Chapter 6
J.T
I made sure our table was the last one in the room.
On purpose.
Took a call. Pulled a favor.
Shifted a seating chart that some poor volunteer had probably spent hours color-coding.
I don’t like Kelly feeling like she’s on display.
Not when half this town has already dissected her marriage over potluck casseroles and church coffee.
Not when she’s walking in here alone for the first time.
Though in that dress?
Christ.
She’s catching attention whether I want her to or not.
I keep my hand on the small of her back as we cross the room.
Not light.
Not hesitant.
Firm enough that anyone watching understands exactly what it means.
Mine.
My palm skims the curve of her waist, the swell of her hip, and yeah—I let my fingers brush the top of that gorgeous ass of hers before I pull my hand back into something more respectable.
I needed them to see.
I needed them to know.
Kelly McCrae is off limits.
Mike was never much of a man at these events.
When you put a room full of lumbermen and builders together, add whiskey and red meat, conversations get loud.
Opinions get sharper.
I’ve seen Kelly in the middle of those debates before—smart, articulate, unafraid.
And that little pissant husband of hers?
He’d sit there.
Silent.
Let her take the brunt of it.
Never step in.
Never back her up.
Not that she needed saving.
But a man should stand beside his woman.
I won’t stand for any of that tonight.
Call me old-fashioned.
Call me territorial.
I don’t give a fuck.
Dessert lands in front of us—some rich chocolate cake and two espressos.
“What's wrong?” she asks lightly, lifting her fork.
I fucking love that she’s not the kind of woman who pretends she doesn’t eat.
And I can’t wait to see what other appetites she has.
“What do you mean?” I say, leaning down to steal the bite of cake sitting on her fork.
“Hey!” She laughs and pulls back.
It’s a diversion of course.
Because I know exactly what she means.
She forks another bite of cake, then continues.
“Well, you look like you’re about to take someone’s head off.”
She sounds amused.
God help me, I love that she’s not intimidated.
“Sorry,” I murmur. “I was just thinking how these things always end with a rather rambunctious conversation.”
She waits for more.
I don’t give it.
What am I supposed to say?
Don’t mind me, Kelly.
I’m just feeling exceptionally territorial because you look like a goddamn fantasy and I still don’t know if you’re going to walk out of here with me or away from me.
I’ve waited too long for this opportunity with this woman, and there’s just no denying how anxious I am.
Plus, there’s the obvious.
One, Kelly is single now.
Two, she is one damn fine-looking woman.
Three, others are taking note—and I don’t take kindly to competition though I’m confident I’ll win her in the end. I want her too badly to do anything but.
My gaze rakes over her, and I swear my heart squeezes so tight I think I might be having a heart attack.
She’s answering something the older woman sitting beside her asks—I don’t know what exactly because I’m not listening.
I’m too busy staring. Cataloging all the things that fascinate me about her.
Kelly’s skin has that honeyed glow I’ve always associated with her—warm, sun kissed, perfect.
Her blonde hair is down tonight, styled in long, loose waves that make my fingers itch.
She’s wearing makeup—something smoky and dangerous around her beautiful blue eyes.
Makes them look deeper. Bigger. Sexier.
And that dress.
That fucking dress.
It hugs every curve.
The dip of her waist.
The roundness of her hips.
The generous swell of her breasts.
Nothing about it apologizes.
Nothing about her apologizes.
She inhales, and I track it without meaning to.
Her chest rises, and some idiot across from us nearly leans face-first into his dessert trying to get a better look.
I turn slowly.
Meet his eyes.
Let him see exactly what I’m thinking.
He drops his gaze.
Good.
A low growl vibrates in my chest before I can stop it.
Kelly notices.
Of course she does.
She licks her lips. Her small hand lands on my thigh.
And I nearly lose my composure right there in front of God and the Woodhaven Lumber Association.
Christ.
This woman.
My eyes snap to hers and I see it—recognition. Curiosity.
That flicker of uncertainty.
That tiny thread of fear.
That’s what reins me in.
I don’t want her scared.
I don’t want her pressured.
I want her choosing me.
Head high. Eyes open.
No doubt.
No trepidation.
I set my espresso down and push back my chair.
“Let’s dance,” I say, standing and offering her my hand.
She looks at it for a beat.
Then up at me.
I don’t smile.
I don’t smirk.
I just hold steady.
Take it, honey.
Go on.
Choose me.