Page 3 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
We stare at each other for a long moment, neither willing to back down. Up close, I notice a spray of light freckles across her nose, barely visible against her olive skin. Her lips are full, currently pressed into a line of annoyance.
And she smells like something floral and subtle that has no place in a logging office.
"Fine," she says finally. "I'll figure something out." She stands, slinging her bag over her shoulder. Even annoyed, there's a grace to her movements. "I'll see you tomorrow morning at five-thirty, Mr. Brennan."
She walks past me toward the door, and I catch another hint of that scent. For a split second, I wonder what it would be like to bury my face in the curve of her neck and breathe her in properly.
The thought comes out of nowhere and hits me like a physical blow. What the hell is wrong with me?
"Five-thirty," I confirm, my voice rougher than I intended. "Don't wear anything you care about ruining."
She pauses at the door, looking back at me with those intelligent brown eyes. "I never do when I'm in the field, Mr. Brennan."
Then she's gone, leaving nothing but the ghost of her scent and the unwelcome realization that Sophia Coleman is going to be a much bigger problem than I thought.
And not just for my business.
CHAPTER TWO
SOPHIA
Islam my car door harder than necessary, exhaling loudly in the quiet morning air. It's 5:15 AM, still dark outside, and the small logging office sits like a shadowy fortress at the edge of Grizzly Ridge.
So much for making a good impression on my new client. Not that he deserves one after yesterday.
I'd spent last night in my car, reclined as far as it would go in an empty parking lot behind the general store after the owner took pity on me. When I'd explained my situation, she'd scowled and muttered something about "that stubborn Brennan man" before offering me use of the store's bathroom to freshen up.
Now, tugging my fleece jacket tighter against the mountain chill, I smooth down my practical work clothes—sturdy jeans, hiking boots, and a flannel shirt underneath the jacket. My dark hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and I've skipped makeup entirely. I look nothing like the polished business consultant from yesterday, which is exactly the point.
I need Wyatt Brennan to take me seriously.
Just thinking about him sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. I'd expected a typical resistant client—they all start that way. What I hadn't expected was for him to be so... overwhelming.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick dark beard and eyes the color of pine forest shadows. When he'd walked into that office, bringing the scent of sawdust and mountain air with him, I'd felt something I'd never experienced with a client before.
A pull. Magnetic. Dangerous.
Which is precisely why I spent the night in my car instead of caving and driving to the motel an hour away. I refuse to show any weakness in front of Wyatt Brennan. Not professionally. Not personally.
Especially not personally.
The office door opens before I reach it, spilling warm light into the darkness. Wyatt stands in the doorway, a massive silhouette backlit by the office lamps. He's wearing a red and black flannel with the sleeves rolled up, exposing muscled forearms corded with veins and dusted with dark hair. Work jeans sit low on his hips, worn but clean.
"You're early," he says, voice deep and rough like he hasn't spoken yet today.
I straighten my spine. "I said I would be."
He steps aside, allowing me to enter. The office is surprisingly warm, and I realize he must have come in even earlier to start the wood stove in the corner. The scent of coffee fills the small space.
"Help yourself," he nods toward a pot on the small counter. "You'll need it."
I set my laptop bag on a chair and pour coffee into a mug that says 'Brennan Logging' in faded letters. "Thank you."
"Sleep well?" he asks, and there's something in his tone that makes me look up sharply.
His expression gives nothing away, but I have the distinct impression he knows exactly where I spent the night. This town is too small for secrets.
"Perfectly, thanks," I lie, taking a deliberate sip of coffee. It's strong and surprisingly good.
