9. Damage Control
Damage Control
Morning light filters through the cabin windows, painting golden stripes across the rumpled sheets.
I blink awake, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar surroundings, before memories of last night flood back.
The tender kiss by the firelight. The way Lucas held me afterward, neither of us pushing for more.
The quiet goodnight as he retreated to the bed, and I slept on the couch.
My fingers drift to my lips, still sensitive from his kiss. So different from our previous encounters, less about physical dominance and more about... connection. The shift unsettles me more than I care to admit.
"Focus, Amelia," I mutter, throwing back the covers. Today is about wedding preparation, not the complicated thing between me and the resort owner.
The cabin is quiet as I dress. There is no sign of Lucas in the kitchen or living area. Just a note propped against the coffee pot: Gone to check generator. Coffee's fresh. Help yourself.
Relief and disappointment war in my chest. Professionalism wins—this distance is exactly what we need. Whatever happened last night was an anomaly, a momentary lapse fueled by isolation and wine. Today, we return to being professionals with a job to accomplish.
I pour coffee into a ceramic mug emblazoned with the resort logo, the rich aroma momentarily drowning my complicated thoughts. Outside, the world remains transformed by snow, pristine white stretching to the horizon. Beautiful, but isolating.
The cabin door opens with a rush of frigid air, revealing Lucas stamping snow from his boots. His cheeks are flushed from the cold, and his dark hair is dusted with crystalline flakes that catch the light. Our eyes meet across the room, and for a moment, everything else falls away.
"Morning." He breaks the silence first, shrugging out of his heavy coat. "Sleep well?"
Such an ordinary question carries so much subtext. "Yes, thanks. Any luck with the generator?"
"Some good news and bad news." He pours himself coffee, maintaining a careful distance between us. "I've got the generator functioning again, but the weather report isn't promising. Roads will be closed for at least two more days."
My stomach drops. "Two days? That puts us right against the wedding deadline."
"The plows are working around the clock, but the accumulation is significant." He sips his coffee, eyes studying me over the rim. "We should check the main building for any new damage from overnight freezing."
"Right." I set down my mug. "I'm concerned about the reception hall with those high ceilings and older windows."
We bundle up against the cold, and the walk to the main resort building is conducted in professional silence.
The tension from last night has evolved into something more complex—not awkwardness exactly, but a heightened awareness.
Every accidental brush of the shoulders feels deliberate. Every exchanged glance carries weight.
The resort's grand entrance hall welcomes us with restored electricity, lights gleaming against polished wood and stone. At least something's going right. However, as we approach the main reception hall, the sound of dripping water grows increasingly ominous.
I push open the double doors and freeze in horror. Water cascades down one wall where a massive window meets the ceiling, pooling on the hardwood floor below. Ice has forced a gap in the sealing, allowing melting snow to penetrate. Already, dark stains spread across the carefully restored flooring.
"No, no, no." I rush forward. "This is catastrophic. The reception is supposed to be here."
Lucas examines the damage without the panic that currently has my heart hammering against my ribs. "It's not as bad as it looks. The water damage is localized to this corner."
"Not as bad?" I gesture wildly at the spreading pool. "This room is the centerpiece of the wedding reception. It's featured in every plan, every layout, every discussion with the clients."
Rather than matching my escalating tone, Lucas remains calm. "We'll handle it. First, let's stop the active leak."
He disappears, returning minutes later with maintenance tools and materials. I watch in conflicted admiration as he efficiently seals the gap, stopping the immediate water intrusion. His competence both impresses and irritates me—shouldn't he be more concerned about this disaster?
"The floor will need professional restoration." He says, kneeling to examine the damaged wood. "That won't happen before the wedding."
"So we're doomed." I sink onto a chair, mind racing through inadequate contingency plans.
"Or." Lucas stands, brushing dust from his knees, "We use the Mountainview Room instead. It's slightly smaller but has better natural light and a more intimate feel."
"The Mountainview Room wasn't in any of the plans." I resist the immediate rejection my perfectionist tendencies demand, forcing myself to consider alternatives. "Show me."
He leads me through corridors to a room I hadn't noticed during our initial tour.
Double doors open to reveal a space with floor-to-ceiling windows along one wall, offering breathtaking views of snow-covered peaks.
The room has a warmth the grand reception hall lacks, with rich wood paneling and a massive stone fireplace at one end.
"It's beautiful." I admit, mental calculations already rearranging tables and decorations to fit the new space.
"And more practical for winter weddings." Lucas moves to the fireplace, checking that it's operational. "The heating is more efficient here, and the views are unmatched."
I pace the perimeter, measuring steps and visualizing the transformation. "I need to rearrange the seating chart completely. The dance floor would work better near the windows. The head table would face this way instead..."
Lucas watches me with something like admiration. "You're already seeing it, aren't you? The whole event reconfigured in your mind."
"It's my job." I continue my assessment. My professional focus momentarily displaces personal fears. "It could work. We'd need to document the changes thoroughly for the client's approval."
"I'm sure they'll understand, given the circumstances." He joins me at the windows, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from his body.
"You don't know Charlene Morton." I turn to face him, suddenly aware of our proximity. "She's had this wedding planned since childhood. Every detail matters."
Something shifts in his expression—a softening around the eyes, a subtle curve of lips. "Sounds like someone else I know."
The observation lacks mockery, offered with gentle understanding that disarms my defensiveness. "We're not alike. She's driven by fantasy, and I'm driven by excellence."
"And never the twain shall meet?" His voice holds amusement.
"Occasionally, they overlap." I step back, needing distance to maintain professional focus. "Let's inventory what we'll need to transform this space. I'll draft alternative layouts while you handle the technical elements."
We fall into surprisingly effective teamwork, moving around each other without conscious coordination.
I draft new seating arrangements while Lucas assesses the room's lighting capabilities.
I recalculate table placements while he tests the sound system.
The tension between us remains, but transforms into something productive—energy channeled into creative problem-solving rather than awkward avoidance.
Hours pass in focused work, and the room gradually takes shape. By late afternoon, we've created a comprehensive plan that improves upon the original design. The smaller space feels more intimate and romantic, better suited to a winter wedding than the cavernous reception hall.
"We should document the changes," I suggest, surveying our work with cautious satisfaction. "I need to send updates to Miranda and the client."
"Use my phone." Lucas offers his device. "Better camera than yours."
I accept it, snapping photos of the room from various angles. The results are underwhelming—flat images that fail to capture the room's potential.
"These aren't going to convince anyone." I scroll through the inadequate photos, frustration mounting. "They can't see what we're envisioning."
"Let me try." Lucas takes the phone, adjusting settings before approaching the first shot differently. "Photography was a serious hobby of mine before the resort took over my life."
He moves through the space purposefully, finding angles I never considered, capturing how light plays across surfaces. I watch, fascinated by this new dimension of skill, another layer to the increasingly complex man before me.
"Check these." He hands the phone back, our fingers brushing briefly.
The difference is striking. Where my photos showed an empty room, his captures potential—the majestic mountain backdrop, the warm intimacy of the space, and the way the late-afternoon light creates golden pools on the polished floor.
"These are..." I search for a word that won't inflate his already considerable ego.
"Professional quality?" He suggests with a grin.
"Adequate." I counter, fighting a smile. "But we need more. Every element that's changing needs documentation."
"Then let's do a proper session." He takes the phone back. "We'll stage key elements, get samples of the linens and centerpieces, really show how it will all come together."
The prospect of continued collaboration both thrills and unnerves me. "How about food first? I'm starving."
We retreat to the resort's kitchen, raiding supplies for an impromptu meal.
Lucas proves as competent at cooking as photography, whipping up pasta from ingredients salvaged from the walk-in refrigerator.
We eat at the prep counter, discussing wedding logistics interspersed with companionable silence.
My phone rings just as we finish—Miranda's name flashes on the screen. I answer, dreading the conversation.