Page 21 of The Forbidden Mountain Man Lumberjack
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 whatour 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.
