Page 25 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
The raw honesty in his words silences me momentarily. This isn't about the hauling schedule or the investors. It's about fear. Fear of what comes after.
"You're pushing me away because you think I'm leaving anyway," I realize aloud.
He doesn't deny it. "Aren't you?"
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. I could lie, tell him what he wants to hear. But he deserves the truth, even if it's complicated.
"My contract is for the consultation and implementation phase," I say carefully. "That could be months, not weeks. Beyond that... I don't know, Wyatt. We've known each other less than two weeks. Whatever this is between us, it's too new to make promises about the future."
"Exactly my point." He stands, restless energy propelling him toward the window. "So why complicate things further? Why not keep it professional until your job here is done?"
The suggestion feels like a physical blow. "You want to end this? Us?"
"I want to protect my company," he says, his back to me. "And yes, I want to protect myself too."
"From me?" I stand now too, indignation rising through the hurt. "What exactly do you think I'm going to do to you, Wyatt?"
He turns, and the naked vulnerability in his expression steals my anger. "Make me want things I can't have. Make me question everything I've built my life around. Make me miss you when you're gone."
The words should be sweet, but they're spoken with such resigned certainty that they break my heart instead.
"You don't know what will happen," I say, stepping toward him. "Neither do I. But I know that what we've shared these past few days means something. At least to me."
"It does to me too." His voice roughens. "That's the problem."
I reach for his hand, relief flooding through me when he doesn't pull away. "Why does it have to be a problem? Why can'twe just... see where this goes? Keep our work separate from our personal relationship?"
"Can you really do that?" he asks, studying my face. "Submit a report that could fundamentally change how I run my company, while sharing my bed at night?"
"I already have." I gesture toward the counter where my report waits. "Every recommendation in there is based on data, not feelings. And every one of them is designed to preserve what matters most to you—sustainable forestry practices, the expertise of your crew, the quality of your product. I'm not trying to change your values, Wyatt. I'm trying to help you protect them in a changing industry."
He's quiet for a long moment, absorbing my words. "And what happens when the consultation ends? When implementation is complete?"
"I don't know," I admit. "But I'd like the chance to find out. Wouldn't you?"
Instead of answering, he pulls me to him, one hand cupping my face with a tenderness that belies the turmoil of our conversation. When he kisses me, it's different from before—searching, questioning, with an edge of desperation that makes my heart ache.
I kiss him back with everything I have, trying to convey what words can't quite capture. That this matters. That he matters. That whatever comes next, this moment is real and true.
When we part, his forehead rests against mine, our breathing synchronized in the quiet cabin.
"I'm sorry," he murmurs. "For doubting you. For pushing you away."
"You're forgiven." I brush my fingers through his beard, committing the sensation to memory. "But please, talk to me next time. Don't shut me out."
He nods, then steps back slightly, though his hands remain at my waist. "Your report. Walk me through it?"
The request—professional wrapped in personal—feels like a peace offering, a tentative step back toward the balance we'd found.
"Now?" I glance at the clock. It's nearly midnight.
"Now." He tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture achingly familiar. "I want to understand. I want to try."
We move to the kitchen island where I spread out the report, standing close enough that our arms touch. As I walk him through the key findings and recommendations, he listens with genuine attention, asking thoughtful questions, raising valid concerns.
It feels like a return to the connection we'd established—the push and pull of different perspectives finding common ground. But underneath runs a current of something unresolved, a question neither of us has fully answered.
What happens when this ends?
