Chapter 5
Kelly
“Okay, you can do this, Kelly. It’s people you know. No big deal,” I murmur to myself as I step through the double doors of the Elks Club where the Woodhaven Lumber Association’s Annual Dinner is being held.
It’s not the Ritz, but it’s close enough for our little mountain town.
White linens.
Twinkle lights.
Centerpieces that try very hard.
Everyone in their black tie best—men I’ve known since I was a teenager stacking invoices at the mill, women who’ve watched me grow up, get married, have a baby, and now, get divorced.
I clutch my purse a little tighter.
Ignore the stares.
Ignore the way conversation dips just slightly when I walk into the dining room searching for my assigned table.
I should have never let Willow talk me into this dress.
I’m too old.
Too plump.
Too… I don’t know.
Too blue-collar for this getup.
Usually, I stick to a suit. A nice blouse, skirt or slacks, jacket.
Safe. Structured. Forgettable.
But Willow made me toss half of those when we moved into the little cabin we’re renting after selling my house to Clara and Greyson.
“You are too young to dress like you’re running for Senate,” she’d said, hands on hips.
So now I’m wearing something that makes me feel like an imposter.
Except.
Not entirely.
It’s a dream of a dress.
One of those wrap dresses, ruched at the waist, hugging my hips and falling just at my knees, a deep neckline that exposes more of my cleavage than I’ve shown off in years.
The color is a dark blue that makes my eyes look brighter. Deeper.
The fabric moves when I walk—soft, fluid.
I like the way it moves. It feels divine.
I just haven’t worn something that celebrates my curves in years.
Mike was always on me about getting healthy. About watching what I ate.
As if I didn’t already exercise.
As if I didn’t already monitor every bite.
“Fat just likes me,” I used to joke.
It was easier than admitting how much it hurt to hear I wasn’t enough from the man who promised forever.
A small part of me is still mad at him.
Not because he fell out of love.
I’ve done the therapy.
I’ve cried it out with Willow and Clara over wine and tissues.
The truth is, I fell out of love too.
Our marriage became logistics. Routine. Obligation.
But I do blame him for how he did it.
The cheating.
The second mortgage no one knew about.
Draining our joint account.
Stealing Evan’s college fund.
And my fucking minivan of all things.
Those weren’t mistakes of the heart.
Those were choices.
Shit ones. But still choices.
And I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner.
I can’t believe I allowed myself to turn a blind eye to Mike’s weaknesses.
What a fool you’ve been, Kelly McCrae.
None of that, however, explains why my stomach feels like it’s full of rocks as I move deeper into the room.
“Oh my God, is that Kelly Stevens?”
“Guess she’s trying a little too late to keep her husband at home.”
“Yeah, well, Kelly always was too much. Too loud. Too opinionated. Too BIG.”
That last voice slithers across my spine.
Darla Stern.
Blonde. Sharp. She almost took Thatcher for a ride once upon a time.
But thank God he found someone worthy in Willow, someone who loves him back the way he deserves to be loved.
Darla’s the kind of woman who mistakes cruelty for charisma.
“Hey Kelly, how’s the single life treating you?” she shouts, and I can hear the snark.
My back stiffens.
I don’t turn.
I don’t give her the satisfaction.
I just keep walking, looking for my table.
Head high.
Chin level.
More whispers trail me.
Some sympathetic.
Some curious.
Some gleeful.
Tom Gilbert, one of the board members, intercepts me before I can get away.
“Wow, Kelly, you look amazing. Where’s that lucky husband of yours?”
I blanch.
His wife elbows him so hard I hear it.
“Tom, they’re divorced,” she hisses, mortified.
“Oh—um—sorry about that, Kelly,” he stammers. “I bet that’s hard, being a woman here on your own.”
On your own.
Like I’m a cautionary tale.
Like I’m unfinished without a man standing beside me.
My mouth opens. Closes. I don’t even know what to say.
And then—the air shifts.
It’s subtle at first.
A ripple.
Like the whole room inhales at once.
A big, warm hand wraps around the back of my neck.
Not tight.
But possessive.
Strong. Steady.
Claiming.
I turn.
It’s him. J.T.
He’s looking down at me like a thirsty man, and I’m a tall drink of water.
And suddenly, I don’t feel too big.
Or too loud.
Or too much.
I feel like enough.
“Oh, she’s not alone, Tom,” J.T. says evenly.
But he’s still looking at me.
Only me.
“Sorry I’m late, Honey. Traffic was a bitch.”
Honey.
My pulse trips.
“You look beautiful,” he adds.
And before I can overthink it—before I can brace myself—he bends his head and kisses me.
Right there.
In front of everyone.
It’s not lewd.
But it’s not rushed, either.
His lips are warm. Firm. Certain.
There’s a softness to it that catches me off guard.
A tenderness that says this isn’t performance.
It’s a statement.
When he pulls back, my knees feel suspiciously weak.
“You ready to find our seats?” he asks.
I nod.
I can’t speak. Not yet.
And I don’t look at Tom Gilbert.
Or at Darla.
Hell, I don’t look at anyone.
I just let J.T.’s hand slide from my neck to my lower back as he guides me toward our table.
And in that moment—walking across the dining room floor with every whisper dying behind us—I realize something with startling clarity.
I am not alone if J.T. is with me.
And I think I know what my answer is going to be.