The Mortons and two hundred of their closest friends and business associates arrive in four days. Everything must be ready.

I adjust my grip on the binder and portfolio, tightening my scarf against the biting wind.

The snowfall has intensified during the drive, no longer picturesque flurries but determined flakes with purpose and weight.

My boots connect with the first of the wide stone steps leading to the grand timber entrance, and I mentally rehearse my opening speech to the resort staff.

That's when gravity betrays me.

My foot slides on an invisible patch of ice. My arms pinwheel in a desperate bid for balance, sending my precious binder flying. The world tilts sideways, and I brace for impact.

It never comes.

Strong hands grip my elbows, steadying me against a solid chest. Heat radiates through my coat, a stark contrast to the frigid air whipping around us.

"Easy there." The voice above me holds a hint of amusement. "The mountain doesn't surrender her secrets to those in a hurry."

I push away, regaining my footing and my dignity in one movement. My rescuer stands before me, tall and broad- shouldered with dark hair dusted in snowflakes. His eyes crinkle at the corners, deep blue and entirely too self-satisfied.

"My binder!" I scan the steps frantically, spotting pages and tabs scattered across the snow like colorful confetti. The leather organizer lies half-buried in a snowdrift, its contents spilling out in a disastrous rainbow. "No, no, no!"

I lunge for the nearest pages, nearly slipping again. Dropping to my knees, I frantically grab at color-coded tabs and meticulously organized schedules before the wind can carry them away. Six months of work disintegrating in the snow.

"You're welcome." The man crosses his arms, amusement deepening the lines around his eyes. "Most people say thank you after being saved from a concussion."

"Most people would help pick up these papers instead of standing there smirking." I snatch at a floating seating chart, my fingers numb with cold and panic. The wind mocks me, lifting another sheet just as I reach for it.

He sighs, then kneels beside me, gathering pages with efficient movements. "We're not expecting any guests today."

"I'm not a guest." I snatch a page from his hand, shoving it haphazardly into the binder. My perfectly organized system is now complete and utter chaos. "I'm Amelia Hayes, event coordinator for the Morton-Wells wedding."

Recognition flickers across his features, followed by something that looks suspiciously like dismay. It vanishes quickly, replaced by an easy smile that transforms his face, softening the sharp angles of his jaw and cheekbones.

"Lucas Reid." He extends a hand, still holding several of my rescued papers. "Owner and manager of The Haven at Angel's Peak."

The revelation hits like a splash of icy water. This is the man I've exchanged countless emails with over the past six months? The meticulous resort owner who assured me every detail would be addressed with the utmost care?

His hand remains extended. I shift my binder and grasp it briefly, noting calluses that seem out of place for a luxury resort owner. His palm radiates warmth against my cold fingers.

"Let's get you inside before you turn into an overly organized icicle." He reaches for my portfolio, but I clutch it closer.

"I can manage."

"Suit yourself." He shrugs and moves toward the heavy wooden doors, holding one open. "After you, Ms. Hayes."

The resort lobby unfolds before me, a soaring space of exposed beams and stone. A massive fireplace dominates one wall, flames leaping behind an ornate iron screen. The scent of pine and woodsmoke wraps around me, momentarily soothing my jangled nerves.

But only momentarily.

The lobby should be bustling with staff preparing for the wedding. Instead, it stands eerily quiet. No reception staff. No event team. Just vast, empty luxury.

"Where is everyone?" I turn to Lucas, dread building in my stomach.

"It's just me tonight." He shrugs, setting my partially rescued papers on a solid wooden console table. "The staff will be here first thing tomorrow."

"Just you?" My voice rises despite my efforts to maintain professionalism. "I mean your staff. The event team that should be transforming the reception hall according to the schedule I sent three weeks ago. The florists who should be preparing arrangements for the rehearsal dinner. The?—"

"They'll be here first thing tomorrow." He moves toward the fireplace, seemingly unconcerned by my rising panic. "Most of them live in town, and there's no need for them to stay overnight when we don't have guests yet."

"No need?" My voice cracks with strain. "Mr. Reid, I specifically outlined in my communications that preparations needed to begin today. The Mortons are arriving in four days, and everything must be perfect when they walk through that door."

He turns, the firelight casting shadows across his face. "And it will be. My team knows what they're doing."

"Your team isn't here." I gesture to the empty lobby, my carefully constructed schedule crumbling before my eyes. "I need to inspect the reception hall, finalize the table arrangements, check the lighting and sound systems?—"

"All of which can be done tomorrow morning." His calm only fuels my anxiety. "We've hosted hundreds of events, Ms. Hayes. Trust me, everything will be ready."

Trust. Such a simple word, yet impossible to extend to this man with his relaxed posture and casual dismissal of my concerns. I've built my career on meticulous planning and personal oversight, not blind faith in strangers.

"I need to see the reception hall." I move toward the corridor that should lead to the main event space, according to the floor plans I've memorized.

Lucas sighs but follows. "Fine. But I promise, you'll find it exactly as we discussed."

The grand ballroom doors swing open to reveal a cavernous space with floor-to-ceiling windows that would showcase mountain views if not for the snow now pelting against the glass. The room stands empty save for stacked chairs and folded tables along one wall.

My heart sinks. "This doesn't look 'exactly as we discussed' to me, Mr. Reid."

"Lucas." He corrects automatically. "And yes, it needs to be set up. Which will happen tomorrow morning when my team arrives."

I open my binder, flipping through the scattered remains of my detailed timeline. "According to this schedule, which you approved, we should be starting setup today, with gradual progress over the next three days before the guests arrive."

"Plans change." He shrugs, seemingly impervious to my distress. "The weather forecast shifted. I told the staff to come in early tomorrow instead of staying late tonight."

As if summoned by his words, the lights flicker once, twice, then stabilize. Lucas frowns, glancing toward the ceiling.

"Let's head back to the lobby." He gestures toward the door. "I want to check something."

We return to the grand entrance, where Lucas walks to a large television mounted above the fireplace. It displays a weather map covered in swirling white and blue. A meteorologist gestures emphatically at the storm system engulfing the entire mountain range.

"—unexpected intensity has prompted officials to close Highway 14, the only access road to Angel's Peak and surrounding areas.

Residents and visitors are advised to shelter in place until further notice.

We're looking at accumulations of up to three feet in the next twenty-four hours, with high winds creating whiteout conditions?—"

The room tilts beneath my feet. "The road is closed? But I need your staff here to begin preparations. We have a strict schedule to keep if we're going to be ready for the wedding."

"The snow didn't get that memo." Lucas's expression has finally lost its casual confidence.

I gesture toward the windows, where flakes now drive horizontally against the glass. "What are we going to do?"

He runs a hand through his hair, disheveling the dark strands. "First, we stay calm. Weather in the mountains is unpredictable. The road will likely reopen tomorrow once the plows get through."