Page 1 of Hitched to my Boss (Viva Las… Oh, Sh!t #2)

JASON

Y ou need to hire a PR person.

I stare at my laptop screen, reading the email from Marcus Hartwell for the third time.

The rancher wants my help with a predator problem that's been decimating his livestock, but he's made it crystal clear that my hermit reputation is a liability.

Apparently, word has spread through the ranching community that I'm impossible to work with, antisocial, and completely unreachable.

None of which is exactly false.

I lean back in my desk chair, the leather creaking as I survey my cabin office.

Awards and certificates line the walls, proof of my expertise in wildlife management and predator control.

References from satisfied clients, testimonials about my success rate, and photos of me with government officials who've hired my services.

Everything you'd need to establish credibility in my field.

Everything except the one thing Marcus Hartwell apparently requires: a public face that isn't mine.

Professional representation is non-negotiable, his email continues.

My ranch has been featured in Western Living, Cattle Today, and Ranch & Rural magazines.

We can't afford to be associated with someone who has a reputation for being difficult to work with.

Find a PR representative, clean up your image, and we'll talk.

I close the laptop with more force than necessary.

Twenty-seven successful predator removal contracts in the past three years.

A ninety-six percent success rate. Recommendations from the Department of Fish and Wildlife.

And this jackass wants me to hire a publicist, as if I'm some kind of celebrity.

After spending most of my adult life avoiding people, I now need someone whose entire job is managing how people perceive me. Someone who can make me appear approachable, professional, and sociable. All the things I'm definitely not.

My phone buzzes with a text from my best friend and brother-in-law.

Jude: Heard through the grapevine that you're having client issues. Something about needing to work on your people skills.

I snort, typing back: Some rancher wants me to hire PR help before he'll work with me.

His response comes immediately: Maybe it's time to admit you need help with the people side of your business.

Me: I help plenty of people. I solve their predator problems.

Jude: Solving problems and actually communicating with humans are two different skills, man.

He's not wrong. I built my wildlife trapping and predator control business specifically so I could work alone.

Most of my jobs involve weeks in remote wilderness areas, tracking problem animals, setting traps, and dealing with situations that require patience and solitude rather than small talk and networking.

It's perfect for someone like me. Someone who spent two years in Afghanistan learning that people are unpredictable, dangerous, and generally not worth the risk of getting close to them. Someone who came back with enough issues that even my own family handles me with kid gloves.

My phone rings. Jude's name appears on the screen.

"Let me guess," I answer. "You have the perfect solution to my PR problem."

"Actually, I do." His voice carries that tone he gets when he's about to meddle in my life. "Zennika knows someone who specializes in image rehabilitation for difficult clients."

"Difficult clients?"

"Hey, those were your sister's exact words when she described your situation.

" I can hear the smile in his voice. "She's worked with everyone from tech executives with anger management issues to professional athletes recovering from scandals.

Apparently, antisocial mountain men are right in her wheelhouse. "

Despite myself, I'm curious. "What's her background?"

"Ten years in corporate PR, specializes in crisis management and reputation repair. She's freelance now, which means she can come to you instead of expecting you to travel to some city office."

The cabin suddenly feels smaller. The idea of someone invading my space, analyzing my life, and trying to turn me into something more palatable for public consumption makes my skin crawl.

"I don't know, Jude."

"Jason." His voice goes serious. "You're losing clients because of your reputation. You've built something incredible up there, but if you can't expand your client base, what's the point?"

He's right, and I hate that he's right. The wildlife management business is seasonal and unpredictable. One bad year, one change in regulations, one shift in local wildlife populations, and I could be starting over. I need the security that comes with a steady stream of high-paying clients.

Clients like Marcus Hartwell.

"What's this PR person's name?"

"Natalia Santos. And before you ask, yes, she's aware that you live in the middle of nowhere and have the social skills of a feral cat."

"Thanks for the ringing endorsement."

"She's perfect for this, man. Trust me. Zen vouches for her completely."

I stare out my office window at the mountains surrounding Whisper Vale.

Snow still caps the peaks even though it's mid-April, and the forest stretches in every direction without a single sign of human habitation.

This cabin is my sanctuary. The one place where I can breathe without feeling like the walls are closing in.

The one place that belongs entirely to me.

"How soon can she be here?"

"Tomorrow, if you're serious about this." Jude pauses, and my sister Zennika hijacks the call.

"You have to actually work with her," Zen insists. "No disappearing into the mountains for days at a time. No refusing to answer your phone. She can't help you if you don't let her."

"I get it."

"Do you? Because your track record with people trying to help you isn't exactly stellar."

The comment stings because it's true. In the four years since I moved to Whisper Vale, I've gone through three different cleaning services, two handymen, and a succession of delivery drivers who've all given up trying to work with me.

I don't mean to be difficult. I just prefer things done a certain way, and most people don't understand that my specific requirements aren't arbitrary. They're necessary.

"This is different," I tell her. "This is business."

"Everything is business with you, Jay. That's part of the problem."

After we hang up, I spend the rest of the afternoon researching Natalia Santos online.

Her website is sleek and professional, showcasing success stories from clients whose reputations she's managed to rehabilitate.

A former tech CEO who overcame sexual harassment allegations.

A professional basketball player who recovered from a gambling scandal.

A pharmaceutical executive who survived a product recall lawsuit.

All people whose problems were worse than mine, according to her case studies. All people who are now thriving in their respective careers.

Maybe Jude and Zennika are right. Maybe I can work with someone long enough to clean up my image and secure the Hartwell contract. After that, I can go back to my normal routine of minimal human contact and maximum wilderness time.

I'm still telling myself this when my motion sensors alert me to a vehicle coming up my driveway the next morning. I check the security camera feed on my phone, expecting to see Natalia Santos in some compact car struggling with the dirt road that leads to my cabin.

Instead, I see a sleek black SUV navigating the ruts and rocks like the driver actually knows what they're doing. The vehicle stops in my clearing, and the driver's door opens.

Holy hell.

Natalia Santos is not what I expected.

She's maybe five-foot-five in heels that have no business being worn on a mountain, but she moves across the uneven ground like she was born to it.

Dark hair falls in waves past her shoulders, and even from this distance, I can see curves that her professional suit does nothing to hide.

She looks like she stepped off the cover of a business magazine, all polish and confidence.

She also looks like trouble.

The kind of trouble I've spent four years avoiding. The kind that makes men do stupid things and forget why they chose isolation in the first place.

But as I watch her approach my front door, her stride purposeful despite the challenging terrain, something unexpected happens.

Instead of the usual anxiety that comes with strangers invading my space, I feel.

.. curious. There's something about the way she carries herself, confident but not arrogant, professional but not cold, that intrigues me despite my better judgment.

The knock on my door is firm and confident. Not the tentative tap of someone who's intimidated by my reputation or the remote location.

I take a deep breath, reminding myself that this is temporary. A necessary evil to secure the contracts I need. I can handle one small woman for however long it takes to fix my image problem.

I open the door, and my carefully prepared greeting dies in my throat.

Up close, Natalia Santos is devastating.

Warm brown eyes meet mine without flinching, and her smile is both professional and genuinely friendly.

She's beautiful in a completely natural way, even with the obvious effort she's put into her appearance.

But it's more than that. There's an intelligence in her gaze, an assessment that feels thorough but not invasive.

"Mr. Wallace?" Her voice has a slight accent, something that makes my name sound more interesting than it actually is. "I'm Natalia Santos. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."

"Jason," I manage, stepping back to let her in. "Just Jason."

"Jason." She tests the name, still smiling as she enters my space. "I have to say, your sister undersold the location. This place is incredible."