Chapter 19
Kelly
“Hey there, Bud!”
I barely get the truck in park before I’m out the door, arms wide.
Evan rolls his eyes the way ten-year-olds do when they think they’re too old for something—but he still walks right into my hug.
Not a half one.
Not a quick pat-pat.
A real one. Arms tight around my middle. Face pressed into my jacket.
Most boys his age would’ve outgrown this by now.
But not us.
And I will hold on to that for as long as he lets me.
Behind him, my former in-laws step out onto the porch.
Gladys Stevens waves, all soft cardigan, and polite smile.
Paul stands beside her, posture straight, expression reserved.
He’s always been a man of few words and firm opinions.
Mike’s relationship with them was stiff at best. Transactional. Cold.
So when Paul’s gaze lingers on me hugging my son like I’m breathing him in, I know what he’s thinking.
Too much.
Too emotional.
Too attached.
I don’t give a rat’s ass.
The only reason I allow them time with Evan is because they love him.
Because they show up.
Because whatever their son turned into, they hadn’t raised him to be cruel.
“Gladys, Paul,” I call out and wave. “Thanks for having him.”
“Of course, Kelly, you know we adore Evan. Now, you have a nice week at school, son,” Gladys calls back.
“Evan?” I look at him expectantly.
“Bye-bye Grams, Gramps. Thanks for having me,” he murmurs.
We turn and walk back to the truck, and I help Evan put his bag on the floor of the cabin.
“How was your weekend?” I ask once we’re both in our seats, buckled in all safe and sound inside the truck.
“Fine, I guess,” Evan mutters, staring down at his sneakers.
My stomach tightens.
Usually, my son is a chatterbox. Especially when we haven’t seen each other for a couple of days.
I frown.
“Evan? Is something wrong?”
He shrugs.
But he stays quiet, and that’s unusual.
And I don’t push.
He’s had too much change lately.
Parents divorcing.
Having to move.
Whispers at school.
Adult conversations he pretends not to hear.
When we’re together, I want him safe.
Comfortable.
Happy.
Not interrogated.
“So, it’s turning into a beautiful day,” I say instead, glancing out at the bright blue sky. “Uncle Thatch is firing up the grill. I heard there’s going to be lobster tails and ribs.”
He doesn’t answer, just nods.
I bite my lip, nerves rising.
Because, well, there’s also another thing about today’s little lunch party.
J.T. will be there.
Not in passing.
Not just a hello at the mill kind of way.
He will be there to meet Evan officially.
As my fiancé.
Because after Friday night and all of Saturday and Saturday night, after the conversations and the decisions and the way he looked at me like I was something precious—we’re doing this.
Marriage.
The word still makes my pulse jump.
“I only intend to get married once, Kelly,” J.T. told me, voice steady, certain. “And I’ve waited this long. I want to do it right.”
So that means we are doing everything.
Bride. Groom. Officiant. Vows. Guests. Reception.
He pulled strings. Made calls.
Three weeks from now I’ll be walking down the aisle again, but this time I’ll be Mrs. Leonard J.T. Lawrence.
No McCrae hyphen.
“One more thing. You’re taking my name, Kelly McCrae. Understand? No half-stepping. No hyphens. You will have my name.”
I can still hear his voice, and the fact he was holding my orgasm hostage at the time might have led me to agree to his caveman demand—but I gave my word, so three weeks from now I will become Mrs. Lawrence.
And me? I’m stunned.
Nervous.
Excited.
Terrified.
Hopeful.
All of it at once.
“So,” I try again lightly, “what did you and Grams and Gramps get up to? You only called me once. I didn’t even get the full report.”
Evan keeps his eyes on the road ahead.
“Nothin’. We went grocery shopping. Watched the game. Grams made snickerdoodles.”
“Ooooh,” I grin. “I bet they were amazing.”
He shrugs again.
The shrug worries me more than anything else.
I pull into Thatcher’s driveway, and before I can even cut the engine, Evan’s door is open.
He bolts across the yard.
Thatcher’s already waiting with two gloves and a baseball in hand.
“Hey, Buddy! Wanna throw it around a bit?”
“Yeah, Uncle Thatch!”
Just like that, my son is smiling again.
Relief loosens something in my chest.
I step out and circle to the back of the truck.
In the bed sits Evan’s old wooden cradle.
A family heirloom. Our great-grandfather carved it by hand.
It’s heavy as hell.
I grip the edge and start to slide it toward me, muscles straining.
I almost have it down when powerful hands appear.
Large. Sure. Familiar.
They lift the weight from me like it’s nothing.
I don’t have to turn to know who it is.
But I do anyway.
And there he stands.
J.T. Lawrence.
Sunlight hitting his broad shoulders. Jaw set. Eyes soft when they land on me.
“I’ve got it,” he says quietly.
Not taking over.
Not correcting.
Just helping.
My heart does that stupid, hopeful thing again.
Because he didn’t just show up for the barbecue.
He showed up for the life that comes with me.
And suddenly, for the first time all morning, I’m not just nervous.
I’m steady.
Because he’s here.
Not hovering. Not crowding. Just… here.
“Hi,” I whisper, like we’re alone instead of standing in my brother’s driveway in broad daylight.
“Hello,” he replies, low and warm, like that single word carries weight.
I swallow.
“Shit, that’s heavy. Um, follow me.”
His mouth twitches.
“Anywhere you go, I’ll follow.”
The way he says it—teasing but serious—sends a little ripple through me.
“Kelly? Well, look who you brought with you! J.T., it’s nice to see you,” Willow calls from the porch.
She’s glowing. Positively radiant in that unique way only pregnant women have.
One hand is braced at the small of her back, the other is shielding her eyes from the sun.
Her overalls hang loose over her baby bump, pink tank stretched sweet and round beneath them.
Domestic. Happy. Perfect for my baby brother.
I glance down at myself—capri pants, worn sandals, a simple green T-shirt.
My hair is in a low ponytail, and I have on little makeup save for a little mascara and Chapstick.
This is the real me.
Not the wrap dress from the gala.
Not the smoky-eyed woman from Friday night.
Just Kelly.
For a second, insecurity prickles.
Is this enough?
For him?
J.T. doesn’t notice my sudden insecurities.
He carries the cradle up the steps like it weighs nothing, deposits it carefully in the mudroom where Thatcher’s laid out newspaper and tools.
He doesn’t rush.
Doesn’t just plop it down on the floor.
He treats it like it matters.
Like my family history matters.
“Oh, it’s so perfect,” Willow says, eyes misting as she runs her hand along the carved wood.
I hug her because pregnancy hormones are real and powerful, and I get it.
“Oh, look at me carrying on,” she laughs through a sniffle. “How about some iced tea? It’s all set up on the table outside.”
“Sounds great,” J.T. answers easily. “Can I help carry anything out?”
“Nope, Thatch already did it. Ooh—I have to use the bathroom, but I’ll meet you out there!” she calls, waddling off with determination.
I shake my head, smiling.
Then I turn to head toward the yard—and something tugs me back.
I spin.
J.T.’s finger is hooked casually in one of my belt loops.
He grins.
Slow. Wicked.
Entirely too confident.
“You think I’m letting you walk away without kissing you first?” he asks.
My stomach flips.
“We’re not exactly alone,” I murmur, glancing toward the open door and the sounds of Evan laughing outside.
“And?” he challenges softly.
Before I can answer, he cups my face with those big, capable hands.
The kiss isn’t rushed.
It’s not frantic.
It’s deliberate.
Possessive in a way that doesn’t scare me—it claims me.
His mouth presses to mine, firm and warm, and I melt into it before I can stop myself.
I feel desired in a way I never have before.
Not tolerated. Not assessed. Not measured against some impossible standard.
Desired.
J.T. makes me feel sexy—like a woman in her prime, not a woman past it.
He doesn’t shrink me.
Doesn’t hint I should soften my laugh or quiet my opinions or hide my curves.
He takes me exactly as I am—capri pants, messy ponytail, big feelings, and all.
And the fact that he’s kissing me in broad daylight, in my brother’s house, feels scandalous and perfectly natural at the same time.
His warmth seeps into me. Grounding me. Astounding me.
That low, ever-present growl in his chest vibrates between us, and I feel it everywhere.
In my stomach. In my spine. In the softest parts of me.
I like it.
God help me, I really do.
I like him.
And that might be the most dangerous thing of all.
Because wanting his body is one thing.
But wanting his presence? His steadiness? The way he looks at me like I’m the only woman in the world?
That’s different.
I don’t know if I’m ready to risk my heart again.
But standing here in his arms, feeling chosen instead of diminished—I’m not sure I want to walk away either.
When he pulls back, his thumb brushes my cheek like he can’t help himself.
“Did I mention how perfect you look today?”
I grin.
Me perfect?
In capris.
In a T-shirt.
With no makeup.
Just me.
But instead of shrinking under the weight of that attention—I straighten.
Because maybe steady feels like this.
Like being kissed in daylight.
Like not having to wonder where you stand.
Like knowing the man beside you isn’t embarrassed to show it.
“Thanks. You, uh, look pretty perfect too,” I whisper.
Because he does.
He’s wearing an open flannel with the sleeves rolled up, a navy blue t-shirt beneath it. On his long, muscular legs is a pair of faded blue jeans that do crazy things to my pulse.
And on his feet is a pair of clean work boots.
He looks clean. Neat.
Fine as hell. Sexy too.
“Let’s get some iced tea, Honey.”
“Mm. Let’s,” I agree.