Page 49 of Billionaire Lumberjack's Bargain

The smell of whatever she’s making for dinner wafts through the crack under the bathroom door, reminding me I can’t hide out in here forever when they’re all waiting for me to eat. But I just need another minute to try to calm myself down, to try to forget that look in her eyes—of sympathy, of pity, of whatever else it was when she saw how damaged I am.

Easier said than done.

Since the moment I realized what a dire situation Camille was in, I’ve wanted nothing more than to fix it for her—forthem.To make itright. To give her the security she should have had if Dave hadn’t been ripped away from her.

I never wanted anything in return.

Never expected it.

But the friendship that’s grown between us has given me more than I ever could have anticipated.

And I’d be lying to myself if I said what I’m feeling for the beautiful dark-haired woman isn’t more than friendship.

These feelings aredangerousin a way I never saw coming, that I never could have anticipated when I first met her and had that shotgun barrel pointed at me.

Which is precisely why I can’t ever act on them.

I push away from the counter and force myself to turn the door handle and walk out, down the short hallway of the small cabin Great-Uncle Tim built and lived in, toward the living room.

No matter how many times I’m in here, I’m still struck by the personal touches Pops’ older brother left on the cabin he built. They’re still everywhere, including his initials carved into the beam running over my head.

I reach up and rest my hand over it—something I do every time I’m inside to let him know I haven’t forgotten about him, even though I was barely ten when he died.

His memory will live on through this space he put so much time, love, and effort into, that’s become a home for Camille and Davey.

Laughter floats from the kitchen, and I grin. Despite the tension my shower didn’t relieve, I step in and find Pops at the table with Davey. Camille’s blue gaze finds mine, and she moves a pot of something from the stove onto a potholder in the center of the small round table Great-Uncle Tim built that has remained the center of his cabin.

He was always a better woodworker than Pops. And I certainly don’t come anywhere near what he could do with a slice of lumber and the right tools.

His pieces will last forever, just like the memories created around this table will.

I head to the empty chair across from Davey, still trying to shake off the thoughts that followed me from the bathroom.

Pops raises a brow at me from my left. “You good?”

I nod, but as I sit, the sharp pain in my back makes me wince.

Even the hot shower and letting the spray hit me for as long as I dared stay in didn’t help loosen it, and knowing I’m going to have to move all those logs into the firewood shed tomorrow makes the throb even more incessant—like my body is anticipating what’s coming and objecting already.

I may do my best to hide it, but there is no way Pops doesn’t suspect how bad it gets on days like this.

I’m not about to let Camille know, though.

She may have seen the scars, but that doesn’t mean I’m about to allow everything I keep so tightly locked away out into the open.

“I’m good.”

Pops gives me a look that tells me he doesn’t quite believe it, but he lets it go, returning to whatever conversation he was having with Davey—apparently about fishing.

The little boy chatters excitedly, motioning with his hands, mimicking a casting motion that makes Pops grin proudly. He leans into Camille’s son and whispers conspiratorially with him.

I catch Camille’s smile watching them, and she brings over bowls, keeping her eye on the duo.

She sets one in front of me, pursing her lips. “They’re up to something…”

I raise a brow at her. “Oh, yeah?”

Her head bobs, and she leans down, sending a chunk of her hair falling over her cheek. “They’ve been whispering like that ever since I got back.”

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