Page 45 of Eco-Activist’s Mountain Men (Mountain Men Reverse Harem #4)

Jenna

I t’s the perfect day for my well-laid plans to go to shit.

For one thing, the weather’s crappy. Clouds gather overhead, threatening rain for the third time this week—and it’s still only Wednesday.

I narrowly avoid getting splashed crossing the boardwalk. In one hand, I’m juggling coffee, my notepad, and my journal. In the other, I’ve got my work phone pressed to my ear while my assistant unloads the latest crisis.

I can feel the last scraps of my patience melting away as I listen. I take a deep breath and count to ten. Okay, I’ve got this, I tell myself.

“Okay, Iris, slow down,” I say. “Let me get this straight—one of the food vendors showed up early to set up in the kitchen, and security wouldn’t let them in? Even after you confirmed who they were?”

“Exactly,” she huffs. “Not only did they refuse to let them in, they told me I wasn’t ‘authorized’ to even talk to them about it.

Can you believe that? I argued until I was blue in the face.

Then I had to apologize to the owner of Maison Levant, who chewed me out for ten minutes about wasting her time.

She’s Lebanese, by the way—did you know that?

Do you know what it feels like to get chewed out in French, English, and Arabic? Because I do.”

“Yeah, I get it. Sorry, Iris. Did you try Kane or any of the managers?”

“Yup. Total brick wall. No one knows who gave the order, and I’ve been stuck in phone-tag hell for the past thirty minutes.”

“Alright. I’m close to the hotel anyway, so I’ll stop by and check it out.” I was supposed to be heading to the talent agency handling recruitment for the event, but today’s schedule apparently comes with a detour. A necessary evil, all par for the course in event planning for the ultra-rich.

It’s just the thing I don’t need today, of all days. I already have three other fires to put out: a seating conflict, incomplete security background checks, and last-minute limo rentals for the attendees. Oh, and overseeing the lodging details for one of our VVIP guests flying in from the UAE.

Technically, that last one isn’t even my job, but I like to go above and beyond for my clients when I can. And it’s not like I mind chaos—that’s part of the deal when you’re an event planner. I usually thrive on it.

What I hate is when chaos is avoidable but still ends up dumped in my lap.

Like this ridiculous thing with the vendor.

Maison Levant is one of the best Michelin-starred halal restaurants in NYC.

With attendees flying in from all over the world, I thought it would be a perfect choice for catering.

It took a lot to get them on board, so of course, now they’re furious because we wasted their time.

Thanks to someone else’s incompetence, I’m the one left looking stupid.

So now I have to figure out what went wrong and fix it myself. And somehow, I already suspect the misunderstanding traces back to my client, the man at the center of this circus: Grayson Wolfe. CEO of Wolfe Foundation. CEO of Wolfe Corp., and New York’s “Sexiest Bachelor of the Year.”

I’ll admit, he’s gorgeous. But he’s also the single biggest pain in the ass I’ve ever met.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m used to difficult clients. Grayson, though, is a whole different beast.

I work for the New York elite. People who’ve had every privilege since birth and expect the world to bow at their feet. I met plenty of them back when I was the scholarship kid, and those connections helped me launch my own event-planning business.

It’s gone well so far. I’ve learned to be accommodating but firm, to steer clients toward my vision while making them think it was theirs all along.

That’s the trick with the ultra-rich: let them walk all over you and they’ll never respect you; push too hard and you’re fired. It’s a razor-thin line.

I’ve been perfecting that balancing act for three years now, and I’m proud to say I’ve never been fired. Not even when I had to plan a bachelorette party for the woman the tabloids dubbed the Beverly Hills Brat.

I’ll admit—I thought about quitting that one. More than once. But in the end, I pulled off a stellar event, the Brat was thrilled, and the publicity landed me several lucrative contracts.

Now I’ve got a solid record of successes and even a mid-rise office in SoHo to show for it.

But this Wolfe Foundation event? This is the big one. My magnum opus.

This event is going to put my company on the map—and in the mouths of every elite in New York. It’ll make all the years of grind worth it and finally let me choose my clients instead of the other way around.

The Wolfe Foundation Charity Showcase isn’t just one gala. It’s a whole series of smaller events, all leading up to a final blowout expected to rival the Met Gala this year.

Even with my résumé, landing this gig wasn’t easy. After an aggressive bidding war and a marathon interview process, I still had to cash in nearly every high-value contact I had—and call in a few favors—before I finally snagged it.

Now, despite the hiccups, I’m proud of the work we’ve done. Excited, even.

That said, it would be a hell of a lot easier if I weren’t working for a man who I’m convinced was put on this earth just to aggravate the fuck out of me.

Grayson Wolfe.

I’ve only met him once in person, but trust me, once was enough. Not that I don’t know what he looks like—his face is splashed across glossy magazines and half the influencer accounts in Manhattan. Some people’s entire job seems to be posting pictures of him. And honestly? I don’t even blame them.

As much as I hate to admit it, the man is hot with a capital H.

Tall, dark, and handsome. Broad enough to pass for a retired football player, even though I know he never was. Piercing hazel eyes. Sharp cheekbones that scream Greek god—softened only by a head of curly salt-and-pepper hair.

He’s the embodiment of a fantasy. And maybe I’d indulge in a little fantasizing—if he weren’t also a rich, spoiled, arrogant asshole.

An old-money trust-fund kid who somehow ended up CEO of a trillion-dollar international holding company. Smart, sure. Not just a dumb pretty boy. But from our one meeting, I could tell—he’s conceited as hell.

And that’s not even the worst part.

The worst part is that he’s picky, mercurial, and the most uncommunicative son of a bitch I’ve ever dealt with.

Case in point: he and his team refused to even meet with me to discuss their vision for the showcase. Too busy, they said. Left everything up to my discretion. Which sounded fine in theory—until I realized Grayson Wolfe is the kind of man who’s never satisfied.

Working with him is torture. The pattern goes like this: I send over a detailed plan, hear nothing, then get an email a week later saying they want “something different.” No explanation.

Fine. I change everything.

Then comes an attendee list. I plan around it, only for a new list to show up without warning and blow my plans apart. We redo everything, call vendors, rework the theme. A week later, another revised list.

Every time I try to get clarification, his secretary gives me one-line replies and hangs up to “take another call.” It’s like shouting into the void.

Lately, though, the chaos has settled—no major changes for two weeks. Which means I might actually survive this thing. The first event kicks off in a few days, and we can’t afford any more curveballs.

That’s why, before finalizing the plan, I did my homework on Grayson Wolfe.

If I could figure out what this showcase really means to him, maybe I could predict what he wanted.

But since it’s the first one ever, I’ve had no blueprint.

Just my own creativity—extravagant but tasteful, artistic without being gauche. My signature balancing act.

By the time I finally reach the Ritz-Carlton, the first venue, sweat is trickling down my back despite the cool weather. Probably all the errands I’ve been running today. Sure, I could delegate, but sometimes I like doing things myself. Keeps my head clear.

At the marble staircase, I greet the doorman.

“Identification,” he says, deadpan.

I roll my eyes. “Really, Ricky? We do this every Tuesday.”

He grins. “Sorry, love. Policy. You know they’re always watching.” He nods toward the CCTV camera. I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear, dig out my ID, and hand it over.

“Did you make it home on time for your little girl’s party last week?” I ask, remembering how he stayed late to help us set up.

“I did. And she loved the dollhouse I got her—with the hundred bucks you slipped me.”

“Well, she better have loved it. That hundred bucks hurt when it left my pocket.”

“Please, you don’t look like you’re hurting. Not in that Chanel blouse and Saint Laurent shoes.”

“The shoes are knockoffs,” I stage-whisper with a wink. His eyebrows shoot up.

“Seriously?”

“Yup. The blouse is genuine, but a thrift-store find. Jewelry? All on sale.”

“Damn.”

“Exactly. This business is all about branding, Ricky. A girl’s gotta package herself. Lucky for me, I love a good bargain and can sniff one out like a hound dog.”

I’ve been like that since private school, when I had to blend in with kids whose parents never thought twice about dropping thousands on designer labels. To avoid sticking out, I learned to hustle, to mold myself into whatever people expected.

It’s the same skill that’s made me successful now. Fake it till you make it.

So far, I’ve managed to fool most people about where I really came from.

There’s only one person I think sees through me.

Grayson Wolfe.

I’ll never forget the one time we met face-to-face. The way his piercing gaze unsettled me, like he could strip away every carefully curated layer and spot the scholarship kid underneath. Like he knew I didn’t belong to his world of privilege and power.

Maybe that’s why he’s made it his mission to make my life hell. Maybe he thinks I don’t deserve this job.

And maybe he’s right.

This event is bigger than anything I’ve ever handled.

If I screw it up, it won’t just ruin me professionally—it’ll prove him right.

Imposter syndrome has been clawing at me for weeks, whispering that I’m out of my depth.

But I keep my head up, clinging to positive thinking, fake-it-till-you-make-it, all the mantras I can muster.

Ricky waves me through, and I step into the hotel lobby.

Polished marble floors. Crystal chandeliers that look like they belong in Versailles. Crown mouldings, walnut paneling, Persian silk rugs. Money drips from every surface, and every person lounging in the cushy seats radiates it too.

I straighten my shoulders and walk like I own the place, even as curious eyes follow me. Confidence is an illusion. If you wear it well enough, no one can tell you’re faking it.

But when I reach the conference hall, something’s wrong.

The jewel-toned orchids I ordered for the entrance are missing. Odd, but fine—I can fix that. My hand hovers over the keypad, and I push open the door.

And freeze.

My jaw drops.

Everything is gone.

The florals. The stage. The custom seating. The art. Every detail I’d slaved over—vanished.

All that’s left are bare white walls and soulless gray stands, with chairs that look like they were borrowed from some discount art-deco rental shop.

A bellboy pokes his head in. “Madam? Is everything alright?”

“No,” I whisper, legs trembling as I steady myself against the wall. “Nothing is alright.”

I can barely breathe. Rage and disbelief knot in my throat.

“Call the cops,” I manage. “We’ve been robbed.”

His brows knit. “Robbed? Oh, no, ma’am. The cleanup crew moved everything to the basement. Said the owner of the event wanted it gone.”

My head snaps toward him. “Who’s ‘they’?” I snarl.

“The hotel crew. Said Mr. Wolfe gave the order.”

Shock crashes over me. “I’m the event planner. No one told me a damn thing.”

Fury surges hot in my chest as I stab Wolfe’s secretary’s number.

“Hello,” she answers in her usual bored tone.

“What’s going on, Carissa? I just walked into the Ritz and everything’s gone. They said the order came from you.”

“Oh yes. The boss hated the décor. Had them remove it for something more… tasteful.”

Tasteful? Those ugly-ass chairs are her idea of tasteful?

“Why didn’t he just call me and say he wanted changes?” I bite out.

“I don’t know. You’d have to ask him. If that’s all, I have another call waiting.” Click.

She hangs up.

I’m shaking. Boiling. Insulted down to my bones. Hours of work, thousands of dollars, an artist’s one-of-a-kind stage—all tossed out like garbage.

Sure, I can bill them for it. But it’s not the money—it’s the utter disrespect.

It feels like a violation. Like he walked into my home, tore the clothes out of my closet, and set them on fire just to see me squirm.

Who does he think he is?

This was my design. My vision. And he erased it with a single order—without even having the decency to tell me.

I tell myself to stay calm, to swallow it. But I can’t.

Because there’s no way in hell I’m letting Grayson Wolfe humiliate me like this. Not in front of my team. Not in front of the whole damn city.

Carissa can’t fix this. She’s a puppet. Only one person has the strings.

I punch his number, my pulse hammering. The line rings. And rings. My anger builds with every second, until his voicemail clicks on.

“Hello, Mr. Wolfe,” I say, my voice sugar-sweet, sharp with venom. “Hope you’re having a good day. Because I’m not. I just walked into the Ritz and found out your team has trashed my entire setup. If this didn’t come from you, then I apologize in advance for what I’m about to say. But if it did…”

I inhale, fury burning hot through every nerve.

“…then I need to know—have you any idea how much time, effort, blood, sweat, and tears it’s taken me and my team to get this place ready for your event today? I mean, what the actual hell is wrong with you? In short, Mr. Grayson goddam Wolfe, how fucking dare you? ”