Page 22 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
"Alright," she says finally. "I can leave a copy on your desk for the morning."
"Sure."
She turns to go, then stops. "Wyatt, is something wrong?"
I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my beard. "No. Just a lot on my mind with the investors pushing."
"We can talk about it tonight," she offers. "When you get back, no matter how late."
The genuine concern in her voice only twists the knife of doubt deeper. She's either the most sincere person I've ever met or the most skillful manipulator. And the fact that I can't tell which scares me more than anything.
"Maybe. We'll see." I turn back to my computer, a clear dismissal.
When she leaves, the absence of her feels like a physical thing, a shift in the air of the room. I slam my desk drawer harder than necessary, frustration building.
This is exactly why getting involved with her was a mistake. The lines are blurred now. Professional and personal tangled so completely I can't separate them. And ultimately, we want different things. She wants to modernize, to change, to "improve." I want to protect what works, what's proven, what matters.
How could this ever work long-term? She'll finish her consultation and move on to the next client. Back to Denver or Chicago or whatever city fits her ambitious career path. And I'll stay right here on this mountain, running my company the way I always have.
The thought of her leaving shouldn't bother me this much after barely two weeks of knowing her. But it does. It bothers me enough that I'm pushing her away first, creating distance before her inevitable departure can hurt more than it already will.
By mid-afternoon, the weight of my thoughts has become suffocating. I grab my jacket, tell Tim I'm heading to check on the east ridge operation, and escape to the familiar comfort of the forest.
The drive up the mountain clears my head somewhat. The forest has always been my sanctuary, the place where things make sense. Trees don't lie, don't manipulate, don't have hidden agendas. They simply grow, strong and true, if you give them the right conditions.
Mike spots my truck as I pull up to the cutting site and walks over, clipboard in hand.
"Didn't expect you today, boss," he says, glancing at his watch. "Thought you were meeting with the consultant this afternoon."
"Change of plans." I scan the operation, noting the neat stacks of timber, the efficient movement of the crew. "How's it going up here?"
"Smooth as silk. That new hauling schedule is working better than expected. We're up about twenty percent on transport efficiency."
I frown. "New schedule?"
"The one from the consultant," Mike says, looking confused. "The digital tracking system she had us test? Liam implemented it three days ago with the hauling crews."
"Without running it by me first?" The anger in my voice is immediate and sharp.
Mike takes a small step back. "I thought... she said she'd discussed it with you. That you'd approved a trial run."
Had she mentioned it? Possibly, during one of our late-night talks in bed, when my mind was more focused on her body than her words. Or maybe she'd deliberately waited until I was distracted. The paranoid thought slips in before I can stop it.
"It's working well," Mike continues cautiously. "The guys like knowing exactly where they need to be and when. Less idle time."
"That's not the point," I snap. "Changes need to go through me first. Always. I'm still running this company, last I checked."
The defensiveness in my voice is telling. It's not really about the schedule. It's about feeling control slip away—over my company, over my feelings for Sophia, over everything.
Mike studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Of course, boss. Won't happen again."
I spend the next few hours inspecting operations, finding fault with minor details I'd normally overlook, pushing my crew harder than necessary. By sunset, there's a tension in the air that has nothing to do with logging and everything to do with my mood.
As I drive back down the mountain, the first stars appearing in the darkening sky, my radio crackles to life.
"Wyatt, you copy? It's Tim."
I grab the handset. "Go ahead."
