Page 23 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

She certainly won’t find a good one up here with me.

All she’s getting is a broken man who can’t be repaired and doesn’t want her to try—something I need her to understand.

I stalk up the steps and stop in front of her, holding up the two suitcases. “This is all your stuff?”

She swipes away the tears and nods. “Yes.”

“Good…because I don’t have room for any other shit in this cabin.”

It comes out more like a growl than words, and she stiffens as I move to brush past her. My shoulder bumps hers, and a spark shoots through my arm and straight to my groin.

Ignoring the strange electric current rolling through me, I stalk over to the bed. She follows me in and closes the door behind her. Out of the corner of my eye, I catch her wrapping her arms around herself again. Without Ronald acting as a buffer between us, the tension immediately starts to grow in the one place that has always been my refuge, where the only people I have to deal with are the ones who haunt me in my head.

I drop her bags next to the bed. “You can sleep here. I’ll take the chair.”

Her gaze darts to my worn leather armchair and footstool in front of the fireplace. “You can’t sleep there. It’ll destroy your back.”

Snorting again, I make my way to the kitchen, trying to ignore the warmth her concern brings to my chest. It’s been so long since anyone gave a shit about me that I have forgotten what it feels like until this moment. “Years of being up here and lumberjacking have already done that.”

“You’re a lumberjack?”

I pull out a tumbler and snag the bottle of whiskey that I’ve barely touched in the last few months from the cabinet.

If there’s ever a day to drink it, it’s today.

I pour myself two fingers and down it. Then I rest my hands flat against the counter and let my head drop low, closing my eyes, relishing the burn of the fiery alcohol in my gut. Betterthatthan actually enjoying the way Lyla’s worry about me makes me feel. “I had to make money somehow.”

And that’s all she’s ever going to get out of me.

Ever.

I have no desire to rehash my past with her or discuss what happened in the Bolton mansion, what I was forced to endure. Those memories, that pain, they need to remain buried deep in the darkest recesses of my mind.

If I ever let them claw their way out of the grave where I secured that part of me, I’ll never be able to function. The truth will tear me apart, and I’m barely hanging on by a thread as it is.

One quick tug on it will be enough to make me completely disintegrate.

I sense her moving toward me, and Whiskey sits behind me, pressing his body against the back of my leg, putting himself between us protectively though he seems to like her.

The sound of Lyla’s footsteps stops a few feet away—though I can’t tell if it’s because of Whiskey or if myget-the-fuck awayvibe is preventing her from advancing. “What do we do now?”

Her question is quiet, spoken to someone she clearly doesn’t trust.

And why should she?

Fuck if I know what we’re supposed to do now.

All of this was just dumped on me. The weight of putting away a man as horrible as Martin Bolton crushes my shoulders. So damn heavy. I’m not sure I can be the one to carry it. The thought of setting foot back in that building, of having to look into his eyes again, is enough to start my body trembling.

I pour myself another drink and down it before I turn back to face her. Whiskey shifts to lean his head against my thigh but keeps his focus on our new roommate.

Lyla still stands with her arms wrapped around herself, her thick brunette hair spilling down around her shoulders. Her soft green eyes rimmed with red from her tears seek an answer I don’t have. One I’llneverhave because I’m as confused as she is.

She looks so small, so terrified. Lost and desperate. This woman doesn’t belong here, doesn’t belong with me.

It isn’t safe.

Not for her.

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