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

I follow her gaze as she takes in my living space, seeing it through her eyes.

The cabin is spacious by mountain standards, featuring an open floor plan that seamlessly integrates the kitchen, dining, and living areas.

Floor-to-ceiling windows on three sides showcase the mountain views, and the stone fireplace dominates one wall.

It's comfortable, functional, and completely isolated.

But instead of looking overwhelmed or out of place, Natalia seems to appreciate what I've built here. Her assessment is appreciative rather than critical.

"It serves its purpose," I say, unsure why I suddenly feel self-conscious about my home.

"Which is keeping the rest of the world at a safe distance?" The question is direct but not judgmental, and there's something almost knowing in her tone.

"Among other things."

She nods, as if this makes perfect sense. "Mind if I set up on your dining table? I have some materials to show you."

"Go ahead."

I watch as she arranges her tablet, portfolio, and what appears to be a voice recorder on my table.

Her movements are efficient, practiced. She's done this before, in locations far less welcoming than my cabin.

There's something oddly comforting about her competence, the way she transforms my dining table into a temporary office without making it feel invaded.

"Coffee?" I offer, more out of ingrained politeness than actual hospitality.

"That would be great, thank you."

I busy myself with the coffee maker, grateful for something to do with my hands.

Having someone else in my space feels wrong, like wearing clothes that don't fit.

But there's something about Natalia that's less intrusive than I expected.

She's not trying to fill the silence with small talk or commenting on every detail of my home.

Instead, she seems content to let me adjust to her presence at my own pace.

"So," she says as I bring her a mug, "Zennika tells me you need help expanding your client base."

"I need help with one specific client," I correct, sitting across from her. "Marcus Hartwell. He runs a ranch operation close to Vegas."

"And he won't work with you because?"

"Apparently, my reputation for being antisocial is affecting my business prospects."

She pulls up something on her tablet, fingers dancing across the screen.

"I did some preliminary research on your business.

Wildlife management and predator control, primarily in remote locations.

Impressive success rate, excellent technical skills, but limited online presence and virtually no client testimonials. "

"I let my work speak for itself."

"That's admirable, but it's not effective marketing." She looks up from her screen, and I'm struck again by the intelligence in her eyes. "In today's economy, reputation management is just as important as technical competence. Maybe more so."

"Which is why you're here."

"Which is why I'm here." She leans back in her chair, studying me with an intensity that should make me uncomfortable but somehow doesn't. "But before we talk about improving your public image, I need to understand why you've avoided it in the first place."

The question hits closer to home than I'd like. "I prefer working alone."

"That's not the same thing as being antisocial."

"Isn't it?"

"Not necessarily." She takes a sip of coffee, and I find myself noting the way her lips curve around the rim of the mug.

"There's a difference between someone who works alone by choice and someone who can't function around other people.

The first is a professional preference. The second is a limitation that affects business growth. "

"And which one do you believe I am?"

"That's what I'm here to find out." She opens her portfolio, pulling out what appears to be a questionnaire.

"I'm going to ask you some questions that might feel intrusive.

The goal isn't to make you uncomfortable, but I need to understand your communication patterns, your comfort zones, and what makes professional interactions work for you before I can develop a strategy. "

I eye the questionnaire with suspicion. "What kind of questions?"

"Background, personality assessment, specific situations that cause you stress." Her tone is matter of fact, but there's something reassuring about her directness. "Think of it as a diagnostic tool. I can't fix what I don't understand."

The logical part of my brain knows she's right.

If I want her help, I need to give her the information she requires.

But the rest of me is already calculating escape routes, planning which mountain trails I could disappear into if this conversation goes too far into territory I don't want to explore.

"How long will this take?"

"As long as it takes." She meets my eyes steadily, and there's something in her expression that makes me want to trust her despite every instinct screaming caution.

"But Jason, I need you to understand something.

I'm not here to change who you are. I'm here to help you present the best version of yourself to potential clients. There's a difference."

Something in her tone makes me believe her. Maybe it's the directness, or the fact that she's not trying to convince me that my preferences are wrong. She's simply acknowledging them as part of the puzzle she needs to solve.

And for the first time in years, the idea of letting someone see past my defenses doesn't feel like a threat.

"All right," I say finally. "Ask your questions."

She smiles, and for the first time since she arrived, it feels like a real smile rather than a professional one. Something warm and genuine that transforms her entire face.

"Excellent. Let's start with the basics."

As she flips to the first page of her questionnaire, I remind myself that this is temporary. A few weeks, maybe a month, and then I can go back to my normal routine. I can handle anything for that long.

Even if that 'anything' includes spending time with a woman who's already making me question why I chose isolation in the first place.