Chapter 7
CHAPTER SEVEN
WYATT
Three days. Three nights of having Sophia in my bed, in my home, in my life.
Three days of trying to maintain professional distance at the office while counting the minutes until we could be alone again.
Three nights of discovering new ways to make her gasp my name, of falling asleep with her curved against me like she was made to fit there.
It feels too good. Too right. And that's exactly what's starting to scare the hell out of me.
I lean against the doorframe of my office, watching her through the glass wall of the conference room.
She's deep in concentration, dark hair pulled back in that professional ponytail, fingers moving rapidly over her laptop keyboard.
Every now and then she pauses, tucks a strand of hair behind her ear with a gesture I've come to recognize, then returns to her work.
Even from here, I can see the slight smile on her lips, the contentment in her posture. She looks like she belongs here. And that's the problem.
Because she doesn't. Not permanently.
Tim clears his throat beside me, startling me from my thoughts. "The investors called again. They want to know when they can expect Ms. Coleman's preliminary report."
"They know the timeline," I reply, more sharply than intended. "Two weeks for assessment."
"It's been ten days," Tim points out. "And they seem... eager."
Of course they are. They've been trying to force changes on my operation for years. Changes that prioritize short-term profit over sustainable forestry, technology over expertise, efficiency over the human element that makes this company what it is.
Changes that Sophia herself is now recommending.
Not that her suggestions have been unreasonable. The digital tracking system for the hauling fleet makes sense. The inventory management software could streamline operations. Even some of the selective cutting pattern analysis tools she's shown me have merit.
But it's the principle. The thin edge of the wedge. Once we start changing, where does it stop?
"Tell them they'll get it when it's ready," I say, turning back to my office.
"They also asked if she's made any headway with your..." Tim pauses, choosing his words carefully, "resistance to modernization."
I stop mid-step, tension building at the base of my neck. "Is that how they phrased it?"
"Not exactly." He shifts uncomfortably. "They were less diplomatic."
"Bet they were." I glance back toward the conference room, where Sophia is still working, oblivious to our conversation. "Tell them she's doing her job. That's all they need to know."
But as I settle back behind my desk, the investors' words gnaw at me. Have they been discussing me with Sophia? Strategizing ways to overcome my objections? Is that what our late-night conversations have been about—finding my weak points, wearing down my defenses?
The thought forms a cold knot in my stomach, unwelcome and insistent. I've opened up to her in ways I haven't with anyone in years. Told her about my father's legacy, my vision for the company. Shared parts of myself I keep carefully guarded.
And all the while, she's been reporting back to the people who'd like nothing better than to push me aside.
The logical part of my brain knows I'm being unfair. Sophia has been nothing but transparent about her job here. She's never hidden her purpose or her communications with the investors. And everything we've shared after hours has felt genuine, real in a way I'd forgotten was possible.
But doubt, once planted, grows like a weed.
At noon, she appears in my doorway, a tentative smile on her face. "Lunch break? Maggie's?"
We've been careful to maintain distance at work, but the occasional professional lunch hasn't raised eyebrows. Still, today it feels different. Loaded.
"Can't," I reply, not meeting her eyes. "Too much paperwork."
"Oh." The small sound carries a note of disappointment. "Should I bring something back for you?"
"I'm fine." My voice comes out clipped, colder than I intended.
She hovers in the doorway a moment longer. "Everything okay?"
"Just busy." I shuffle papers on my desk, a transparent excuse to avoid looking at her. "The investors have been calling. Seems they're anxious for your report."
"I'm almost finished with the preliminary assessment," she says. "I was planning to go over it with you tonight before submitting it."
The thought of reviewing her report—essentially a blueprint for dismantling everything I've built—while lying in the same bed where I've made love to her feels suddenly perverse.
"I need to head up to the north ridge tonight. Equipment issue." The lie comes easily, which only makes me feel worse. "Might be late."
She's quiet long enough that I finally look up. Her expression is carefully neutral, but I can see the confusion in her eyes, the slight furrow between her brows.
"Alright," she says finally. "I can leave a copy on your desk for the morning."
"Sure."
She turns to go, then stops. "Wyatt, is something wrong?"
I exhale slowly, rubbing a hand over my beard. "No. Just a lot on my mind with the investors pushing."
"We can talk about it tonight," she offers. "When you get back, no matter how late."
The genuine concern in her voice only twists the knife of doubt deeper. She's either the most sincere person I've ever met or the most skillful manipulator. And the fact that I can't tell which scares me more than anything.
"Maybe. We'll see." I turn back to my computer, a clear dismissal.
When she leaves, the absence of her feels like a physical thing, a shift in the air of the room. I slam my desk drawer harder than necessary, frustration building.
This is exactly why getting involved with her was a mistake.
The lines are blurred now. Professional and personal tangled so completely I can't separate them.
And ultimately, we want different things.
She wants to modernize, to change, to "improve.
" I want to protect what works, what's proven, what matters.
How could this ever work long-term? She'll finish her consultation and move on to the next client. Back to Denver or Chicago or whatever city fits her ambitious career path. And I'll stay right here on this mountain, running my company the way I always have.
The thought of her leaving shouldn't bother me this much after barely two weeks of knowing her. But it does. It bothers me enough that I'm pushing her away first, creating distance before her inevitable departure can hurt more than it already will.
By mid-afternoon, the weight of my thoughts has become suffocating. I grab my jacket, tell Tim I'm heading to check on the east ridge operation, and escape to the familiar comfort of the forest.
The drive up the mountain clears my head somewhat. The forest has always been my sanctuary, the place where things make sense. Trees don't lie, don't manipulate, don't have hidden agendas. They simply grow, strong and true, if you give them the right conditions.
Mike spots my truck as I pull up to the cutting site and walks over, clipboard in hand.
"Didn't expect you today, boss," he says, glancing at his watch. "Thought you were meeting with the consultant this afternoon."
"Change of plans." I scan the operation, noting the neat stacks of timber, the efficient movement of the crew. "How's it going up here?"
"Smooth as silk. That new hauling schedule is working better than expected. We're up about twenty percent on transport efficiency."
I frown. "New schedule?"
"The one from the consultant," Mike says, looking confused. "The digital tracking system she had us test? Liam implemented it three days ago with the hauling crews."
"Without running it by me first?" The anger in my voice is immediate and sharp.
Mike takes a small step back. "I thought... she said she'd discussed it with you. That you'd approved a trial run."
Had she mentioned it? Possibly, during one of our late-night talks in bed, when my mind was more focused on her body than her words. Or maybe she'd deliberately waited until I was distracted. The paranoid thought slips in before I can stop it.
"It's working well," Mike continues cautiously. "The guys like knowing exactly where they need to be and when. Less idle time."
"That's not the point," I snap. "Changes need to go through me first. Always. I'm still running this company, last I checked."
The defensiveness in my voice is telling. It's not really about the schedule. It's about feeling control slip away—over my company, over my feelings for Sophia, over everything.
Mike studies me for a long moment, then nods slowly. "Of course, boss. Won't happen again."
I spend the next few hours inspecting operations, finding fault with minor details I'd normally overlook, pushing my crew harder than necessary. By sunset, there's a tension in the air that has nothing to do with logging and everything to do with my mood.
As I drive back down the mountain, the first stars appearing in the darkening sky, my radio crackles to life.
"Wyatt, you copy? It's Tim."
I grab the handset. "Go ahead."
"Just wanted to let you know Ms. Coleman left about an hour ago. Said she had everything she needed for her preliminary report."
"Did she say where she was going?" The question comes out before I can stop it.
"Back to your cabin, I assumed." There's a hint of something—concern, maybe, or confusion—in Tim's voice. "Everything okay between you two? She seemed... upset."
The knot in my stomach tightens. "It's fine. Just professional differences."
"If you say so." He doesn't sound convinced. "She left something on your desk. Said you'd know what it meant."
Curiosity pulls me back to the office despite the lateness of the hour. The building is dark and silent when I arrive, everyone long gone. In the pool of light from my desk lamp, I find a single sheet of paper.
It's not the report I expected. Instead, it's a handwritten note in Sophia's neat script:
Wyatt,
Something's changed since this morning, and I don't know what. If I've done something wrong, please tell me. If you're having second thoughts about us, I understand—it's complicated, as we both acknowledged. But I deserve the courtesy of a conversation, not cold silence.
I'll be at the cabin until you're ready to talk. Whatever's happening, we can figure it out together.
Sophia
I read the note twice, then crumple it in my fist, shame and confusion warring inside me. She's right. She deserves better than my sudden withdrawal, my unfounded suspicions.
But the fear remains. Not just of her changing my company, but of her changing me. Of wanting things I can't have, of opening myself to hurt when she inevitably leaves.
I smooth out the paper, refold it carefully, and tuck it in my pocket. Then I head for my truck, still unsure what I'll say when I face her, but knowing I owe her at least that much.
As I drive toward home—toward Sophia—one thought keeps circling: I'm not afraid she's manipulating me. I'm afraid that what I feel for her is real.
And that might be the most terrifying realization of all.