Page 35 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

I hold up a hand to stop her needless apology. “It’s fine.”More than fine.I shove my fingers through my hair, suddenly very aware of how sweaty and filthy I am after working all day. “I should have told you to help yourself to anything in here.” Releasing a heavy sigh, I squeeze my eyes closed. “Fuck, I have been a real dick. I’m sorry.”

And that feels wholly inadequate for the situation.

I open my eyes to find her staring up at me, a soft crease in her brow.

“What are you apologizing for?”

Such an innocent question, but the long list of answers to that would take days to get through.

I snort and move past her to the fridge, tugging it open so I can grab a beer. The brief blast of cool air helps give me a moment of reprieve from the strange heat that seems to tighten my skin every time I’m around her, but I can’t stand in the open door forever. Or go hide in the bathroom and clean up so I’m at leastsomewhatpresentable.

Snagging a beer, I pop off the cap on the opener attached to the wall, then down half of my favorite brew—Locked and Loaded from Lockwood Brewing.

The hoppy liquid glides down my throat easily, refreshing and definitely what I needed after today. I finally turn back toward her and incline my bottle. “You want one?”

She shakes her head. “I don’t drink.”

I raise a brow. “Okay…is there—”

It isn’t any of my business if there’s a reason she doesn’t drink.

Or is it?

She’s your wife, idiot. These are the things you should know.

Maybe if she were really my wife, if this were some sort of genuine relationship, I would be asking, trying to find out everything about the woman I’m now attached to for the foreseeable future.

But it isn’t real, is it?

I need to build a bridge while maintaining my distance—a feat that becomes increasingly more difficult the longer Lyla stays in my world.

She quickly turns back to the stove and stirs whatever’s on there, but I can’t tell whether it actually needs it or she wants to avoid where the conversation was going.

I rest my hip against the counter and stare at the wall. The longer the silence stretches between us, the more I shift uncomfortably, trying to figure outanythingI might be able to say. “It’s weird.”

Her gaze darts over to me. “What is?”

Shit. Dumb way to start this, Silas.

But now that I’ve gone and stuck my foot in my big mouth, there isn’t any reason not to keep going and just say what’s on my mind with Lyla cooking dinner at my stove. “Having someone else here.”

She stiffens slightly before she returns to stirring, keeping her focus anywhere but on me. “I’m sorry this is happening.”

Her unexpected and ambiguous apology makes me push off the counter to retort, but she holds up a hand this time, stopping me from opening my mouth and saying something else stupid.

A tiny sigh falls from her lips, and she blows some of her loose hair from her forehead. “Look, you don’t have to pretend this is something you want. Yesterday, you made it very clear you’re doing this for some reasonotherthan you actuallywantinga wife. And you confirmed that today, which is fine because I don’t actuallywanta husband.”

The massive weight that’s been sitting squarely on my chest since I stormed away from the truck this morning lifts, and I release a huge breath.

Thank fucking God.

Because the man upstairs knows I couldn’t give her that even if I did want to.

She returns to stirring whatever is on the stove. “I just needed the money. It’s as simple as that.”

Something tells me it isn’t, but this isn’t the time to press her—when it feels like we may actually be making some headway toward a wobbly, rickety bridge between us.

“And now that you have it?”

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