Chapter 9
Kelly
The drive to J.T.’s place is about fifteen minutes.
It feels like five.
Or fifty.
He takes the mountain roads like he owns them—confident, precise, barely tapping the brakes as we curve through darkness lit only by headlights and moonlight.
“Um, J.T.?” I venture, fingers gripping my purse a little tighter.
“Hmm?” he rumbles.
That sound.
Low. Gravelly. Deep enough to vibrate somewhere inside my chest.
If I didn’t already know him as a rough-and-tumble construction magnate, that voice would be the giveaway.
And, holy fuck, something in my core answers it.
In fact, I’m pretty sure my panties are a mess right now as I wade between my unrepentant desire for him and any lingering doubts I may have as to what it is we’re going here to do.
“Do you maybe want to slow down?” I ask lightly.
“What?” He glances at me, amused.
“I’d like to arrive wherever we’re going in one piece,” I say with a breathy laugh that might be skirting hysteria.
“We’re going to my place, Honey,” he replies, that slow grin spreading across his face, “I can handle this truck. I can handle these roads. Don’t you worry your pretty little head about that.”
The words should irritate me.
They don’t.
They make me feel—well it’s dumb, but they make me feel taken care of.
Which is dangerous. Unlike me.
I am always the one who does the caretaking.
But maybe that’s the point.
I’ve never been to J.T.’s house.
So when he turns off the main road onto a hidden driveway that snakes through trees and opens into a secluded clearing at the base of the opposite side of the mountain—my mouth actually drops open.
Did I say house?
This isn’t a house.
It’s not a cabin either.
It’s a masterpiece.
Glass and timber and iron, built into the mountain like it belongs there.
A massive wraparound porch.
Warm exterior lights casting golden glows against stone.
I think I spy a hot tub tucked into one corner around back, overlooking a yard that stretches into shadow.
And—wait—is that a?
“Is that a basketball court?” I breathe.
“Uh, yep.”
“And a soccer net?” I add.
He nods and parks smoothly before he cuts the engine.
“Are you the only one living here?” I ask quietly.
Because suddenly this feels bigger than I expected.
He glances at me, expression softening just a little.
“Yeah. It’s just me now. Maddox lives in town.”
His son.
I’ve met Maddox a few times.
Charming. Sharp. Definitely his father’s kid.
“You ready?” J.T. asks.
“Yep,” I lie.
Because honestly?
What am I doing here?
Are we going to talk more?
Sign something?
Cross a line I can’t uncross—as in are we gonna fuck?
He opens my door, helps me out, and I follow him up the steps like I’m stepping into another life.
Inside, it’s breathtaking.
Exposed beams.
Custom timber joinery.
Warm wood floors.
Two fireplaces—one a dramatic wood-burning centerpiece in the living room, another propane one near a breakfast nook that looks like it belongs in a magazine.
The kitchen is massive, but welcoming.
Not flashy. It’s thoughtful.
“This place is amazing,” I whisper.
“Want the two-dollar tour?” he asks.
I nod.
He shows me everything—gourmet kitchen, a large dining room, wide windows overlooking the property.
We step back outside for a moment so I can see the full wraparound deck, the hot tub steaming faintly in the night air, and the outdoor fireplace.
Then my eyes land on something moving in the yard.
“Is that a goat?” I ask.
He rubs the back of his neck, almost sheepish.
“Yep. Three of them. Got some chickens, too. An old mare in the stable. And a small pond behind that with an old pair of swans. The female can’t fly anymore after she was injured, and the male refuses to leave her.”
I blink at him.
“Seriously?”
He shrugs like he didn’t just casually describe the most unexpectedly romantic thing I’ve ever heard in my life.
“Maddox used to collect injured animals. That turned into wanting some pets. Not the usual kind. What can I say? I have a soft spot for little things. Anyway, his place in town’s too small, so I keep them here.”
My heart stutters inside my chest.
I just… stare at him. What else can I do?
Because this man—this powerful, commanding, take-no-prisoners construction magnate—just told me he houses injured swans.
Swans.
And not just that.
A bonded pair.
The male staying because his mate can’t fly anymore.
My chest does something funny. Tight. Achy. Warm.
“You keep them here,” I repeat softly.
He shifts his weight like he’s suddenly uncomfortable under my scrutiny.
“They’re not hurting anything. And the mare’s too old to rehome. Goats clear brush. Chickens lay eggs. It’s practical.”
Practical.
Yeah, right.
That must be why he sounds faintly defensive.
I step closer without thinking.
The night air is cool, but he radiates warmth. Strength. Solidity.
“You built all of this,” I murmur, glancing around at the property again.
The house carved into the mountain.
The land thoughtfully tended.
The quiet life tucked away from the world.
“And you still made space for broken things.”
His eyes flick to mine at that.
Something unreadable passes through them.
“They’re not broken,” he says quietly. “They just need somewhere steady.”
The words hit me square in the chest.
Somewhere steady.
I swallow.
Because suddenly this isn’t about goats or swans or some old mare in a stable.
It’s about him.
The man who looks like a storm in a suit.
The man who kissed me in front of half the town without flinching.
The man who just asked me to marry him.
And who apparently makes room for the wounded without announcing it to the world.
I feel very, very small in the best possible way.
Not diminished.
Humbled.
Moved.
“You’re not what people think you are,” I say softly.
His mouth tilts. “And what do they think?”
“That you’re ruthless. That you don’t bend. That you win.”
He steps closer, just enough that my breath catches.
“They’re not wrong,” he says.
Then, quieter, more personal—“But they don’t know everything.”
I look at him differently after that.
Not just as the powerful man who offered me protection.
Not just as the wealthy mountain king with a mansion and a fleet of vehicles and a reputation.
But as someone capable of tenderness he doesn’t advertise.
And holy shit—that might be what undoes me the most.
This powerful, intimidating man with goats and chickens and an old horse.
“That’s… actually really awesome of you,” I say softly.
He shrugs like it’s nothing.
But it’s not nothing.
It’s tenderness.
Responsibility.
Depth.
We step back inside, the door clicking shut behind us.
The house feels quieter now.
More intimate.
The suit jacket is gone. His tie loosened. The top button of his shirt undone.
And suddenly I’m very aware that we’re alone.
In his home.
After I just agreed to marry him.
A flicker of doubt sparks.
“J.T.,” I say carefully.
He turns toward me immediately. Fully attentive.
“Yeah.”
“This is a lot.” I gesture vaguely.
The house. The night. Us.
“You’re… a lot.”
His jaw tightens slightly, but he doesn’t interrupt.
“But what I asked you for—that’s a lot too,” I admit, then because I need to tell him some of what I’m feeling, I continue. “I’m not used to this. The wealth. The scale. The power.”
I hate how small my voice sounds.
“I don’t want to be swallowed by it. Or by you. And I won’t let Evan be a casualty of whatever mess his father made. And I refuse to make a worse mess for him.”
The words hang between us.
For a second, I wonder if I’ve pushed too far.
Then he closes the distance between us in two deliberate steps.
His hands don’t grab.
They settle.
One at my waist.
One cupping my jaw.
“First, I swear to you, Evan will never be a casualty of us. And what his father did? He’ll know the truth someday and judge him for himself. And that’s all because of your influence. You’re raising a wonderful boy, Kelly,” he says, low and steady.
My heart squeezes—Christ, I didn’t know how badly I needed to hear someone say that.
I clear my throat and blink against my suddenly blurry vision.
“Now, do you really think I want someone I can swallow? And even more ludicrous, do you think a firework like you could even be swallowed?”
I gasp.
His thumb brushes my cheek.
“I want you, Kelly. I want all of you. I want the woman who stands in front of a room full of lumbermen and doesn’t back down. I want the mother who’s tough enough to raise her boy without any help from anyone. I want the soft, vulnerable woman I danced with tonight. All of it.”
“J.T.,” I whisper closing my eyes.
Then I feel his forehead touch mine.
“You’re not too much. You’re not too big. And you’re damn sure not someone who disappears into the background.”
My breath catches.
“And if you ever feel like you are,” he continues, voice roughening, “I’ll remind you exactly who you are.”
And before I can second-guess myself—before I can build another wall—J.T. kisses me.
And this is not a polite meeting of lips.
This is something dark.
Something deep.
Intentional.
His mouth moves against mine like he’s proving something.
Like he’s laying claim to me—choosing me.
The kiss steals the air from my lungs.
It also steadies me.
J.T. kisses me like I am the only end game he has in mind.
Not a strategy.
Just me.
Like I’m the destination he’s been driving toward his whole damn life.
His mouth is warm and sure, not frantic, not demanding—just certain.
His hands bracket my waist like he knows exactly how much strength to use.
Enough to ground me.
And I haven’t felt that in a long time.
That kind of singular focus.
That kind of hunger wrapped in control.
When he pulls back, his green eyes search mine.
Not for obedience.
He’s looking for doubt, maybe.
Or fear.
There isn’t any left.
“I want this, Kelly,” he says, voice low and rough with something that sounds dangerously close to vulnerability.
“I want you like crazy. But if you say no—if you don’t want me—I’ll still help. I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you never have to leave Woodhaven because of your prick ex. And I’ll make sure Evan has everything he needs for a bright future.”
The words hit me in two places at once.
My heart.
And somewhere much lower.
Because he’s offering protection without conditions.
He’s offering me a choice.
And that’s the part that tips me over.
I step closer to him.
Not because he pulls me.
Because I want to.
My hands slide up over his stomach—hard, warm, solid beneath the fabric of his shirt.
Up his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart under my palm.
I let my fingers curl around the back of his neck, drawing him down just a little so we’re eye to eye.
“I know, J.T.,” I say softly. “I know you’re a man of your word.”
He doesn’t look away.
Doesn’t soften.
He waits.
“But the truth is,” I tell him, and I let my thumb brush along his jaw, tracing the rough stubble there.
I like that he’s not polished smooth.
I like that he feels real.
“I also think you’re sexy as fuck.”
His breath catches.
I feel it.
“And I want you, too.”
There.
No strategy.
No calculation.
Just me.
Choosing him.
The admission changes something in his expression. The tight control he wears like armor flickers, just slightly.
“Yeah?” he murmurs.
“Yeah,” I whisper back.
And for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like the woman who was left.
Or the woman scrambling to protect what’s hers.
I feel like a woman stepping into the role she was just offered—not as someone being saved.
But as someone wanted.
Desired.
Chosen.
His hands slide down to my hips, over my cheeks, and he squeezes. His grip is firm and possessive, and I don’t flinch.
I lean in.
Because I’m not shrinking this time.
I’m stepping forward.