Page 25 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

ChapterFour

LYLA

When little girls dream about their weddings, it certainly isn’t standing in a justice of the peace’s office at a tiny courthouse in Millsburg, Pennsylvania, with only the clerk of courts and your fiancé’s attorney as your witnesses.

But it’s been a long time since I was one who dreamed about it, anyway.

Things got too complicated. By the time I was eighteen, all I could concentrate on was surviving day to day.

I always thought I’d have time later, time to figure out life, time to figure out love, time to figure out any of it, but now, all that’s left to do is say “I do” to a man I don’t even know and pray he isn’t some sort of psycho.

The few hours I’ve spent with him haven’t done anything to appease my worry over that. I’ve barely seen him since he ran from me yesterday. If Whiskey hadn’t climbed up onto the bed with me, I might not have known Silas had returned at all, but his muttered curse calling Whiskey a “traitor” again filled the silent cabin before the leather of his chair creaked as he settled into it for the night.

Apparently, he was serious about sleeping there and letting me have the bed—not that I slept at all.

How could I, imagining what today would bring?

Nothing couldtrulyprepare me—or anyone, really—for something like this.

I take one last peek in the mirror in the women’s bathroom at the courthouse and release a heavy breath. The white sundress I changed into when I got here after the hour-long, awkward, silent drive down here in Silas’ truck is the closest thing I had to a wedding gown.

Given the circumstances of these nuptials, I probably could have worn my jeans and sweatshirt I had on this morning, but though I didn’t expect the big white wedding as part of this arrangement, something just felt wrong about that.

It cheapened it.

And no matter the reason for the vows, they domeansomething.

I tug at the thin strap on my exposed shoulder, making sure it stays up instead of slipping down like it always wants to, then flatten my hand down the front of the dress to remove the last few wrinkles being stuffed in my suitcase and bag on the drive down here left.

This is likely the only time I’m ever going to be able to wear this dress. If I had known I’d be living in a remote cabin rather than an actual house somewhere, I might have chosen my clothes differently. But I came into this fake marriage totally blind, and now, I’ve been blindsided by Silas Bolton.

His stoic silence.

His moody huffs and heated, angry looks.

His huge presence in that tiny one-room cabin.

It’s worth it. It’s worth it. It’s worth it.

I keep telling myself that as I throw my bag that holds my other clothes and makeup bag over my shoulder, tug open the bathroom door, and walk down the short marble hallway toward the clerk’s office, where everyone’s waiting for me.

Where my futurehusbandwaits for me.

That word will take some getting used to.

To go from painfully single to hitched for life to a stranger in a handful of days feels like being tossed into a tornado and not knowing where it will dump me when it finally ends its violent, tumultuous path.

I swallow past the rock lodged in my throat, tightening my grip on the bag to have something to ground me, and I step into the office. Whiskey lifts his head from where he rests on the floor at Silas’ feet, giving that inquisitive head tilt. Ronald and Silas turn toward me, and both their eyes widen like they’re seeing me for the first time.

A grin spreads across Ronald’s face, deepening the crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes. “Lyla, my dear, you look lovely.” He holds out a hand for me, and I step forward and accept it. He brings it up to his lips and brushes them across my fingertips. “A beautiful bride.”

Bride…

Jesus, I reallyamdoing this.

My stomach clenches, and not for the first time, I consider racing out of the courthouse and running as fast as I can down Main Street until I find someone willing to drive me the fuck back to civilization.

I try to avoid looking at Silas, but it’s impossible not to with the heat radiating from his gaze drawing me in like a moth to a flame. His eyes devour me—eating me up from the top of my head, where I’ve let my hair down out of the bun I tied it in this morning, stopping to examine my face that has makeup on for the first time since we met. It dips over my exposed shoulders and cleavage, across the lacy, flowing dress, to my bare legs and feet in the sandals I slipped on in the bathroom to replace the basic white tennis shoes I wore yesterday and this morning.

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