Page 7 of The Grouchy Lumberjack’s Bride

My head is spinning way too fast for me to be driving. I pull onto the shoulder and turn on my hazards. Scrubbing a hand down my face, I turn to look at my younger sister. “You’re telling me you’ve been making money off these things?”

“Obviously. Pay attention.”

“How much money?”

The moon shines through the windshield, casting just enough light on Sasha’s face for me to read the trepidation in her expression. She can fake that badass attitude a lot better in her voice than she can in her eyes. I see her swallow, then type on her phone for a minute before she turns the screen to face me.

It’s open to a financial app, and the number on the screen is enough to make my mouth dry.

It’s not a crazy amount of money until you consider that it all comes from digital content generated by a twelve-year-old girl. Until you consider that it’s money I didn’t know existed ten minutes ago.

I scrub a hand over my face again. “The fuck.”

“How mad are you?” she asks, her voice suddenly small.

“I don’t know how to answer that.” I blow out a breath, trying to wrap my head around what she’s done. “Jesus, kid. What were you thinking?”

She turns to stare out the window, and I see her jaw working. A long minute passes before she says, “Raising a teenage girl isn’t cheap. It’s a burden. I know that.”

I sure as fuck never said anything like that to her, so I imagine that bullshit came from her maternal grandmother.

Suddenly, a whole host of weird things I’ve noticed about Sasha flicker through my mind. How she never asks for new clothes. How I sometimes find food stashed in her drawer. How hard she works to get perfect grades in school and how it never seems to be enough for her, even though I’m blown away by how smart she is.

It damn near guts me to think she’s been holding all this alone. That this shit has been going on in her head, and she never voiced it out loud.

Fuck.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

I should have gotten her a therapist as soon as I took custody. I would have, but she seemed so … fine. She seemed just fine.

“You are not a burden. And it’s not your job to worry about money. That’s my job.”

“I know you don’t make much—”

“I make enough.” Not so much from my wood carvings—at least not until recently—but I work in construction. Since Texas seems to be in a never-ending real estate boom, construction pays damn well. Do we live lavishly? No. But we do just fine. At least, I thought we did.

It kills me to think of this kid worrying about money. Worrying that it takes too much money to raise her. That she’s not worth the cost.

I turn in my seat to face her. “Sasha, I want you to look at me.”

She glances in my direction, and I see the glint of tears in her eyes.

“No. Look at me properly. I need you to believe me when I say this.” I wait until her eyes meet mine before I say, “Raising you is worth it.”

“But—”

“No buts. Raising you is worth it. Whatever it costs. If I didn’t have enough money to take care of you, I’d find a way. You’re my sister. We’re family. I can provide for you.”

Fuck if this whole conversation doesn’t cut me to the quick. If it doesn’t dig into all of the tender spots of my ego that Jade bruised all those years ago.

But this isn’t about Jade. It’s about Sasha.

“As far as I’m concerned, that money is yours. We can put it in the account for college. We can save it for when you turn eighteen. Hell, you can give it to that raccoon rescue place you’re always talking about. Whatever you want.”

She gives me a jerky nod. And then her lips twitch. “What if I want to keep filming?”

“No way.”