Chapter 5
CHAPTER FIVE
WYATT
We arrive on Main and Sophia pulls in behind me a few minutes walk from Maggie’s Diner.
On our way there, we pass the town square where volunteers are setting up decorations for the Harvest Festival.
Orange and red bunting hangs between lampposts, and hay bales are arranged in a semicircle near the small bandstand.
“Whole town turns out for this,” I explain as Sophia watches with interest. “Been happening every October since before I was born.”
“It looks charming,” she says, and I catch a note of wistfulness in her voice.
“You should stay for it,” I suggest before I can think better of it. “It's at the end of the month.”
Her smile is worth the moment of vulnerability. Before she can respond, the diner comes into view, its neon sign casting a warm glow over the handful of trucks parked outside.
I shouldn't be doing this. Dinner at Maggie's isn't just food—it's public. In a town this small, being seen together means something. But I'd found myself waiting by her car anyway, unwilling to drive back to an empty cabin.
The diner is half-full, mostly locals finishing late dinners. Handwritten signs advertising the upcoming Harvest Festival are taped to the windows, promising apple cider contests, a pumpkin weigh-off, and live music.
“Popular place,” Sophia comments as we slide into opposite sides of the vinyl booth.
“Only restaurant in town,” I reply. “Unless you count the bar's frozen pizza.”
“Mr. Brennan!” Maggie herself approaches, coffee pot in hand, grey hair tucked under a faded hairnet. “Who's your friend? And are you judging the woodchopping contest at the festival this year or competing? People are placing bets already.”
" Too busy to judge I’m afraid," I say. "This is Sophia Coleman. She's consulting for the logging company. Sophia, this is Maggie. She knows everything about everyone in Grizzly Ridge."
"Only the interesting bits," Maggie winks, pouring coffee without asking if we want it. "What brings a pretty young thing like you to our neck of the woods?"
"Business modernization," Sophia answers easily. "Helping companies streamline their operations."
Maggie snorts. "Good luck with this one. Stubborn as they come."
"I'm beginning to see that," Sophia says with a small smile that does strange things to my insides.
"Two specials," I tell Maggie, reclaiming control of the conversation. "And don't start spreading gossip."
"Wouldn't dream of it." Maggie's innocent expression isn't fooling anyone. She bustles away, already making eye contact with Mrs. Henderson at the counter, who's watching us with unconcealed curiosity.
"Sorry about that," I mutter. "Small towns."
"It's fine." Sophia takes a sip of coffee. "I've worked in communities like this before. Everyone's always curious about outsiders."
"Especially outsiders having dinner with the town grouch."
Her laugh is unexpected and bright, cutting through the ambient diner noise and drawing more looks. "Is that your official title?"
"Unofficial." I try and fail to suppress a smile. "Though Hilda at the general store is campaigning to make it official."
"She seemed nice enough when she let me use her bathroom."
"Hilda has opinions about everything, especially my personal life." I realize too late what I've implied—that Sophia is part of my personal life.
If she notices the slip, she doesn't comment.
Instead, she wraps her hands around her coffee mug, those delicate fingers that have been taking notes all day seeking warmth.
There's dirt under her nails and a small cut on her index finger.
Somehow, those small imperfections make her more attractive, not less.
"So," she says, "what did you think of my day with the hauling crew?"
Back to business. Good. Safe territory.
"Liam said you asked a lot of questions."
"That's my job." She leans forward slightly. "And I learned a lot. Your operation is impressive, Wyatt, but there are clear opportunities for improvement in coordination and scheduling."
"And let me guess, you've got a software solution for that."
"Several, actually." Her eyes light up with enthusiasm. "There are programs designed specifically for logging operations that would integrate perfectly with your selective harvesting approach."
The genuine passion in her voice catches me off guard. She really does believe in what she's selling.
"How much would all this fancy software cost?" I ask.
"Less than you're currently losing in inefficiencies." She reaches into her bag and pulls out her ever-present notebook. "Based on what I observed today, I estimate you're losing approximately fifteen percent of potential profit due to coordination issues alone."
"Fifteen percent?" I can't keep the skepticism from my voice.
"At minimum." She flips her notebook around, showing me calculations and observations written in neat, precise handwriting. "Three trucks sat idle for over an hour today waiting for the right load. That's wages, fuel, and opportunity cost."
I study her notes, irritated to find they make sense. "We've always had some downtime. Nature of the business."
"But it doesn't have to be." Her expression is earnest, no trace of smugness or condescension. "What if your crews could communicate in real-time? What if dispatching was automated based on load readiness?"
Before I can respond, Maggie arrives with our food—massive burgers with a mountain of fries, exactly what we both need after a long day in the field.
"Enjoy, you two." Maggie gives me a pointed look before departing, and I know I'll be getting questions next time I come in alone.
Sophia takes a bite of her burger and makes a sound of appreciation that sends heat crawling up my neck. "This is incredible," she mumbles around the mouthful.
"Told you. Best in three counties."
We eat in companionable silence for a few minutes, both hungrier than we realized. I watch her demolish half her burger with surprising efficiency for someone her size, and I fight another smile.
"What?" she asks, catching me staring.
"Nothing." I push a fry through ketchup. "Just didn't expect you to have such a healthy appetite."
"Field work burns calories." She wipes her mouth with a napkin. "And I haven't eaten since that protein bar at noon."
I frown. "Liam should have made sure you got lunch."
"It's fine. I told him I wasn't hungry." She takes another bite, then asks, "How was your day? Different section, you said?"
"North ridge. We're thinning some areas that are at risk for fire." I find myself explaining the details of our fire prevention strategy, how selective cutting creates natural firebreaks without destroying the ecosystem.
She listens intently, asking intelligent questions about our approach. Before I know it, we're deep in conversation about forest management, fire science, and the balance between harvesting and conservation.
"You know a lot for a business consultant," I say as we finish our meal.
She shrugs, but I catch the pleased look in her eyes. "I research every industry I work with thoroughly. Plus, my dad was a forest ranger before he worked for the lumber mill. I grew up with some of this terminology."
"You never mentioned that."
"You never asked." She tilts her head. "Does it matter?"
It shouldn't, but somehow it does. Knowing she has a personal connection to forestry changes something, makes her less of an outsider.
"It explains why you asked better questions than most consultants would."
Her smile is soft, almost shy. "Was that a compliment, Wyatt Brennan?"
"Just an observation," I reply, but we both know better.
The diner has emptied out during our meal, only a couple of truckers remaining at the counter. Outside, the night has fully settled in, stars brilliant above the mountains.
I pay the bill despite Sophia's protests about splitting it. "Consider it a welcome to Grizzly Ridge," I tell her, and she relents.
The drive back to my cabin is slower than usual, as I make sure her car can keep up on the dark mountain roads. When we finally pull up to the cabin, the temperature has dropped considerably, our breath fogging in the cold night air.
Inside, I build a fire while Sophia makes tea. The domesticity of it all should feel strange—having someone else moving around my space, the sound of another person's breathing in the quiet of the evening. Instead, it feels unnervingly right.
"I've been thinking about what you said," I tell her as we sit in front of the growing flames, mugs warming our hands. "About the fifteen percent loss in efficiency."
She looks at me with surprise. "And?"
"I want to see the numbers. All of them. If you're going to convince me to change how I run my operation, I need more than estimates."
"Of course." She sets her mug down and turns to face me fully on the couch. "I can prepare a complete analysis based on what I've observed so far. But I'll need more data from your end—operational costs, historical scheduling, profit margins."
I nod slowly. "I'll have Tim pull the records tomorrow."
Her eyes widen slightly. "Really?"
"Don't look so shocked. I'm stubborn, not stupid." I take a drink of tea to hide my discomfort at her obvious surprise. "If there's money being left on the table, I want to know about it."
"Thank you." Her voice is soft, genuine. "For giving this a fair chance."
Something shifts between us in that moment. The constant push and pull of our professional disagreement settles into something more nuanced, a willingness to meet in the middle.
The firelight plays across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek, the fullness of her lower lip. Her hair has long since fallen from its ponytail, dark waves framing her face, making her look younger, more vulnerable.
I shouldn't be noticing these things.
She tucks a strand of hair behind her ear, her eyes meeting mine. "Wyatt?"
The way she says my name pulls at something deep in my chest. "Yeah?"
"I—" She hesitates, then sets her mug aside and shifts closer on the couch. "Thank you for dinner. And for letting me stay here."
"It's nothing."
"No, it's not." Her eyes, those deep brown eyes with flecks of amber, hold mine steadily. "You didn't have to do any of this."
We're close now, closer than we've been before. Close enough that I can see the faint freckles across her nose, smell the light floral scent that clings to her skin. Close enough that it would take almost nothing to lean in, to close the remaining distance.
The thought sends a jolt through me, a want so sharp and sudden it leaves me breathless.
"Sophia," I say, her name a warning, though I'm not sure if it's meant for her or myself.
She doesn't back away. If anything, she leans slightly closer. "Yes?"
I should stop this. She's twenty-four. I'm forty-five. She works for my investors. She's here to change everything about how I run my business. Every logical part of my brain is screaming that this is a terrible idea.
But logic disappears when she reaches up and places her palm against my cheek, her touch feather-light against my beard.
"I know this is complicated," she whispers.
"Complicated," I repeat, the word rough in my throat. "That's one way of putting it."
"Tell me to stop," she challenges, her eyes never leaving mine.
I should. God knows I should.
Instead, I close the distance between us and capture her mouth with mine.
The first touch of her lips is electric, sending fire racing through my veins. She makes a soft sound of surprise that melts into a sigh as her hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, pulling me closer.
The kiss deepens, and every reason why we shouldn't be doing this fades away under the heat of her mouth, the feel of her pressed against me. Her lips are soft, yielding yet demanding, and I'm lost in the taste of her, the small sounds she makes as I pull her onto my lap.
For this moment, she's not my consultant and I'm not her client. We're just a man and a woman, giving in to something that's been building since the moment she walked into my office.
And God help me, I never want it to end.