11. Hot Whisks and Cold Showers #2
Before I retreat, he scoops a handful of powdered sugar and blows it gently in my direction. The white cloud settles across my hair and shoulders, turning me into a winter apparition.
"You did not just—" I grab the nearest weapon—a bottle of vanilla—and shake droplets at him, leaving dark speckles across his formerly clean shirt.
What follows can only be described as culinary warfare.
Flour flies.
Egg white splatters.
And chocolate smears across countertops.
Lucas's deep laughter echoes off the stainless steel surfaces as I dodge behind a workstation, seeking ammunition. I can't remember the last time I engaged in something so utterly childish and delightful.
"Truce." He finally holds up his hands, his face streaked with cocoa and hair dusted white. "I surrender."
I emerge from behind my makeshift barricade, breathless with laughter and equally covered in ingredients. "Look at this disaster. We're supposed to be professionals."
"Speak for yourself." He grins, reaching out to brush sugar from my cheek. "I'm just a humble innkeeper."
"And I'm a sexually frustrated wedding planner with an unfair sentence." I lean into his touch despite myself.
"Unfair?" His thumb traces along my cheekbone, eyes darkening. "You love the discipline as much as you need the incredible sex."
My breath catches. Because he's not wrong.
His touch lingers, warm fingers against my skin. The laughter fades, replaced by something quieter, more intense. For a moment, I think he might kiss me—I want him to kiss me—but he steps back, clearing his throat.
"We should clean up."
The kitchen restoration takes twice as long as the mess-making, filled with companionable conversation as we work.
Lucas shares stories of his grandfather's early days running the lodge, of the property's evolution over the decades, and of his reluctant journey from corporate predator to preservationist.
I find myself sharing, too—my childhood fascination with organizing, my mother's elaborate dinner parties that sparked my career, and the satisfaction of creating perfect moments for clients.
"You never talk about yourself." Lucas wipes down a final counter as I load the dishwasher. "Always the job, never the woman behind it."
"The job is safer." The honesty surprises me. "Clearer boundaries and well-defined expectations."
"Who is Amelia Hayes outside of work?" His question holds genuine interest.
I consider deflecting, then find myself answering truthfully. "She's... a work in progress. Less certain than she appears."
"I like her." His simple statement warms something cold and dormant inside me. "Both versions."
My phone rings before I can respond, Miranda's name flashing on the screen. I answer with apprehension, knowing her calls rarely bring good news lately.
"Please tell me you've solved the soufflé situation." Her voice carries the strained patience of someone nearing their breaking point.
"We have the ingredients and are testing the recipe now." I move toward the window for better reception, lowering my voice. "We'll have it perfected before the wedding."
"Good. Because the Mortons…" Her tone sharpens. "We both know what that would mean for your future at Elite Events."
The implied threat lands as intended. "I understand."
"Do you? Because if this wedding fails, your career at Elite is over. No Paris promotion, no future with the firm at all. Everything you've worked for—gone." The connection crackles with static or perhaps just the chill in her voice. "Don't disappoint me, Amelia."
I end the call, hand trembling slightly as I set the phone down. When I turn, Lucas stands closer than expected; his expression hardened into something I haven't seen before—the corporate shark surfacing beneath the mountain innkeeper.
"Your boss is a real piece of work." His voice holds controlled anger. "Threatening your career over circumstances beyond anyone's control."
Heat rushes to my face. "You were eavesdropping?"
"Not intentionally, but I heard enough." He steps closer, protective indignation radiating from him. "Does she always manipulate you like that?"
"It's not manipulation. It's business." I straighten my spine, defensive despite my misgivings about Miranda's tactics. "The Mortons are major clients."
"That doesn't justify threatening someone who's moved mountains—literally—to salvage their event." His eyes narrow, calculating in a way that reminds me of his former corporate life. "What's this about Paris?"
I hesitate, then sigh. "A promotion. Running Elite's new European division."
"Is that what you want?"
The question catches me off guard with its simplicity. Is it what I want? I've been so focused on achieving it and proving myself worthy that I've barely considered whether the goal aligns with my desires.
"It's a tremendous opportunity." I sidestep the actual question. "Career-defining."
"That's not what I asked." Lucas studies me with unsettling perception.
Before I can formulate a response, the kitchen lights flicker ominously. We both glance upward, holding our breath until the electricity stabilizes.
"Storm's picking up again." Lucas moves to the window, peering at the darkening skies. "We should head back to the cabin before we lose power completely."
The walk to the cabin is a battle against strengthening winds and snow swirling in chaotic patterns that steal breath and obscure vision. When we reach the door, we're both shivering despite our heavy coats.
Inside, Lucas immediately builds a fire while I prepare hot drinks.
The flames gradually warm the small space as daylight fades outside, snow accumulating against windows that are already half-buried.
We eat a simple dinner; our conversation carefully steered toward wedding preparations rather than the more personal territory we'd been approaching.
When the dishes are cleared and we're running out of practical topics, Lucas glances toward the bedroom. "You should take the bed tonight. I've noticed you rubbing your neck after sleeping on the couch."
"We could share." The suggestion emerges before I can analyze its wisdom. "The bed's enormous, and we're both adults."
"Are you sure?" His eyebrows lift slightly.
"Strictly practical." I maintain a matter-of-fact tone despite the sudden dryness in my throat. "We both need proper rest to handle whatever tomorrow brings."
He studies me for a moment, then nods. "Practical."
The bedtime routine unfolds carefully—separate bathroom use, changing in private, deliberate space maintained between us as we settle under the covers. The mattress dips with his weight, the sheet pulling slightly taut between us like a border neither dares cross.
I sleep under the sheets. He sleeps on top of them. An effective, if not infuriating barrier. Once settled in, Lucas covers us both with two layers of blankets. I've never been so close to a person I literally can't touch.
Darkness envelops the room as Lucas extinguishes the bedside lamp.
Only the faint glow from the fireplace in the other room filters through the partially open door, casting elongated shadows across unfamiliar terrain.
I lie rigidly on my side, hyperaware of his presence mere inches away—the subtle rhythm of his breathing, the faint warmth radiating across the no-man's-land of sheet between us.
This is absurd. We've shared far more intimate contact than sleeping in the same bed.
Yet somehow, this feels more vulnerable and meaningful than the passionate encounters that came before.
Those could be dismissed as physical responses or isolation-induced attraction.
This quiet coexistence requires a different kind of trust.
"Amelia?" His voice emerges soft in the darkness.
"Yes?" I whisper back, irrationally afraid of disturbing the stillness around us.
"Thank you for making this work, despite all the chaos. The resort really needs this wedding to succeed."
His simple gratitude warms me more than any physical contact could. "Thank you for being so adaptable to the changes."
The silence stretches between us, comfortable rather than awkward. Outside, the wind howls against the cabin walls, reinforcing the cocoon-like intimacy of our shelter. The mattress shifts slightly as Lucas turns toward me.
"Goodnight, Amelia." The word carries more weight than its two syllables should allow.
"Goodnight, Lucas."
I close my eyes, listening to the storm outside and his quiet breathing beside me.
For the first time since arriving at Angel's Peak, I feel neither anxious about the wedding nor confused about my attraction to Lucas.
Instead, a curious peace settles over me—the recognition of having found an unexpected ally in what began as adversarial territory.
Sleep approaches gradually, my awareness of his proximity never fading.
In the last moments before consciousness slips away, I realize with startling clarity that the most dangerous aspect of this arrangement isn't the risk of physical boundaries crossed between us, but the emotional ones.
Because somewhere between professional antagonism and reluctant collaboration, Lucas Reid has become something I never anticipated.
Essential.