Chapter 22
J.T
A few days have passed since that BBQ at Thatcher’s. Since Evan came at me swinging, yelling, crying like the world was ending.
For him, I imagine it’s felt like that a whole lot lately.
The kid’s world got kicked out from under him. His dad split, poisoned the well on the way out, and now some big bastard he barely knows is suddenly standing next to his mother, holding her hand.
Yeah. I’d probably swing too.
So I let him.
Not because I enjoyed it, but because sometimes a boy needs to burn off the fear and anger before he can hear anything else. You bottle that shit up and it rots inside you.
I’ve seen that happen to grown men.
Hell, I’ve been that man.
Kelly had a moment of panic, just like I knew she would. She’s a mother first—everything else comes second. That’s one of the reasons I fell for her so damn hard in the first place.
But there’s no way I’m letting that woman walk away from me now.
Not after everything between us.
Not after the way she looks when she wakes up tangled in my sheets, hair a mess and cheeks pink from sleep.
Not after the way she curls into my side like she finally found somewhere safe to land.
I crossed that line already.
Every damn boundary there was between us—gone.
See, I could’ve stayed on the outside.
Could’ve kept my distance.
Could’ve admired her from across the damn room like I did for years, pretending I didn’t want her while my whole body knew better.
I could’ve worshipped from afar.
But the second I stepped forward? The second I touched her? The second I kissed her, and she kissed me back like she’d been starving for me just as long as I’d been starving for her?
That was it.
Game over.
Once you know what a woman tastes like. Once you know how she fits against you, how she breathes when she’s asleep with her cheek on your chest—well, there’s just no putting that genie back in the bottle.
No going back to pretending she’s just someone you know.
Kelly McCrae is under my skin now.
And that means her boy is too.
I didn’t expect that part.
Didn’t plan on it.
But the moment Evan threw those punches and then broke down in his mother’s arms, something locked into place inside me.
I felt protective as hell. It’s the same instinct I feel for my son, Maddox, even though he’s a grown ass man. The same one I’ve had my whole life when someone smaller is about to get steamrolled by someone bigger.
Mike Stevens thinks he’s going to leave them, then come back to bleed them dry.
Threaten court.
Threaten money.
Threaten taking that kid away from his mother.
Threaten forcing her to move to some fucking state hours away.
That man has no idea what kind of wall he just ran into.
Because I build things for a living. Big things. Strong things. And when I decide something is mine to protect, I don’t half-ass it.
Kelly.
Evan.
That’s my line in the sand now. And God help that stupid motherfucker if he tries crossing it.
I’ve spent this entire week preparing. I haven’t wasted a second. I hired a firm—real bastards, the good kind—called Sigma International Group.
Top-tier investigators who don’t flinch at tearing through hidden accounts, backdoor wire transfers, off-the-books investments—and whatever other dirty little habits a middle-aged idiot picks up when he runs off with a woman half his age and starts bleeding money he doesn’t actually have.
They’re doing a deep dive on Mike Stevens, his new wife, and even his parents. If there’s dirt, I’ll get it.
I’ve also looped in my legal team.
Not the junior associates.
The sharks.
The kind of attorneys who don’t just respond to threats—they dismantle them.
They’re handling everything. Custody. Financial fraud. Asset recovery. All of it.
Because let’s be real—Mike Stevens threatening to sue for alimony after stealing from his own wife is the kind of delusional arrogance that gets men buried.
The bastard drained joint accounts. Wiped out his own son’s college fund. Took out a second mortgage in Kelly’s name without her knowledge—which, last I checked, is called fraud. And he drove off with her minivan.
Like he was entitled to a parting gift.
And now he wants to talk about court?
He’s lucky if he doesn’t end up explaining himself to a prosecutor.
And that’s before we even get to Stormee. His new wife.
Turns out she wasn’t twenty-two when they “fell in love.”
She was seventeen.
Seventeen.
Which makes old Mike’s midlife crisis look a hell of a lot like statutory rape depending on how the timeline shakes out.
So yeah. He doesn’t want to see the inside of a courtroom nearly as much as he thinks he does.
Now, the lawyers met with me and Kelly already. She walked into that conference room, trying to be strong. Chin up. Shoulders back. Like she’s been doing this alone for years and she can keep doing it.
She tried to hold it together.
She really did.
But when they started laying it out—when they explained that Mike’s threats were mostly bluster, that the paper trail works in her favor, that the custody scare tactics are garbage and that his parents had no claim on Evan whatsoever—when they told her we had leverage?
She broke.
Not because she’s weak. Because she’s been bracing for impact for months.
She sobbed into my chest like she’d finally exhaled after holding her breath underwater.
And I held her.
Didn’t say I told you so.
Didn’t gloat about being right.
Didn’t mention how badly I want to put my fist through Mike’s face.
I just held her. Because that’s what she needed.
And because no matter how vicious this gets—she’s not fighting it alone anymore.
After that meeting, I wanted to take her home, but she had to go pick up Evan from school, and I had another meeting I couldn’t move.
That pissed me off more than I care to admit.
But that’s all been handled now, too. The first thing I did was call my assistant. She’s been rearranging my calendar all week.
From now on, if my wife and stepson need me, I’m there.
And tonight? Tonight, I’m hosting dinner.
It’s a normal weeknight. Nothing fancy. Just a low-key family meal.
But I’m so damn excited, I almost chopped my finger off slicing garlic.
This weekend we start moving Kelly and Evan into my house.
It won’t just be mine for long.
In a couple of days, my house becomes ours.
Our house.
And I’m so fucking nervous I almost laugh at myself.
I’ve negotiated multi-million-dollar developments. Sat across from men who’d sell their own mothers for a profit.
And I’m pacing my kitchen like a teenager before prom.
Because the truth is as crazy as I am about his mother, I like the kid too. And I want him to like me.
Kelly’s done a hell of a job with him.
You can see it in the way he protects her. In the way he feels everything full throttle.
That’s all her. All Kelly McCrae with the big blue eyes and bog soft heart.
My Honey’s got feelings so big they could envelop the whole world. The woman is pure gold. Believe me, I know.
The smell of metal getting hot makes my nose itch, and I blink, refocusing on what I’m doing.
“Shit,” I mutter, yanking the pasta arm back over the pot before it starts to burn.
I’m making so much noise, I don’t hear the door open.
“Dad? You in here?” Maddox calls from the entryway.
Good.
The little shit is early. And I could use the help.
“Dad!” he says, strolling into the kitchen with his current girlfriend tucked against his side.
I glance up a smile on my face for my boy. Doesn’t matter how old he is, he will always be my boy.
“Yeah, Mads. I’m in here.”
I hear his footsteps and another pair accompanying them. Now, I admit I was nervous about him bringing company tonight. Thought it might be a lot for Kelly and Evan.
But that’s not fair to Maddox. Besides, like I keep telling myself, he’s grown. Works his ass off at the company. Pays his own damn taxes. And he’s entitled to having a girlfriend, for fuck’s sake.
She’s a nice young woman, too. Decent. Sweet looking. I met her once this week when she showed up at the office with lunch for him.
Didn’t flinch at the security detail.
Didn’t act impressed by the view.
That counts for something.
“Hi, Mr. Lawrence,” she says politely.
I nod. “Hello, uh—”
“Dad, her name is Amelia,” Maddox sighs.
“Right. Sorry.” I press my lips together, but it’s likely I’ll forget her name again before the night is through.
She smiles like she’s used to men forgetting things.
“So, what are we eating?” Maddox asks, already sniffing around like a bloodhound.
I roll my eyes. “Really?”
“What? I’m starving.”
“We are having pasta, herb roasted chicken, broccoli, and a spring mix salad.”
“Nice.”
“Wow, Mr. Lawrence, you seem to have your hands full. Can we help?” Amelia asks.
Thank Christ someone in this room was raised right.
I look at my son, who is currently inhaling cherry tomatoes like they’re oxygen.
“Actually,” I say pointedly, “I was going to ask Mads to set the table.”
He freezes mid-bite.
Amelia, bless her, grabs his arm.
“Sure thing! We can do that.”
They disappear toward the dining room while I get back to the stove.
I keep it simple, but good.
Olive oil. Fresh garlic. Shallots. Cherry tomatoes. Pine nuts. Chopped figs. A fistful of herbs from the little greenhouse out back. Splash of white wine.
Let it simmer.
Finish with butter. Pecorino romano. Toasted panko for crunch.
The thing about cooking isn’t the ingredients.
It’s care.
It’s timing.
And tonight, timing matters.
I’m not dropping that pasta until Kelly and Evan walk through that door.
I check the oven—herb roasted chicken quarters crisping just right.
Everything smells like home.
And that’s the point.
I don’t want Evan walking into some cold, sterile mansion where he feels like an accessory.
I want him walking into warmth.
Food.
Noise.
People who show up.
I wipe my hands on a towel and glance toward the front windows.
Headlights sweep across the driveway.
My pulse kicks.
There they are.
Kelly’s truck.
I straighten my shoulders.
Because this isn’t about flexing.
It’s about proving.
For Kelly.
For Evan.
And Maddox, too, even though he’s grown.
It’s about showing that little boy that I’m not just the guy who held his mother’s hand in the stark light of day and made big promises.
I’m the man who shows up. The one who builds.
And right now, I’m building something that lasts.
Mike Stevens can threaten court all he wants.
He can talk all he wants about parental rights and fitness, about location and money, and how he’s entitled to alimony—can you fucking believe that?
But he doesn’t get to scare that boy.
He doesn’t get to threaten Kelly or to shake her confidence.
Not anymore.
The front door opens.
And I’m ready.