Chapter 6 #2
Morning comes with golden light filtering through the curtains, warming my face and gently pulling me from the deepest sleep I've had in months.
I become aware of sensations one by one: the pleasant ache between my thighs, the weight of Wyatt's arm draped possessively across my waist, the steady sound of his breathing beside me.
I turn carefully in the circle of his arm to look at him, vulnerable in sleep in a way he never allows himself to be awake. His dark hair is mussed from my fingers, his beard slightly untamed. The hard lines of his face are softened, years falling away from him.
Last night rushes back in vivid detail—his gentleness, his patience, the way he'd made me feel both cherished and desired. How he'd whispered praise and encouragement, guiding me through each new sensation, putting my pleasure before his own. How completely I'd surrendered to him, and he to me.
Part of me wants to reach out and trace the contours of his face, to wake him with soft touches and reclaim the passion of the night. The other part—the rational, professional part that seems increasingly distant—whispers that I've made a terrible mistake.
He's my client. He's twenty-one years older than me. He represents everything I'm supposed to be changing.
And yet lying here, watching the rise and fall of his chest, I can't bring myself to regret what happened between us.
His eyes open, those pine-shadow depths finding mine immediately, as if even in sleep he was aware of my presence.
"Morning," he says, voice rough with sleep.
"Morning." My reply comes out softer than intended.
He studies my face, searching for something—regret, perhaps. "You okay? Any pain?"
The simple question, filled with genuine concern rather than the awkwardness I expected, warms me from within. "Just a little sore. Nothing bad."
Concern flickers across his face. "I tried to be careful."
"You were perfect." I touch his cheek, feeling the rough texture of his beard against my palm. "Everything was perfect."
A slow smile spreads across his face, devastating in its sincerity. "Better than good."
His hand moves from my waist to my hair, fingers threading through the tangled strands. The gentle intimacy of the gesture makes my heart clench with an emotion I'm not ready to name.
"We should talk about this," I say, even as I lean into his touch.
"Probably," he agrees, but then his mouth is on mine, and talking becomes the furthest thing from my mind.
His kisses are different this morning—less careful, more knowing. He's learned my body now, knows how to touch me, where to focus his attention. And I'm an eager student, more confident in my explorations of him, delighting in the sounds he makes when I find sensitive spots.
When he rolls me beneath him, settling between my thighs, there's only the briefest hesitation. "Still sore?"
"Don't care," I breathe, pulling him down to me. "Need you."
This time there's no pain, only pleasure that builds more quickly, more intensely than before.
He's still careful with me, but there's less restraint, more abandon in the way we move together.
When release comes, it's stronger, deeper, his name a prayer on my lips as he holds me through the aftershocks.
Later—much later—we finally make it downstairs for coffee.
I'm wearing his flannel shirt, the sleeves rolled up multiple times and the hem falling to mid-thigh.
Wyatt, in just jeans and nothing else, moves around the kitchen with easy confidence, the muscles of his back and shoulders shifting beneath tanned skin marked by my nails.
The domesticity of the moment feels dangerous in its rightness.
"We're going to be late," I observe, watching the clock tick past eight.
Wyatt hands me a mug of coffee, his fingers lingering against mine. "I called Tim. Told him we'd be in around ten."
"What did you tell him?"
"That we had some business to discuss." His eyes hold a hint of mischief. "Which isn't entirely untrue."
I can't help but laugh, feeling lighter than I have in years. "Is that what we're calling it now?"
He sets his mug down and moves closer, trapping me against the counter with his arms on either side of me. "What would you call it?"
The playfulness in his tone doesn't mask the genuine question underneath. What is this? What are we doing?
"I don't know," I admit. "It's complicated."
"You said that last night, too."
"It was true last night. It's still true this morning." I look up at him, forcing myself to voice the concerns that professional ethics demand. "I'm here to consult on your business, Wyatt. My company was hired by your investors. This is..."
"A conflict of interest?" he supplies when I trail off.
"At minimum."
He sighs, stepping back slightly to give me space. "Do you regret it?"
"No." The answer comes without hesitation, surprising me with its certainty. "Last night meant something to me. You mean something to me."
His expression softens, relief evident in the relaxing of his shoulders. "You mean something to me too, Sophia. More than I expected. More than makes sense given how short a time we've known each other."
The admission, simple as it is, makes my heart swell. "So what do we do now?"
"We figure it out." He reaches for my hand, large fingers entwining with mine. "But first, I need to ask you something important."
My heart stutters. "What?"
"Are you hungry? Because I'm starving."
The unexpected question startles a laugh out of me, breaking the tension. "Famished, actually."
His answering smile is warm, private, just for me. "Then let me make you breakfast, and we'll figure out the rest as we go."
Over eggs and bacon, we talk about everything except what happened between us and what it means. Instead, he tells me stories about growing up in Grizzly Ridge, about learning the logging business from his father, about the changes he's seen in the industry over the decades.
I find myself sharing too—about my father's career shift from forest ranger to mill worker, about growing up hearing stories of sustainable forestry, about my own journey through business school and into consulting.
"So that's why you seemed to know more about logging than the average consultant," he says, understanding dawning in his eyes.
"I grew up around it," I confirm. "Not the operations side, but the philosophy of it. My dad believed in responsible forestry."
"What would he think of what you're doing now?"
The question isn't accusatory, just curious.
"I think he'd approve," I say after considering it. "He always said the industry needed to evolve without losing its soul. That's what I'm trying to help you do."
Wyatt nods slowly. "I'm starting to see that."
The admission, small as it is, feels like a victory—not for me professionally, but for the understanding growing between us.
When we finally dress for work, there's a new ease between us, undercut with an electric awareness of each other that hasn't diminished in the light of day.
In his truck, heading toward town, Wyatt reaches across the console to take my hand.
"We need to keep this between us," he says, eyes on the road. "At least for now."
"I was thinking the same thing." I squeeze his hand. "It would complicate the consulting work."
"And give the town gossips enough material for a year."
I laugh, imagining Maggie's face if she knew what had happened after our innocent dinner at her diner. "Agreed. Professional in public."
"And in private?" His voice drops, sending a shiver down my spine.
"In private, we figure this out." I look over at him, taking in his strong profile against the backdrop of pine trees flashing past the window. "Whatever this is."
He brings my hand to his lips, pressing a kiss to my knuckles that feels more intimate than it should. "Deal."
At the office, we maintain a careful distance. If Tim notices anything different, he doesn't comment, just hands me the files Wyatt requested yesterday—operational costs, scheduling logs, profit margins from the past five years.
I spend the morning in a small conference room, diving deep into the numbers while Wyatt attends to his regular business. The work grounds me, giving me something concrete to focus on besides the memory of his hands on my body and the confusing emotions he stirs in me.
The data confirms my initial assessment: Brennan Logging is fundamentally sound but hampered by inefficiencies that could be addressed with targeted modernization.
By lunch, I've drafted a preliminary report identifying specific areas where technological integration would yield the greatest returns.
When Wyatt appears in the doorway, I'm so engrossed in my work I don't notice him at first. It's only when he clears his throat that I look up, and the sight of him—casual in his flannel and jeans, powerful and assured—makes my heart skip in a way that has nothing to do with professional respect.
"Find anything interesting?" he asks, entering the room and closing the door behind him.
"Actually, yes." I gesture to the spreadsheets and charts I've created. "Your operation is even more solid than I initially thought. The foundation is excellent. But there are clear opportunities for improvement in three key areas."
He sits across from me, giving my work his full attention. There's no defensiveness in his posture now, just genuine interest.
"Show me."
I walk him through my findings—how digital tracking could reduce idle time for hauling crews, how inventory management software could optimize cutting schedules, how centralized communication could prevent costly miscommunications between teams.
He asks thoughtful questions, challenging assumptions but not dismissing them outright. When I finish, he sits back, considering everything I've presented.
"You've made a compelling case," he says finally.
"But?" I can hear the qualification in his tone.
"But I'm still concerned about implementation. Training older crew members on new technology. The learning curve. The disruption to operations while we transition."
Valid concerns, all of them.
"That's why any implementation plan would be phased," I tell him. "We start small, prove the concept, then expand gradually. And I'd be here throughout the process."
"For how long?" The question seems to carry more weight than it should.
"That depends on the scope of changes you approve." I hesitate, aware that my professional timeline now carries personal implications. "It could be weeks. It could be months."
Something flickers in his eyes—relief, perhaps, or anticipation. "And your next client?"
"Would come after Brennan Logging is successfully modernized." I meet his gaze directly. "I see my projects through, Wyatt. I don't leave things half-finished."
The double meaning isn't lost on either of us.
"Good to know." His voice is low, intimate despite the professional setting. "Because I'd hate to see you leave too soon."
The words send warmth spreading through my chest. Before I can respond, his radio crackles with a call from one of the cutting crews, breaking the moment.
"I need to handle this," he says, standing. "But I want to continue this conversation. Both parts of it."
"I'll be here," I reply, the simple phrase carrying its own weight of promise.
After he leaves, I try to refocus on my work, but my mind keeps drifting to the night before, to the morning after, to the way everything has shifted between us in the space of twenty-four hours.
I came to Grizzly Ridge to modernize a logging operation, to prove myself professionally, to advance my career. I never expected to find myself falling for the very man whose resistance to change was my primary obstacle.
But as I look at the numbers before me, at the potential I see in his company, I realize something important: my professional goals and my personal feelings aren't as contradictory as they first appeared.
Because at the heart of both is the same desire—to help Wyatt Brennan preserve what matters most while embracing the changes necessary for growth.
The realization settles over me with a clarity that's both terrifying and exhilarating. Whatever happens between us personally, I'm more committed than ever to doing right by him professionally.
The question is whether we can navigate both journeys simultaneously without one derailing the other.
Only time will tell. But after last night, after this morning, I find myself hopeful in a way I never expected.
And hope, I'm discovering, is a dangerous, wonderful thing.