Page 5 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
"Seatbelt," he says, not moving until I click it into place.
The drive up the mountain is both beautiful and terrifying. The logging roads are exactly as rugged as Wyatt implied, rutted and winding steeply upward through dense forest. He handles the truck with casual confidence, his strong hands resting easily on the wheel, occasionally shifting gears with fluid precision.
I try not to notice the way his forearm flexes when he does this, or how his profile against the gradually lightening sky is annoyingly perfect.
"So," I say, breaking the silence after about fifteen minutes. "Tell me about how you got into logging."
He glances at me briefly before returning his eyes to the treacherous road. "Family business. My grandfather started it. My father expanded it. I took over when he retired."
"And you built it into what it is today."
He shrugs, but I can see the pride in the slight lift of his chin. "I know these mountains better than anyone. Know what they can give and what they need to keep producing."
"That's exactly the kind of institutional knowledge I want to preserve in the systems I develop," I tell him, seizing the opening. "Modern business practices aren't about erasing tradition. They're about making it sustainable and more profitable."
He makes a noncommittal sound, his jaw tightening slightly.
"I'm not the enemy, Wyatt."
This time when he looks at me, his gaze lingers a moment longer. "We'll see."
The road gets even rougher, jostling me in my seat. On a particularly deep rut, I'm thrown sideways, my shoulder bumping against his. Even through layers of clothing, I feel the solid heat of him. He steadies me with one hand, large and warm against my arm, before returning it to the wheel.
"Sorry," I murmur, inexplicably flustered.
"Mountain's testing you," he says, and I swear there's a hint of amusement in his voice.
As we climb higher, the sun breaks over the ridge, illuminating endless forest in shades of gold and green. The view is breathtaking, nothing like the cityscapes I'm used to.
"It's beautiful," I say softly.
"Yes," Wyatt agrees, and when I turn to look at him, I find him watching me instead of the view, an unreadable expression on his face. "It is."
Something shifts in the air between us, a tension that has nothing to do with our professional disagreement. For a moment, I forget why I'm here, lost in the intensity of his gaze.
Then he looks back at the road, the moment broken.
"We're here," he announces as we pull into a clearing where the other trucks are already parked. Men move with purpose, gathering equipment, checking chainsaws.
"Ready to see how real logging works?" There's a challenge in his voice.
I meet his eyes directly. "I'm ready for anything, Wyatt."
A slow smile spreads across his face—the first I've seen—transforming his features from merely handsome to devastating.
"We'll see about that, Sophia Coleman." He opens his door and steps out. "We'll definitely see about that."
And despite everything—the uncomfortable night, his initial rudeness, the professional tension between us—I smile back, anticipation curling through me as I follow him into the woods.
CHAPTER THREE
WYATT
I've seen a lot of surprising things in my years on this mountain, but nothing quite as unexpected as Sophia Coleman keeping up with my crew for eight straight hours without a single complaint.
Not when the mud nearly sucked one of her boots off.
Not when a sudden rain shower soaked us all to the bone for forty minutes.
