Chapter 2
CHAPTER TWO
SOPHIA
So much for making a good impression on my new client. Not that he deserves one after yesterday.
I'd spent last night in my car, reclined as far as it would go in an empty parking lot behind the general store after the owner took pity on me.
When I'd explained my situation, she'd scowled and muttered something about "that stubborn Brennan man" before offering me use of the store's bathroom to freshen up.
Now, tugging my fleece jacket tighter against the mountain chill, I smooth down my practical work clothes—sturdy jeans, hiking boots, and a flannel shirt underneath the jacket.
My dark hair is pulled back in a simple ponytail, and I've skipped makeup entirely.
I look nothing like the polished business consultant from yesterday, which is exactly the point.
I need Wyatt Brennan to take me seriously.
Just thinking about him sends an unwelcome flutter through my stomach. I'd expected a typical resistant client—they all start that way. What I hadn't expected was for him to be so... overwhelming.
Tall, broad-shouldered, with a thick dark beard and eyes the color of pine forest shadows. When he'd walked into that office, bringing the scent of sawdust and mountain air with him, I'd felt something I'd never experienced with a client before.
A pull. Magnetic. Dangerous.
Which is precisely why I spent the night in my car instead of caving and driving to the motel an hour away. I refuse to show any weakness in front of Wyatt Brennan. Not professionally. Not personally.
Especially not personally.
The office door opens before I reach it, spilling warm light into the darkness.
Wyatt stands in the doorway, a massive silhouette backlit by the office lamps.
He's wearing a red and black flannel with the sleeves rolled up, exposing muscled forearms corded with veins and dusted with dark hair.
Work jeans sit low on his hips, worn but clean.
"You're early," he says, voice deep and rough like he hasn't spoken yet today.
I straighten my spine. "I said I would be."
He steps aside, allowing me to enter. The office is surprisingly warm, and I realize he must have come in even earlier to start the wood stove in the corner. The scent of coffee fills the small space.
"Help yourself," he nods toward a pot on the small counter. "You'll need it."
I set my laptop bag on a chair and pour coffee into a mug that says 'Brennan Logging' in faded letters. "Thank you."
"Sleep well?" he asks, and there's something in his tone that makes me look up sharply.
His expression gives nothing away, but I have the distinct impression he knows exactly where I spent the night. This town is too small for secrets.
"Perfectly, thanks," I lie, taking a deliberate sip of coffee. It's strong and surprisingly good.
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.
"Seatbelt," he says, not moving until I click it into place.
The drive up the mountain is both beautiful and terrifying.
The logging roads are exactly as rugged as Wyatt implied, rutted and winding steeply upward through dense forest. He handles the truck with casual confidence, his strong hands resting easily on the wheel, occasionally shifting gears with fluid precision.
I try not to notice the way his forearm flexes when he does this, or how his profile against the gradually lightening sky is annoyingly perfect.
"So," I say, breaking the silence after about fifteen minutes. "Tell me about how you got into logging."
He glances at me briefly before returning his eyes to the treacherous road. "Family business. My grandfather started it. My father expanded it. I took over when he retired."
"And you built it into what it is today."
He shrugs, but I can see the pride in the slight lift of his chin. "I know these mountains better than anyone. Know what they can give and what they need to keep producing."
"That's exactly the kind of institutional knowledge I want to preserve in the systems I develop," I tell him, seizing the opening. "Modern business practices aren't about erasing tradition. They're about making it sustainable and more profitable."
He makes a noncommittal sound, his jaw tightening slightly.
"I'm not the enemy, Wyatt."
This time when he looks at me, his gaze lingers a moment longer. "We'll see."
The road gets even rougher, jostling me in my seat. On a particularly deep rut, I'm thrown sideways, my shoulder bumping against his. Even through layers of clothing, I feel the solid heat of him. He steadies me with one hand, large and warm against my arm, before returning it to the wheel.
"Sorry," I murmur, inexplicably flustered.
"Mountain's testing you," he says, and I swear there's a hint of amusement in his voice.
As we climb higher, the sun breaks over the ridge, illuminating endless forest in shades of gold and green. The view is breathtaking, nothing like the cityscapes I'm used to.
"It's beautiful," I say softly.
"Yes," Wyatt agrees, and when I turn to look at him, I find him watching me instead of the view, an unreadable expression on his face. "It is."
Something shifts in the air between us, a tension that has nothing to do with our professional disagreement. For a moment, I forget why I'm here, lost in the intensity of his gaze.
Then he looks back at the road, the moment broken.
"We're here," he announces as we pull into a clearing where the other trucks are already parked. Men move with purpose, gathering equipment, checking chainsaws.
"Ready to see how real logging works?" There's a challenge in his voice.
I meet his eyes directly. "I'm ready for anything, Wyatt."
A slow smile spreads across his face—the first I've seen—transforming his features from merely handsome to devastating.
"We'll see about that, Sophia Coleman." He opens his door and steps out. "We'll definitely see about that."
And despite everything—the uncomfortable night, his initial rudeness, the professional tension between us—I smile back, anticipation curling through me as I follow him into the woods.