Page 8 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bride

I suck in a sharp breath, the sudden intake of oxygen and her words reigniting that tiny flame. “Really?”

She nods. “It wouldn’t be the first time we’ve rushed the process a bit. Obviously, you grasp the potential consequences of that. We will thoroughly vet the potential suitors, but you won’t have the lengthier process of getting to know each other before finalizing anything…”

The warning hangs in the silence between us.

There’s a reason they have a rigorous process. They want these matches to succeed—not only for the people getting hitched, but also because it reflects negatively on Wife Wanted if their arrangements fail.

Arrangements…

I’m thinking of myweddingas an “arrangement” now.

All the dreams of big white weddings, full of happy tears, love, and forever promises I really mean, vanish in a haze of determination to do what needs to happen—not what I want.

What the hell am I doing?

What. You. Have. To. Do.

Squaring my shoulders, I wipe away the tears streaming down my cheeks. I’m going to have to learn to control my emotions if I’m really doing this. No man will want to marry me if all I do is cry over the situation.

I need to do things I will hate to get that money.

I need to become the perfect wife.

“Please find me a match quickly. As quickly as possible.”

ChapterTwo

SILAS

Islide the half-full cup of coffee toward Ronald, and he looks down at it and raises a bushy white eyebrow at me.

Scowling, I lean against the kitchen counter and cross my arms over my chest, well aware of the way he watches my biceps bulge against the tight T-shirt I wear. I’m not the skinny, terrified teen he remembers, and he’s wary now. “You won’t be here long enough to need a full one.”

That makes his lips almost form into a grin. He raises the cup and tips it toward me in acknowledgment before he takes a sip. “Thank you. It was a long drive.”

“It will be a long one home, too.”

When I ran, I ran fast and far. Far enough away that I thought no one would ever find me. Yet the Bolton attack dog sits at the small two-person table I have against the front window, completely out of place. I never thought I’d see a man like him, who wears $20,000 Italian silk suits, relaxing on my worn handmade chairs, looking uncomfortable and nervous as fuck.

Ronald doesn’t get nervous.

He’s a rock that never cracks under pressure.

Scandal after scandal.

Bribe after bribe.

He took care of it all without blinking or questioning anything.

Which means it’s just as bad for him to be here as it would be for Father or Uncle Marty to have climbed from that car.

I glance at my watch. “You have five minutes, and then I’m letting Whiskey have his way with you.”

The dog stands guard at my side, intently watching Ronald, waiting for me to give the command.

Ronald holds up his hands and leans back slightly in his chair. “Then I’ll make this quick. Now that your father has died, your uncle is in sole control of the company.”

“They were always fifty-fifty partners, so that makes sense.”

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