Page 4 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
One corner of his mouth twitches, almost imperceptibly. "Hilda called me last night."
Of course she did. The storekeeper.
"Is that so?"
"Said I should be ashamed, letting a young woman sleep in her car when I've got a perfectly good guest room going unused."
I keep my expression neutral. "I managed fine."
He studies me for a long moment, those forest-shadow eyes taking in the shadows under mine, the slight stiffness in my movements from a night spent contorted in the driver's seat.
"You'll stay at my cabin tonight," he says finally, and it's not a question.
"I don't need your charity, Mr. Brennan."
"Wyatt," he corrects. "And it's not charity. It's practicality. You're no use to me if you're exhausted."
I want to refuse on principle, but my aching back makes the decision for me. "Fine."
He nods once, like the matter is settled. "The others will be here soon. We've got a lot of ground to cover today, and you'll need to stay close if you want to see how everything works."
"That's why I'm here." I pull out my notebook. "But first, I need to understand your current workflow systems. Do you use any digital tracking for inventory? How do you schedule cutting versus transport? What kind of reporting?—"
"You'll see all that in action," he interrupts. "Theory's worthless up on that mountain. You need to understand how things actually work before you start trying to fix what isn't broken."
I bite back a retort. This isn't my first resistant client, even if he is the most infuriating one.
"I've done this before," I remind him. "With companies larger than yours."
"But not with my company." There's something possessive in the way he says 'my' that sends another unwelcome flutter through me. "Every operation is different. Every mountain has its own rules."
Before I can respond, the door opens and several men file in, all dressed similarly to Wyatt in work clothes and boots. They stop short when they see me, exchanging glances.
"Boys, this is Sophia Coleman. She's going to be watching how we work for a couple weeks. Consulting." He says the last word like it's a mild profanity. "Sophia, this is my crew lead."
A tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard steps forward, extending a weathered hand. "Mike Fisher. You picked a good day to start. Weather's clear, but we've got some tricky terrain."
I shake his hand firmly. "Looking forward to seeing the operation."
The others introduce themselves—Barry, Jim, Todd, and a younger man who can't be much older than me named Caleb. None of them seem particularly thrilled about my presence, but they're polite enough.
"Let's roll," Wyatt says, and the men file back out to their trucks.
Wyatt grabs a hard hat from a hook by the door and hands it to me. "You'll ride with me. Your car won't make it up those roads."
I hesitate. The thought of being confined in a truck with him for forty minutes sends that now-familiar flutter through my stomach again.
"Is that necessary? I have an SUV with four-wheel drive."
He gives me a look that clearly questions my sanity. "This isn't a mall parking lot, Sophia. These are logging roads that my crew maintains. Your pretty little city SUV would be stuck in the first mud pit we cross."
I bristle at his condescension but can't argue with his logic. "Fine."
Outside, he walks to a massive black pickup truck that's seen better days but looks immaculately maintained. He opens the passenger door for me—a surprisingly gentlemanly gesture from a man who's been nothing but gruff.
"Watch your step," he warns as I climb in. The truck sits high off the ground, and despite my boots and practical clothes, I feel absurdly delicate next to both the vehicle and the man.
He slides into the driver's seat, his broad frame making the cab feel suddenly smaller. When he turns the key, the engine rumbles to life with a powerful growl.
