Page 41 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

Shaking my head to clear away those thoughts, I let my gaze drift to her lips. “Nothing. I just didn’t expect you to do all this without complaint.”

She scowls at me, crossing her arms over her chest. “Do you know what I did for a living before I moved up here?”

Fuck.

I don’t.

I didn’t ask.

It was all such a whirlwind. As soon as I agreed to Ronald’s mail-order bride scheme, he drove back into town to make the call to Carly. It became clear we wouldn’t have a lot of options since we needed it to happen fast.

All we had were the basics on Lyla—enough to run a cursory background check for any criminal history or anything else that might leap out. But she came up squeaky clean. And I never bothered to try to get any other information about her—from Carlyorfrom my wife.

Real fucking nice, Silas.

I rub the back of my sweaty neck and shake my head. “No. I don’t know.”

She huffs and blows a strand of loose hair off her forehead. “I was a waitress and a bartender. I’ve been on my feet for long shifts, carrying heavy trays, cleaning tables and equipment, dealing with asshole patrons and co-workers who sometimes have shitty attitudes. All this”—she waves a hand around the barn area and at me—“might be new to me, but hard work isn’t.”

I flinch at her completely warranted reproach. A shitty attitude seems like an understatement for how I’ve treated her since she set foot here. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have assumed…”

Just because the women I knew before I came up here would rather sit on their asses and be catered to hand and foot doesn’t mean all women are like that. It’s becoming abundantly clear that I vastly underestimated Lyla Sinclair.

She weighs my apology for a moment, then dismisses it with a wave of a hand. “Don’t worry about it. Really. I’m sure we’ve both made a lot of assumptions that aren’t true.”

What the fuck does that mean?

I don’t get to ask because she grabs a few more logs and walks away without another glance at me. Whiskey watches her go from his spot in the rapidly fading light next to the barn, and I glance at the sun starting to set.

The temperature will start dropping soon, and there’s no reason I can’t finish this myself so she can get cleaned up and relax after a day that will likely leave her sore.

She reappears, arching her back and rolling her neck, clearly feeling the exertion of the day as much as I am.

Guilt at making her do my work twists my gut, despite her insistence that she can handle it. That chivalry ingrained in me growing up won’t disappear, even after so much time on the mountain.

I motion to what’s left of the woodpile. “We’re almost done here. I can finish up. I need to restock the house from the cured wood in the shed and throw this stuff in there to dry. It shouldn’t take more than another hour.”

Her brows rise, and she looks prepared to argue with me before her eyes dart toward the barn. “So, I should feed the goats a second time before I head in?”

Smart girl.

She was paying attention.

I fight a grin. “If you don’t want them screaming all night because they’re hungry.”

A smile plays at the corner of her lips, and she shakes her head. “We can’t have that, now can we?”

I shouldn’t enjoy watching her walk away so much. Or rather, I shouldn’t enjoy watching the way her jeans mold to her ass with each deliberate step she takes. I should be happy she’s leaving me alone—that I won’t have to feel her eyes on me while I finish this load and restock the house. Instead, I lean against my axe, gaze locked on her until she disappears around the side of the barn toward the goat pen.

“Fucking hell, Whiskey…”

He looks up at me from his spot in the grass, clearly asking permission to go with her.

“Stay here, buddy.”

None of the goats are particularly fond of him, and the last thing Lyla needs is them getting unruly because he’s riling them up tonight.

I’m riled up enough for everyone as it is.

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