Page 12 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

“Well…”—I spread out my hands—“as you can see, my marriage prospects are pretty slim right now, so I think you’re out of luck.”

“Maybe not.”

He reaches into his inside suit coat pocket and pulls out a pamphlet, holding it out to me. His eyes dart to Whiskey, as if he’s afraid to get out of his seat to approach me.

I close the distance between us, tug it out of his hand, and unfold it. “What’s this?”

“The answer to your problem. Toourproblem.”

I read it, trying to make sense of the words above the photo of a smiling woman in a white dress. “Mail-order bride?”

What he’s suggesting finally snaps together in my mind, and I whip my head up and meet his gaze. “This has to be a joke.”

He shakes his head. “It’s not. It’s the answer.”

* * *

LYLA

The farther this hired car drives me into the remote Pennsylvania wilderness, the more I shift in the plush leather seat, trying to get comfortable in the luxury vehicle that seems so out of place in this setting.

It’s impossible.

Every single part of my body trembles, and it has been for so long that it physically hurts.

Muscles I didn’t even know exist ache.

Joints scream in protest with each slight movement.

My stomach roils.

Sweat drips down my brow.

Two days of waiting, packing, and anticipating have all led up to this, and my body has reached a breaking point, trying to contain all the anxiety welling inside me.

We drive past dozens of small towns—the kind you see on postcards and in Hallmark holiday movies—then we keep driving farther and farther away from civilization as I know it.

The afternoon sun gets lower on the horizon, signaling the coming evening, and we still haven’t reached our destination.

I clear my dry throat to get the attention of the man behind the wheel. “How much longer?”

The driver glances back at me and offers me a tight smile. “Another hour and a half or so, ma’am, I think.”

I think?

That doesn’t instill a lot of confidence, which I could certainly use right now. Because God knows I don’t have any in the choice I made.

You’re really doing this?

I suck in a deep breath and let it out slowly, then roll down my window to get some fresh air. Instantly, the smell of pine and musty, decaying wood from all the foliage around us hits me. So different from the smell of the city.

Rather than being refreshing, it makes me gag slightly. But it really isn’t about the nature enveloping us and invading my lungs; it’s more the thought of what I’m about to do…

That I’ve been tryingnotto think about this entire ride.

You’re driving to meet your husband.

I shudder, and my phone call with Carly two days ago runs through my head again.

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