Chapter 3
Kelly
“Come on, you sonofabitch, move!” I growl at the hand truck currently buried wheel-deep in mud outside the Lunchroom.
April showers are supposed to bring May flowers.
At McCrae Lumber & Sawmill, they bring mud.
Not the cute little puddle kind either. No. I’m talking thick, boot-sucking, dignity-stealing mud that could probably swallow a small farm animal if you stood still long enough.
I’m ankle-deep in it.
My jeans are splattered halfway to the knee, my boots feel like they weigh twenty pounds each, and the damp air has turned my hair into a frizzy halo of betrayal around my head.
All because I’m trying to wrangle six cases of bottled water, cooking oil, and whatever other supplies Willow asked for off the delivery truck and into the Lunchroom.
I shove the hand truck again.
Nothing.
The wheels try to spin but just dig deeper in the mud, like they’re mocking me.
“Traitor,” I mutter.
Honestly, though, if I didn’t know better I’d swear the universe was testing me.
Because the one thing I absolutely do not want to think about right now—is J.T. Lawrence. And his proposal.
So naturally my brain keeps wandering back there like a dog returning to the same damn bone.
I grit my teeth and shove again.
Nope.
Still stuck.
“Fine,” I grumble. “We’re doing this the hard way.”
I glance up toward the Lunchroom windows.
They’re already fogged from the inside.
Which means Willow is in there cooking something.
Probably something amazing.
The scent drifting out through the cracked door makes my stomach rumble—fresh bread and herbs and something buttery that makes the whole muddy mess feel worth it.
I swear, I must bless the day Willow showed up in Woodhaven about a hundred times a day.
The woman is a miracle worker.
Bonafide.
Before her, the Lunchroom was basically just a sad little break space where the guys grabbed stale coffee and whatever they brought from home.
Now? Now it’s the heart of the whole damn mill.
Breakfast every morning. Lunch every afternoon. Free for our workers, which Thatcher insisted on once Willow started cooking.
Truckers stop by when they’re hauling loads through. Folks from town wander up the mountain just to see what she’s made that day.
No menu. No fuss.
Just whatever Willow decides to cook.
And somehow it’s always perfect.
Honestly, I’m convinced the woman could make a gourmet meal out of tree bark and pinecones if she had to.
And the way she thawed my brother’s heart?
Well. That might be her most impressive trick yet.
Thatcher used to be about as emotionally available as a stump.
Now he walks around looking like the luckiest man alive.
Which, to be fair, he probably is.
I shove the hand truck again, and it sinks another inch.
“Fantastic,” I mutter.
But really, who deserves happiness more than Thatcher?
Another thought sneaks in before I can stop it.
I shake my head hard, mud splattering off my boots as I shift my weight.
Nope.
Absolutely not going down that road.
Because the second I start thinking about who deserves love and affection…
My brain goes right back to J.T.
And that look in his eyes when he said he wanted me.
I press my lips together and grab the handle again.
Stick to safer things, Kelly.
Things like groceries.
Things like mud.
Things like getting Willow the supplies she needs before lunchtime hits and the entire crew storms the Lunchroom like a pack of starving wolves.
The door opens then, and a wave of warm air rolls out toward me, carrying the smell of something rich and savory with it.
Spring herbs.
Butter.
Maybe chicken.
Definitely something delicious.
I plant my boots and shove the hand truck again with everything I’ve got.
The wheels refuse to budge.
And I swear I hear Willow laughing inside.
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, bracing one boot against the frame and hauling back like I’m wrestling a bear instead of a glorified cart.
Now, I am not in any way jealous that my sister-in-law is an excellent chef.
Truly.
When she took over my half-formed idea of offering hot food for the guys and turned it into actual, healthy, balanced meals? I was grateful.
Before, I never had the time.
I was always rushing home to make sure dinner was ready at the exact minute Mike preferred.
Fork placed just so. Napkin folded just right.
God, that was exhausting.
Meanwhile, Thatcher had a habit of skipping meals entirely, and I’d worried myself sick about him more than once.
So yes. I’m grateful Willow stepped in.
But she’s entering her third trimester now. She needs to take it easy.
Which is why I volunteered to do the shopping.
It’s Saturday.
A few weeks since Clara and Greyson’s wedding.
Evan’s spending the night with his grandparents—Mike’s parents, who have been nothing but kind and steady through this whole divorce.
They love their grandson.
I mean, they’ve always been a little distant with me. But they’re decent people. And I won’t punish them for their son’s sins.
Truth is, the Supercenter—however loud and chaotic—was a welcome distraction this morning.
It kept me from sitting in my quiet house thinking about—not my ex—but rather, a certain offer a certain silver-templed construction mogul dropped in my lap and then disappeared.
I mean, who does that?
What kind of man says I want you, and then goes radio silent?
Besides the one I married.
Shit.
Maybe my man radar is broken.
“You need some help there, Kelly?”
Mack jogs over, boots splashing, grin firmly in place.
He works here at the mill, is barely thirty, and flirts like it’s a personality trait.
“I’ve got it,” I say automatically, even as the cart refuses to budge.
He grabs the handle anyway. “God, you sure look pretty this morning.”
I roll my eyes.
“It’s mud season, Mack.”
“You wearing a different perfume or something?”
He dips his head closer, actually sniffing.
“What? Oh—no. It’s probably just my shampoo—rosemary and mint—Clara bought it for me as a bridesmaid gift.”
“Well, whatever it is,” he says, nodding seriously. “It sure is nice on you.”
Before I can respond, the sound of tires crunching over gravel cuts through the damp air.
My stomach clenches.
I know that engine. And the footsteps drawing nearer.
“You just wait for me, Kelly, I’ll get that,” Mack says, already hauling the cart free as I turn toward the truck to grab the remaining grocery bags.
“Oh, Mack, that’s not—”
“That’s not necessary. I’ve got it.”
The new voice is calm. Deep. Familiar.
I freeze.
J.T.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since the wedding.
And somehow the air changes the second he steps out of his truck.
Maybe it’s just me.
Maybe it’s the way the man seems to take up more space than physics should reasonably allow. He’s big. Tall. Broad across the shoulders in that way men get when they’ve spent a lifetime actually using their bodies instead of posing in a gym mirror.
Rough denim. Work boots. A dark flannel rolled at the sleeves.
The kind of man who looks like he belongs carved into the side of this mountain.
Our eyes meet.
And for a moment I forget what I was doing.
He walks toward me like he always does—slow, deliberate, like he’s got nowhere better to be and all the time in the world.
Then he reaches out and gently takes the bags from my hands like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
No fuss. No asking.
Just… taking the weight.
“Lead the way, Honey.”
Honey.
My brain stalls out completely.
Did he just call me that?
In public?
I am not the kind of woman who collects nicknames. Kelly is already short enough. Efficient. Practical.
But Honey?
From him?
Something about the way it rolls out of that deep voice of his sends a strange little ripple through my stomach.
I hate how much I like it.
Because that’s ridiculous.
This man—this rough, rugged, handsome mountain of a man—is standing here like calling me Honey makes perfect sense.
And I still can’t wrap my head around what the hell he sees when he looks at me.
I’m forty-two.
A middle-aged divorcee who got traded in for a teenager.
I’ve got hips that have carried a baby, thighs that touch, laugh lines around my eyes, and exactly zero illusions about what the world thinks is beautiful these days.
Meanwhile, J.T. looks like he could walk onto the cover of one of those ridiculous romance novels the women in town pass around.
Broad chest.
Strong hands.
That square jaw and streaks of gray in his hair that somehow make him even more handsome.
A man like that could have anyone.
Young women with smooth skin and flat stomachs and none of the history life leaves behind.
So what in the world could he possibly want with me?
And yet—when I glance up at him again, I catch the way he’s looking at me.
It’s not polite.
His gaze is steady. Focused. Intense in a way that makes my pulse skip.
Like everything he said the other night might actually be true.
My throat tightens.
I turn before I do something stupid, like stare back too long. I head toward the Lunchroom.
“Careful,” I mutter automatically as I step around a muddy patch.
Behind me, I hear his boots moving easily over the ground. When I glance back, he’s carrying twice what I was struggling with like it weighs nothing.
Of course, he is. The man is gigantic.
It takes about fifteen minutes to finish unloading everything.
He doesn’t complain. He just works.
Quiet.
Efficient.
Like a man who’s been doing hard things his whole life and never thought to brag about it. And somehow, that might be the most attractive thing about him of all.
“You need anything else, Kels?” Mack asks, but one quiet look from J.T. and the kid suddenly remembers he has somewhere else to be.
“She’s got everything she needs right here,” J.T. replies, and I almost trip.
“Oh my God, Kelly, you are a lifesaver! J.T. it’s so nice to see you here this morning. With Kelly. Um, so, you guys want something?” Willow calls from behind the counter. “I’m just finishing up with today’s lunch.”
J.T. smiles warmly at her, and something in my chest twists.