Prologue 2 J.T
Fifty-five years old, and you’d think I would’ve stopped wanting her by now.
That this ridiculous, relentless thing I feel every time Kelly McCrae walks into a room would’ve burned itself out years ago.
It hasn’t.
Hell, I’ve had my eye on her since the first time I saw her behind the counter at McCrae Lumber—blonde hair pulled back in a messy ponytail, calculator in one hand, phone tucked against her shoulder, telling some contractor twice her size exactly why his numbers didn’t add up.
Too young.
She was too damn young.
Barely in college.
Still dating that high school boyfriend of hers—the same boy who grew into the kind of man who mistakes loyalty for weakness and kindness for something to exploit.
Even back then, I knew.
That little fucking pipsqueak didn’t deserve her.
He could never handle a woman like her.
See, Kelly’s never been soft in the way people assume.
She’s not a pushover. Not a doormat. And she’s nobody’s second choice.
Kelly’s a firework.
Like the Fourth of July—bright, explosive, impossible to ignore if you’re paying attention.
And I was paying attention.
The sway of her hips when she walked across the yard in steel-toe boots and tight blue jeans.
The sharp curl of her mouth when she didn’t agree with something.
Those cobalt eyes of hers—clear, steady, unafraid to hold a man’s gaze.
Fuck.
I told myself to leave it alone.
I was older. Too old for her.
Established.
Focused on building something that would outlast me.
And she was taken.
Her head had been turned by that sniveling little weasel before she was old enough to know better.
She married a man who went to work as an on the call IT guy.
I could have told her then that skinny pencil dick wasn’t right for her.
She needed someone who could match her fire.
But it wasn’t my place.
So I did the right thing. I left her alone.
I built my company. Expanded. Signed contracts.
J.T. Lawrence Construction—yes, I left out the Leonard on purpose, and only fuckers who had a death wish called me that—outgrew every small-town expectation that tried to box me in.
Sure, I dated.
I entertained.
Even had a kid with a woman I toyed with marrying. But she wasn’t for me.
Luckily, we both knew it and avoided that particular train wreck. But we did share joint custody of our son, and now Maddox is twenty-six years old and working for my company.
He lives here in Woodhaven, and we have a great relationship.
But the fact is, no, I never got serious with a woman after that.
How could I when every time I came back to Woodhaven—every board meeting at the mill, every supply negotiation—there she was?
Kelly McCrae.
Beautiful.
Sassy as all get.
And married to a fucking pipsqueak who didn’t deserve her.
Over the years, you’d have thought my desire for her would have dimmed a bit—it didn’t.
And I know what society says about men my age wanting significantly younger women, but I’m not looking to date someone my son’s age. Frankly, I’m not attracted to anyone else lately.
There’s only ever been one woman in my mind. One ideal.
And over the years I’ve watched. I’ve waited. And I noticed something others overlooked. The last few years, that bright and pretty Sawmill Jill’s smiles started to change.
Never quite reaching her eyes like they used to.
I watched that piece of shit husband of hers trying to cut her down to size year by year, shrinking her confidence, making her doubt.
I watched him bristle when she spoke too confidently at the annual dinner for local business folk. Watched him take credit for things she did better. Or amuse himself with rude little criticisms disguised as teasing that others smiled at.
Made me fucking livid. But I kept my distance.
For too fucking long, I stood by and let the woman I was crazy about be with a man who couldn’t begin to be worthy of her.
And all because I’m not a man who poaches.
But I am a man who waits.
And now? Well, now she’s sitting at a wedding on this mountain—my mountain—with a glass of wine in her hand and heartbreak written all over her posture.
Her piece-of-shit husband didn’t just leave her.
He gutted her. Left her embarrassed. Humiliated. And alone.
Oh, I’ve heard the rumors.
He drained accounts. Took her son’s college fund. Probably did other shit I don’t even know about—but I will.
He made her scramble in public like she’s the one who failed.
Oh, I know what that little prick did. I’ve heard the story.
Hell, we all have.
It’s an old one and not at all original.
Cheated with a younger woman.
Made a run for it by stealing what wasn’t his.
You don’t build an empire in a town like Woodhaven without being privy to the gossip, and yes, I’ve been hearing things.
I’ll say this much—Mike Stevens made a grave mistake. Because Kelly McCrae is not a woman you discard and walk away from unscathed.
And he’s gonna get his.
I guarantee it.
But that will be for later. Right now, I have other things to do. Like approach the woman who’s been driving me wild for years and make my intentions known.
Finally, it’s gonna happen.
I breathe in the night air—and God, it’s ripe with possibilities.
The music swells under the tent.
Laughter carries on the wind.
Clara glows in her gown.
Greyson looks at her like he’d burn the world down if she asked.
I’m happy for them.
But my gaze is drawn to her—to Kelly—and my entire body tenses.
I’m old enough to know better.
Old enough to understand what people will say.
Too old. Too recognizable. Too damn much.
But I’m also old enough to know something else.
If I don’t act now?
It will never happen.
Kelly won’t come to me.
She’s not even aware of how I feel.
And even if she did know?
She’s too proud. Too stubborn. Too determined to carry her own weight even when it’s crushing her.
She thinks survival is strength.
She doesn’t yet understand what it feels like to have someone stand beside her—not in front, not over her—but beside her.
I adjust my cufflinks and watch her from across the reception.
She looks tired.
Not weak.
Just tired.
And there’s a difference.
Her laugh doesn’t quite reach her eyes tonight. She keeps scanning the crowd like she’s bracing for impact.
I’ve lived my life without regret.
I’ve taken risks in boardrooms and on construction sites that would make lesser men sweat through their suits.
I’ve signed deals that shifted entire industries.
But there is one thing I haven’t done.
One risk I haven’t taken.
And that’s claiming the woman I’ve wanted for decades.
Because as sure as the sun rises over this mountain and sets behind it—Kelly McCrae is mine.
She just doesn’t know it yet.
But I’m about to correct that mistake.