10. Unexpected Allies
Unexpected Allies
I spend another night on the couch.
A lumpy, too-short, spine-killing couch that smells like cedar and restraint.
Lucas and I are still at odds when it comes to anything personal.
Professionally?
Professionally, we're kicking ass and taking names.
The glass dome of the atrium glows with morning light; the sunlight fractures into a kaleidoscope of rainbows that scatter across the floor like confetti.
I sit cross-legged in the middle of it, phone pressed to my ear, pretending I slept more than three hours and didn't wake up aching—in more ways than one.
The power's back. For now. So is cell service. I've spent the past hour going over every detail of the revised wedding layout with Miranda. Lucas's photos—stunning, moody, impossibly romantic—finally broke her down.
"Well." She sighs after a long pause. "I hate to admit it, but the new venue might actually be an upgrade."
I don't bother hiding my smile. "Told you."
But the moment the words are out of my mouth, the satisfaction fades.
Because while our client gets her dream wedding, I get to camp on a couch six feet away from the man I can't stop thinking about. His body off-limits. His boundaries etched deeper with every near-miss.
I press my hands into the small of my back, stretch, and try not to groan.
He didn't even offer to switch last night.
Not that I would've said yes. But still.
The floor creaks behind me—Lucas's footsteps, precise as ever—and I school my face into something that doesn't scream sexually frustrated lunatic.
It's fine. It's all fine.
After all, I'm only planning someone else's happily ever after…
While sleeping on a couch.
Alone.
In Lucas's shirt.
"I'm impressed with your adaptability, Amelia." Miranda's words snap me back to the present. Her words carry faint praise wrapped in surprise. "The Mortons have tentatively approved the changes, pending final details."
I lower the phone and roll my shoulders, trying to work out the kink in my neck from another night spent twisted on Lucas's couch like some kind of determined house cat.
The worst part? I didn't even argue about it.
After the power outage cut short our almost-kiss in the atrium—because apparently the universe loves to cockblock me—we retreated to the cabin in silence. Not strained. Not angry.
Just… awkward.
Neither of us acknowledged what nearly happened. For the second damn time.
And now? The pattern is becoming painfully familiar.
Moments of closeness. Real connection. Heat that hums like a live wire between us.
Then distance. Retreat. A muttered goodnight and separate sleeping arrangements like we're coworkers on a church retreat.
Correction: I'm not the one afraid of it. I'm team Full-Steam-Ahead. Open arms, open heart, open bed.
Lucas?
He's team Full-Stop.
Captain Line-in-the-Sand. And heaven forbid either of us step a toe over it.
It's infuriating.
Not just because I want him—which I do—but because he wants me back. I see it in every look that lingers too long, in how his voice dips when he says my name, and how his hands settle at my waist like it's instinct.
And then he yanks himself back like he's been burned.
Like I'm the fire.
Spoiler alert, Lucas—I'm just the tinder. You're the fire, and I need you to make me burn.
I'm starting to lose patience with playing the role of something dangerous he needs to resist.
"Amelia? Are you listening to a word I'm saying?"
"I'm sorry, Miranda what did you say?"
"The Mortons have tentatively approved the changes."
Relief washes through me. "That's wonderful news. We?—"
"Hold, please." Her voice cuts off, replaced by muffled conversation.
Sure, because I have nothing to do but hold for her. It's not like I'm preparing for the marriage of the century.
"Amelia?" Miranda's voice returns, tight with fresh tension. "I have Charlene Morton on the other line. There's a situation."
My stomach drops. "What kind of situation?"
"She wants to change the menu. Specifically, she's insisting on adding her grandmother's signature chocolate soufflé for dessert. Apparently, it's a family tradition she suddenly can't live without."
I close my eyes, counting to five before responding. "The menu was finalized months ago. The resort has already ordered all ingredients."
"I'm aware." Miranda's tone suggests she's already had this conversation. "But the bride is distraught. Crying on the phone. Her grandmother passed recently, and this is now a non-negotiable element."
Of course, it is because nothing about this wedding could possibly be simple.
"Let me speak with her."
A click, then Charlene's voice fills my ear, punctuated by theatrical sniffles. "Amelia? Please tell me you can make this happen. It's the only last-minute thing I've asked for, and it would mean everything to have Grandma Rose's soufflé at my wedding."
I bite back the observation that she's asked for at least seventeen "last-minute" changes since we began planning. "Charlene, I understand this is important to you. Do you have the recipe?"
"Of course. I'll email it right away. It's very specific—the chocolate has to be a particular French brand, and there's a special vanilla bean infusion that makes it uniquely hers."
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."
"You're suggesting we helicopter in soufflé ingredients?" I can't keep the incredulity from my voice. "That seems… excessive."
"Says the woman who wanted hand-folded swan napkins for two hundred guests." His teasing lacks the edge it might have had days ago. "Besides, we need fresh supplies anyway. The roads won't open for at least another day, maybe two."
Hope stirs despite my attempts to remain realistic. "Would your contact fly in this weather?"
"Jason flew combat missions in Afghanistan. A little mountain snow is nothing." Lucas pulls out his phone. "Let me make the call. In the meantime, let's see what ingredients we do have. We should test the recipe before the wedding day anyway."
An hour later, Lucas has not only arranged for a supply drop but somehow convinced his friend to prioritize the specialty ingredients Charlene's recipe requires.
I'm torn between admiration for his problem-solving and irritation at how effortlessly he seems to handle crises that would send me into a spiral of anxiety-fueled planning.
"Delivery scheduled for three this afternoon, weather permitting." He pockets his phone as we make our way to the resort's industrial kitchen. "Jason's already got most of the ingredients at his base. He does supply runs for several high-end resorts in the area."
"I'm impressed." The admission costs me nothing, I realize with surprise. "That was quick thinking."
"I've had practice with mountain emergencies." He pushes through the kitchen's double doors, flipping on lights that illuminate gleaming stainless steel workstations. "You learn to adapt, or you don't survive up here."