Page 33 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

What’s going to happen when we set foot in that cabin? What is he going to expect from his wife?

Acid crawls up my throat, and I fight to swallow it back. “I-I…”

His brow furrows, those icy-blue eyes of his growing colder. Any potential goodwill I may have built up with him disappeared the moment I snapped at him.

“Youwhat?”

I can’t even look at him when I say this.IfI can get it out at all. I squeeze my eyes closed and muster up every ounce of strength I have left, clutching my wedding dress in my hand. “I’m just wondering what it is youexpect…now that we’re officially hitched.”

The chill emanating from his glare raises goosebumps on my entire body without me having to peek his way, but I force my lids open and meet his gaze.

He doesn’t say a word, merely stares me down with icy daggers.

I hold up my hand with the ring on it, as if that’s enough explanation for what I’m asking.

TBD…

We really left that to be determined.

His jaw tightens under his beard, so much so that I’m surprised I can’t hear his teeth crack, and his shoulders tense under his Henley, the thick muscles rippling as he grips the truck frame hard enough to crush it.

He lets out a long, heavy sigh and averts his gaze to something in the distance rather than on me. “I need to make something very clear, Lyla. Maybe I should have yesterday because it might’ve changed your decision…”

I hold my breath, waiting for whateverrequirementshe’s going to lay down.

What will TBD mean for our future?

“I have no intention of being a husband to you. You’ll get the money that’s been guaranteed in the contract, and I won’t ask anything of you.” He finally glances over, his typically cool eyes unreadable, carrying almost an apology in them. “I’ll never lay a hand on you in anger or any other way. We’ll live as roommates. Nothing more. If you came here looking for a husband in anything more than name, you came to the wrong place.”

He slams the door shut, rocking the entire truck and making me jerk in my seat. Instead of relief flooding me with his assurance that I won’t have to do my “wifely duties,” the anger and disdain in his words tighten my chest, and the sting of impending tears threatens.

Blinking them away rapidly, I can barely make him out through the windshield as he stalks off toward the barn with Whiskey at his side.

He doesn’t look back.

Do I really want him to?

Maybe after he cools down—ifhe ever does.

The man vacillates between frigid and fiery so fast that I can’t keep track of what might set him off.

We can’t continue on like this, can’t have this much tension and anger building and compounding until one of us says or does something they can’t take back.

Neither one of us wanted this, but it doesn’t mean we have to be miserable for the rest of our lives together.

Does it?

I grab my bag from the floor of the truck, open my door, and step out. Soft dirt immediately covers my feet in the sandals, and I wince.

Useless up here.

So is half of what I brought with me—the slinky black cocktail dress, the matching bra and panty sets—just in case my future husband was someone I might actually want to use them with—the cute tank tops and shorts that now seem ridiculous to eventhinkabout wearing.

I scan my surroundings, getting my firstreallygood view of my new home.

Towering trees.

Thick, dense underbrush.

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