Page 6 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

I press a hand to my far-less-ample chest and shake my head. “I’m so sorry.” Fighting another laugh, I try to regain my composure. “I didn’t mean that to come out. I’m just…no…I amnotlooking for a true love match.”

If I were, this is thelastplace I would ever be. Meeting a guy at a random bar or on a dating app would likely yield better results in the “true love” department than throwing my photo and profile into a literal bride catalog.

What kind of menbuytheir wives?

Desperate ones—that’s who.

What does that makeyouthen, Lyla?

Mom’s voice now replaces the one of the attorney from last week, and her question makes me stiffen in my chair. She has always been the angel on my shoulder, guiding me through the twists and turns life has thrown at me, steering me down the right path. But this feels like onemassivedetour down a dark, bumpy road filled with potholes big enough for me to disappear into forever.

She would hate this. All she ever wanted was for me to be happy and find love—something she said she never really experienced. My sperm donor certainly never gave it to her, and neither did any of the other men who came and went over the years.

Marrying someone for money…

Mom would climb out of her grave to wring my neck for this if she could—even knowingwhyI’m doing it.

Carly drums her nails on the desk, leaning forward slightly and drawing me out of my own head. “Sweetie, this is all perfectly legal. We provide a match-making service between a man who wants a wife and a woman who wants to be one. A financial transaction occurs between the parties to ensure commitment to the partnership, since often the women are moving across the country—or sometimes the world—to be with their new spouse. It’s one hundred percent on the up and up legallyandethically.”

What about morally?

My stomach sours, bile rising in my throat. I force it down and offer what I hope is a believable smile to the woman, who truly seems to mean well and believe in this business model. She seems open to answering anything, and if I am going to sell myself, I at least need to understand what I’m getting into fully.

“And what is…expectedof the spouse…”

It’s the only way I can think of to phrase it without coming right out and asking if I’m going to have to bone some ninety-year-old geriatric great-grandfather to get the money. There isn’t anyappropriatewaytoask that question.

Carly gives me a tight smile. “That is to be negotiated between the relevant parties.”

NEGOTIATED?

Sex is now something Inegotiatewith strangers…

What the hell am I doing even considering this?

The very thin line I’ve thus far been able to visualize between prostitution andthisevaporates, and I climb from my chair onto shaky legs. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I can do this…”

My purse tumbles from my lap to the tile, the contents spilling out across the smooth, polished surface—including my empty wallet.

It falls open to the photo I’ve always carried in it, and tears fill my eyes, stinging them and making it hard to see. I swipe them away and drop to my knees—something I likely will have to do if I am really doing this—and start gathering the scattered belongings.

Clicking heels round the desk, and Carly squats and helps me gather up everything, holding out my lipstick, cell phone, and a small bottle of hand sanitizer. “You seem agitated.”

“You think?”

It comes out harsher than I intend, but I’m on the verge of a very real mental breakdown right now. I thought this was going to be the answer to my very expensive problem when no others presented themselves; instead, I feeldirtymerely sitting here, discussing it so casually.

I push to my feet, shoving everything back into my purse. “I’m sorry. That was rude. You’re right. I’m very agitated and…”

She raises a pale brow. “And uncomfortable with taking money to marry someone you don’t know and will likely have to sleep with?”

Well, I guess we’re laying it all out there on the table now.

And I just deeply insulted this woman who told meshewas a mail-order bride.

Before I can offeranotherapology, she holds up her hand to stop me. “It’s all right, sweetheart. I’ve been doing this for ten years from this side of the desk. I know exactly what some people think of our arrangements, and I understand why they do.” She sighs and motions for me to take my seat again. “Please sit. Let’s talk this through.”

As if that’s going to help.

---