Page 98 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bargain

I reach out and take her hand, tugging her toward the door.

This is not a conversation I’m going to have anywhere Davey might be in earshot.

* * *

CAMILLE

Dalton leads me away from the cabin with a firm grip on my hand and sure strides that carry the same tension his rigid body does.

Everything about the man screams, “leave me alone,” yet he pulls me with him, seemingly intent on getting me somewhere private. And quickly.

The afternoon sun hangs low on the horizon, a chilly breeze wrapping around us as we cross the yard in front of the house and cut toward the outbuildings.

“Where are we going?”

He squeezes my fingers with his and slows his steps so I’m not struggling to keep up with his pace, considering I mostly waddle these days. “The barn.”

I can understand why he might not want to have certain conversations in the cabin with Davey sure to be all over him the moment he realized he had returned, but the way he vibrates with anger makes me wonder if there’s more than just the piece of paper.

Something he didn’t even tell Pops.

Did he find something else?

Something he left out here somewhere that he wants to show me but keep concealed from his grandfather?

There’s a second option.

Dalton could want to talk about something completely separate from what that tiny slip of paper could mean.

He may want to delve into what happened last night.

And that’s a topic I’m not completely sure I’mreadyto leap into yet.

He keeps walking, tugging on my hand gently to follow, and leads me into the now-familiar barn. Past the animal stalls, allowing me to run my free hand over Apollo’s snout briefly. All the way to the tack room at the back where they store various tools and the infamous fishing rods whose use led to the unsettling discovery of strangers on the mountain in the first place.

It’s an odd place to want to talk, but Dalton urges me in with a gentle hand on my lower back, letting his touch linger for a few extra moments, the heat of his palm seeping through my Henley and warming me from the chill the short walk brought on.

Once we’re inside, he nudges the door closed and immediately starts to pace the small space.

He rubs at the back of his neck, craning his head from side to side as he burns a path on the already-worn floorboards with the incessant back and forth.

Each time he passes me, I hold my breath, waiting for him to say something. Anticipating an explanation for why he needed me to come out here with him instead of talking with Pops privately in his office once we got Davey sufficiently distracted by something.

Unless this isn’t about the paper at all.

Maybe it’s about us.

But he doesn’t say anything.

He just lets the tension build with each pass. His heavy boots thump on the wood in a steady tempo that starts to drive me mad. The longer it goes on, the antsier I become, unable to stand still myself, shifting on my feet both because of the nervous energy he’s putting off and the discomfort I’m feeling this late in my pregnancy.

After what feels like an eternity but is likely only a handful of minutes, I finally can’t take it anymore. “Does that slip of paper mean what I think it does?”

It would certainly explain why he’s so worked up, why it appears like he’s about ready to either implode or explode.

In all these months we’ve spent at least a portion of almost every day together, I’ve never seen him like this.

So agitated.

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