Page 23 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
"Just wanted to let you know Ms. Coleman left about an hour ago. Said she had everything she needed for her preliminary report."
"Did she say where she was going?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
"Back to your cabin, I assumed." There's a hint of something—concern, maybe, or confusion—in Tim's voice. "Everything okay between you two? She seemed... upset."
The knot in my stomach tightens. "It's fine. Just professional differences."
"If you say so." He doesn't sound convinced. "She left something on your desk. Said you'd know what it meant."
Curiosity pulls me back to the office despite the lateness of the hour. The building is dark and silent when I arrive, everyone long gone. In the pool of light from my desk lamp, I find a single sheet of paper.
It's not the report I expected. Instead, it's a handwritten note in Sophia's neat script:
Wyatt,
Something's changed since this morning, and I don't know what. If I've done something wrong, please tell me. If you're having second thoughts about us, I understand—it's complicated, as we both acknowledged. But I deserve the courtesy of a conversation, not cold silence.
I'll be at the cabin until you're ready to talk. Whatever's happening, we can figure it out together.
Sophia
I read the note twice, then crumple it in my fist, shame and confusion warring inside me. She's right. She deserves better than my sudden withdrawal, my unfounded suspicions.
But the fear remains. Not just of her changing my company, but of her changing me. Of wanting things I can't have, of opening myself to hurt when she inevitably leaves.
I smooth out the paper, refold it carefully, and tuck it in my pocket. Then I head for my truck, still unsure what I'll say when I face her, but knowing I owe her at least that much.
As I drive toward home—toward Sophia—one thought keeps circling: I'm not afraid she's manipulating me. I'm afraid that what I feel for her is real.
And that might be the most terrifying realization of all.
CHAPTER EIGHT
SOPHIA
The cabin feels too big without him here.
I've spent three nights in Wyatt's home, wrapped in his arms, learning his body as he learned mine. Three days maintaining professional distance at the office while exchanging heated glances that promised more once we were alone. Three evenings cooking together, talking for hours by the fire, building something I hadn't expected but desperately want to explore.
And then today, everything changed.
The coldness in his voice. The way he wouldn't meet my eyes. The transparent excuse about equipment problems on the north ridge when just last night he'd told me everything there was running smoothly.
Something shifted, and I don't know why.
I pace the length of the living room, the fire I built hours ago now reduced to glowing embers. My preliminary report sits on the kitchen counter, printed and ready for his review. I'd wanted to go through it with him, explain my reasoning, show him how the recommendations would preserve what he values while improving efficiency.
Instead, I'm alone with my thoughts, which grow darker with each passing hour.
Is he having second thoughts about us? About the changes to his company? Both?
The sound of tires on gravel outside sends my heart racing. I freeze, listening as a vehicle door opens and closes, then heavy footsteps approach the cabin. When the front door swings open, Wyatt fills the frame, larger than life and utterly unreadable.
"You're still up," he says, his voice carefully neutral.
"Couldn't sleep." I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly conscious of wearing one of his flannel shirts over my leggings. "I left a note at the office."
"I got it." He closes the door behind him, shrugs off his jacket. "You're right. We should talk."
