Chapter 3 #2
I am not a jealous person.
I have no claim on this man.
And yet.
“Sure, a coffee would be great, thank you,” he says. Then he turns to me. “Kelly?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I manage.
He drops a bill on the counter. “Keep the change.”
Willow beams, pours a couple of coffees, then disappears back into the kitchen.
We move to a small table near the window.
The hum of the mill filters through the glass—saws, engines, men shouting measurements.
Normal.
Business as usual.
Which makes the storm in my chest feel even more ridiculous.
“Cream?” he offers.
I accept.
Then, because I am just that cool, I freak out.
“I—I haven’t made a decision yet,” I blurt.
Smooth, Kelly.
Real smooth.
His mouth twitches slightly.
“I figured you might want to talk.”
“Here?” I squeak, glancing around.
We are absolutely not alone.
“Anywhere you want, Kelly.”
Holy. Shit. Why does he say my name like that?
Like it’s deliberate. Like it matters.
“I’m supposed to go to the dinner tonight,” I say quickly. “For the Woodhaven Lumber Association.”
“Me too. I go every year.”
Of course he does. He practically funds half the damn association.
“I usually go with Mike,” I begin, and the second his name leaves my mouth I wish I could snatch it right back.
The change in J.T. is subtle.
Most people wouldn’t notice it.
But I do.
His brow tightens just a fraction. The corners of his mouth flatten. And those green eyes of his—holy shit—they go sharp as broken glass for half a second before he reins it in.
Mike’s name does not sit well with J.T. Lawrence.
Not one bit.
But he doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t bark. Doesn’t ask questions.
He doesn’t act like some jealous jerk, which is amazing because I can’t make almost three decades of a life with someone disappear. I can’t pretend Mike never happened because we have a son. And I don’t think I could talk to a man who would insist on nonsense like that.
In a romantic sense, I am completely over Mike. In fact, I’ve probably been out of love with him for a long time.
People stay because it’s convenient. Easier than leaving. Because we’re told we have to try to make things work. We have to bend and compromise and change and twist ourselves until we’re unrecognizable.
That’s what good little wives do.
But Mike left.
And I don’t have to pretend anymore.
And if J.T. asks, that’s exactly what I’ll tell him.
He just sits there across from me at the little metal café table, elbows resting on his knees, big hands loosely clasped like a man who has all the patience in the world.
Which somehow makes it worse.
Because that focus of his? It’s intense. Singular. Like once he decides something matters, it’s the only thing he sees.
And right now? That thing is me.
And I am struggling to find my voice. To get the nerve to give him the answer he’s been waiting for—the one I think I need.
“Well,” I say, clearing my throat and forcing myself to look directly at him, “I was wondering, would you like to meet me there? We can talk.”
There.
I said it.
The words hang in the air between us while my heart thumps against my ribs.
The dinner. Neutral ground. Public. Safe.
A place where neither of us is on the other’s turf.
For a second he doesn’t move.
He just watches me.
Those green eyes glittering in the soft afternoon light filtering through the Lunchroom windows.
Then his big hand reaches across the table and settles over mine.
The contact is simple.
Gentle, even.
But the second his skin touches mine a jolt of awareness shoots up my arm and straight into my chest like I stuck my finger in an electrical socket.
Heat.
Steady and grounding and dangerous all at once.
His thumb brushes once across my knuckles.
A little possessive.
But not pushing.
Just there.
“I’m glad you asked,” he says quietly.
His voice is low. Rough around the edges like gravel and smoke.
“Sounds good, Honey. I can pick you up if you’d rather?”
Honey.
There it is again.
My stomach does that weird little flip that I absolutely refuse to examine too closely.
“No,” I say quickly, my voice coming out a little breathless. “I think I’d rather meet there.”
His gaze holds mine another long moment.
Like he’s weighing something. Or maybe just memorizing me.
“Okay then,” he says finally, squeezing my hand once before letting go. “I’ll be there.”
No hesitation. Not even a flicker.
I watch him closely—because I can’t seem to stop myself from doing that when he’s around—and there’s no teasing smile, no smug little look like he’s just won something.
No hint that this is a game to him.
Just that steady, unwavering calm he seems to carry around like a second skin.
His green eyes stay on mine, clear and intent, like what I just said was exactly what he expected all along.
And maybe it was. That’s the thing about J.T. Lawrence.
He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t chase in the way most men do.
He just waits. Like a mountain sitting there while the rest of the world bustles around it.
Patient. Solid. Unmovable.
But underneath that patience?
There’s something else.
Something intense and razor sharp that makes my pulse trip every time I catch him looking at me.
Because when J.T. Lawrence decides he wants something, he gets it.
Period.
And right now? I’m starting to think he’s telling the truth when he says that something is me.
He picks up his coffee, drains the last swallow, and pushes to his feet.
The whole table seems smaller the second he stands.
Like gravity works differently around him.
And as he heads toward the door, I sit there staring at the empty space where he was and realize something that makes my pulse jump.
I invited him.
Not the other way around.
For the first time since his proposal, I don’t feel cornered. I feel like I just made a move.
My move.
And I think I like that.