Page 6 of Hitched to my Boss (Viva Las… Oh, Sh!t #2)

I think for a moment, then remember a job from last year that had frustrated me for weeks.

"There was a black bear in Colorado that kept getting into a resort's dumpsters.

Standard approach would be to relocate the bear, but this one had cubs, and moving a mother with young that time of year could have killed them. "

"So what did you do?"

"Spent three weeks observing the bear's patterns, figuring out exactly when and how she was accessing the dumpsters.

Turned out the resort's landscaping had created a perfect corridor from the forest to their waste management area, and their dumpster design made it easy for her to get inside even when they thought they'd secured it. "

"How did you solve it?"

"Convinced the resort to modify their landscaping to redirect her path toward a natural food source area and designed a different dumpster system that she couldn't access but wouldn't require the staff to change their routine too much.

" I remember the satisfaction of watching the bear lead her cubs away from the resort toward the berry patches we'd identified.

"She stopped coming to the dumpsters within a week. "

"And the resort was happy with that solution?"

"They were thrilled. No bear conflicts, no negative publicity about harming wildlife, and the guests actually started getting excited about spotting the bear family in their natural habitat."

Natalia smiles, and I realize I've been talking for several minutes without feeling self-conscious. Usually, explaining my work to people feels like justifying my choices, but with her, it feels like sharing something I'm proud of.

"That's exactly the kind of story we need to showcase," she says. "It demonstrates your expertise, your problem-solving approach, and the benefits to your clients all in one example."

"You think Marcus Hartwell would care about any of that?"

"I think Marcus Hartwell wants to know that you'll find a solution that works for his specific situation instead of applying some generic approach." She scrolls through her notes. "Tell me about the wolf situation. What would your approach be if he hired you?"

This is easier territory, the kind of tactical planning I do naturally. "First step is always assessment. I'd need to observe the pack's behavior patterns, identify their territory boundaries, and figure out why they're targeting his livestock instead of natural prey sources."

"What could cause that kind of behavior change?"

"A dozen different factors. Drought affecting their usual prey populations, habitat destruction that's pushed them into new territory, previous hunting pressure that's made them wary of their traditional hunting grounds.

" I lean forward, my mind already working through the possibilities.

"Could even be that they've learned livestock are easier targets than wild prey, which means the solution isn't just relocation but retraining their hunting behavior. "

"And if it turns out to be something that can't be easily changed? Like permanent habitat loss?"

"Then relocation becomes the best option, but you have to be strategic about where you move them. Find an area with adequate prey populations and minimal human conflict potential, make sure you're not just moving the problem to someone else's land."

"How long would a project like that typically take?"

"Depends on the complexity, but probably two to three months from initial assessment to full resolution.

" I catch myself getting excited about the challenge, the same way I always do when presented with a complex wildlife situation.

"The key is taking enough time in the assessment phase that you're addressing the actual cause instead of just the symptoms."

Natalia has been typing steadily while I talk, her fingers flying over her laptop keyboard. "This is perfect. You light up when you talk about the work itself. That passion comes through clearly."

"Passion doesn't pay the bills."

"Passion combined with expertise absolutely pays the bills. Especially when you can demonstrate that your approach produces better long-term results than the quick fixes your competitors offer."

She's right, and I know it. The clients who've been happiest with my work are those who were willing to invest in comprehensive solutions rather than just immediate fixes. However, those clients found me through referrals, rather than through any marketing efforts on my part.

"So what's next?" I ask.

"Next, I write content that captures how you think about these problems, and showcase your expertise through specific examples, and positions you as someone who finds solutions rather than just providing services.

" She reaches for her coffee mug, but as she does, I'm leaning forward to grab my own cup.

We collide mid-reach. Her elbow hits my forearm, and her full coffee mug tips, sending hot liquid cascading across the table and directly onto her cream sweater.

"Shit!" She jumps up, coffee dripping from her clothes onto my floor.

"I'm sorry, I'm so sorry," I'm on my feet immediately, grabbing dish towels from the kitchen. "Are you burned? Is it too hot?"

"No, I'm fine, it's just—" She looks down at her coffee-soaked sweater with dismay. "This is cashmere."

Without thinking, I start dabbing at the stain, trying to absorb as much liquid as possible before it sets. It's only when my hands are pressed against the curve of her waist, the soft fabric clinging to her skin, that I realize how close we are. How my touch has made her go perfectly still.

I freeze, suddenly aware that I'm essentially caressing her through the wet fabric, that I can feel the warmth of her body beneath my palms, that she's looking up at me with dark eyes that have gone wide with something that has nothing to do with spilled coffee.

"Sorry," I mutter, but I don't immediately step back. Neither does she.

For a moment, we stand there in my kitchen, my hands still pressed against her waist, both of us breathing a little too hard for a simple accident. The air between us is charged and heavy with awareness that neither of us is prepared to acknowledge.

"I should..." she starts, but doesn't finish the sentence.

"I can give you a clean shirt," I hear myself saying. "If you want to change. While we figure out how to clean this."

She nods, not trusting her voice.

I lead her upstairs to my bedroom, acutely aware of her presence behind me, the way she takes in my private space. The bedroom is as spare as the rest of the cabin. There’s my king-sized bed with plain dark bedding, simple furniture, and windows that showcase the mountain views.

I pull a clean flannel shirt from my dresser. "This should work until your sweater dries."

"Thank you." She takes the shirt, her fingers brushing mine in the exchange. The contact sends electricity up my arm.

"I'll be downstairs," I say, backing toward the door. "Take your time."

But as I reach the doorway, she speaks my name.

"Jason?"

I turn back, and the look in her eyes stops me cold. There's something vulnerable there, something uncertain but hopeful.

"Nothing," she says after a moment. "Just... thank you."

I nod and escape downstairs, my heart pounding like I've been running sprints. What the hell was that? A simple accident, a moment of proximity that any decent person would handle without making it weird.

But the way she'd felt under my hands, warm and soft and perfectly right, the way she'd looked at me like she was seeing something she hadn't expected to find. That wasn't simple at all.

I'm still standing in my kitchen, staring at the coffee-stained table, when she comes back downstairs.

My flannel shirt hangs loose on her frame, the sleeves rolled up to accommodate her smaller hands.

She's buttoned it conservatively, but there's something intimate about seeing her in my clothes, something that makes my mouth go dry.

"Better?" I ask, not quite trusting my voice.

"Much." She smooths the shirt self-consciously. "Though I feel like I'm playing dress-up in your clothes."

"You look..." I catch myself before saying what I'm actually thinking, which is that she looks like she belongs here, in my space, wearing my shirt like she has the right to it. "It suits you."

"Thank you." She sits back down at the table, pointedly ignoring the coffee stain between us. "Should we continue with the interview?"

"Right. The interview." Because that's what we're here for. Business. Professional development. Not whatever that moment upstairs was about.

But as we settle back into our questions and answers, I find myself distracted by small things.

The way my shirt gapes slightly at her throat when she leans forward.

How she's pushed the sleeves up, revealing delicate wrists.

The fact that she smells faintly like my detergent now, mixed with her own subtle perfume.

Set professional boundaries , I remind myself. She's here to do a job. I'm paying her to solve a business problem.

Except when she laughs at something I say, curling into my shirt like it's a comfort rather than just borrowed clothing, professionalism feels like the last thing on either of our minds.

And when she finally changes back into her partially dried sweater an hour later, the cabin feels emptier somehow. Like something that had been briefly, perfectly right has shifted back to merely adequate.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks as she packs up her materials.

"Same time tomorrow," I agree.

After she leaves, I find myself holding the flannel shirt she'd worn, noting how it still holds traces of her scent. I should wash it, put it back in the drawer, forget that seeing her in my clothes had felt like a preview of something I hadn't known I wanted.

Instead, I hang it in my closet and spend the rest of the day trying not to think about how natural it had felt to take care of her, how right she'd looked in my space, wearing my shirt like she belonged there.

Like she belonged to me.

This is a professional relationship, I remind myself again. Simply a business arrangement with clear boundaries.

But as I lie in bed that night, staring at the ceiling and trying not to imagine her in my shirt again, I realize those boundaries are already becoming more complicated than either of us planned.