Chapter 23
Kelly
I feel like I’m living in some sort of haze.
Like I stepped into a romantic snow globe, and someone shook it too hard—and now everything is sparkling and suspended and too beautiful to be entirely real.
Dinner at J.T.’s house is amazing.
Not just the food—though that alone would’ve done it.
Maddox and his girlfriend, Amelia, are warm and easy.
Amelia laughs at my jokes.
Maddox teases his dad just enough to prove they’re close without crossing lines.
It’s normal. Comfortable.
Evan starts off quiet.
Shoulders tight. Eyes watchful.
My brave boy.
But the second J.T. sets a massive bowl of pasta on the table—glossy, fragrant, clearly made with care—Evan’s whole face changes.
“Is that pasta?” he asks.
“Someone told me it was your favorite,” J.T. says simply, like it wasn’t a calculated choice.
And just like that, Evan sits up straighter.
He takes seconds.
Then, thirds.
He starts talking.
About school.
About baseball.
About the goats he wants to see after dessert.
And I sit there, glass of wine in hand, trying not to cry because my son is laughing in a house that might soon be his.
The adults share a bottle of wine.
Evan has two glasses of fruit punch.
Then, we have espresso with the dessert I brought.
Homemade apple crumb pie.
The kind with too much butter in the topping and cinnamon heavy enough to scent the whole room.
I even grabbed vanilla ice cream from Woodhaven Dairy to go with it—the good stuff.
The kind that melts slow and tastes like childhood summers.
Evan declares it’s better than Aunt Willow’s s’mores brownies, which earns him a mock gasp from me.
After dinner, I help J.T. clean up.
Maddox takes Amelia and Evan out back to show him the animals.
Through the sliding glass door, I watch as my son squeals in delight when one of the goats nudges his hand for more feed.
He laughs.
Full-bodied.
Uninhibited.
The kind of laugh I’ve been desperate to hear again.
My smile stretches so wide my cheeks ache.
And then—J.T. moves in behind me.
He’s not subtle. But he is smooth.
Big. Solid. Certain.
He wraps his arms around my waist and pulls me back against him like he has every right to.
And I think he might be the only man who’s ever really had that right.
For a second, I can’t breathe.
Because this—this quiet domestic moment—feels almost too precious to touch.
“I can’t believe this is real,” I murmur.
“Believe it, Honey.”
I blink. “Shit, did I say that out loud?”
He grunts in amusement and nuzzles my neck, hips flexing just enough to remind me exactly what kind of man is holding me.
I shiver.
“Was dinner okay?” he asks.
“Okay?” I turn in his arms, hands landing on his chest. “J.T., if I didn’t already know you’re outrageously good in bed, I might’ve said yes to marrying you for your cooking alone.”
His eyes darken, slow and wicked.
“Is that so?”
“That is so.”
He tickles my side just enough to make me yelp and laugh before he dips down and kisses my neck.
When I spin fully into him, he leans in, brushing a soft kiss across my cheek.
“I want to do so much more than this, Honey,” he murmurs.
“Mm. Me too,” I admit, pulse quickening. “Soon.”
And I mean it.
Because this weekend, we start moving in.
Moving in.
The words still feel surreal.
I’m nervous.
Terrified, even.
But I’m also tickled pink.
Because this time, it feels chosen.
Not rushed.
Not desperate.
And it’s not a minute too soon.
My parents arrive tomorrow.
Thea and Marcus McCrae—otherwise known as Nana and Pop—are driving up from North Carolina for the wedding.
They were over the moon when I told them I was getting married again.
J.T. already had quite the successful business when my father retired and gave the mill to Thatch and me.
So, yeah, they know each other. And no, J.T. is not my dad’s age.
He’s older than I am—by thirteen years.
Thirteen. Not thirty. Not ancient.
But enough, apparently, to give people something to whisper about when they think I’m not listening.
And they are whispering. At the mill. In town. At the damn post office.
Ever since J.T. and I went from whatever we were to whatever this is. Dating just feels too light a word. Engaged feels too fast. Marrying-the-man-who-growls-my-name-like-it’s-a prayer feels closer to the truth.
A few of the guys at the sawmill have been giving me a wide berth all week. Men who I’ve worked alongside for years. Men who’ve seen me in steel-toed boots and safety goggles, hair in a bun, grease on my hands, barking orders about inventory and delivery schedules.
Men who’ve never once hesitated to argue lumber pricing with me over old coffee. Now? They go quiet when I walk into the Lunchroom.
Conversations stall. Eyes flick away. It’s subtle. But it’s there.
When I finally asked if something was wrong, only Arthur had the guts to answer me.
“Is it true you’re dating J.T. Lawrence, Kelly?”
He didn’t say it unkindly. Just careful.
I nodded. “Yeah.”
He scratched at his beard like he wished he hadn’t asked.
“Well. Most people are scared shit of J.T. I guess they don’t know how to treat you now.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “I’m the same as I always was.”
“Sure you are,” he said. “Just got a Pitbull in your corner now.”
A Pitbull.
That’s what they see.
Power. Money. Influence.
A man who builds half the developments in three counties and has the kind of legal team that makes people sweat.
They don’t see the way he makes my tea exactly how I like it. The way he moves my son’s backpack out of the way so Evan doesn’t trip when he drops it on the floor after school.
They don’t know the way he listens to me. God, he listens. And for the first time ever, I’m being heard by a man who’s interested in me. In making me feel good. In making sure I have what I need—and not the other way around.
It’s quite a change from a wife who was ignored in the bedroom and expected to act like a maid or mother outside of it.
That’s what’s changed. Not me. I’m still the same.
I still clock in. Still review invoices. Still argue about shipping delays and supply costs.
But when I walk across the yard now, there’s this awareness humming beneath my skin.
I’m not alone anymore. And maybe that’s what unsettles people.
For years, I was Mike’s wife.
Then I was the poor divorced woman whose husband ran off with a younger woman and stole half her life on the way out.
Now? Now I’m J.T. Lawrence’s woman.
And surprisingly, I don’t hate that it sounds like I belong to someone. Because maybe I do. And I refuse to pretend it doesn’t feel different to have a man like him choose me.
Out loud. In public. Without shame. Or apology.
The truth is, part of me straightens my spine a little taller when someone whispers.
Not because I need his protection. But because I know if the world tries to take another swing at me—well, there’s a six-foot-four multimillionaire contractor with a filthy mouth and a terrifying temper who will step in front of it.
And that doesn’t feel so bad. But even better? Even stranger than that truth?
J.T. sees me. He sees all of me and he still wants me.
He doesn’t make me smaller. He doesn’t dim me. He amplifies me. He backs me up. And he takes me exactly as I come.
And that’s the part I’m still getting used to.
Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like a woman scrambling to hold her life together. I feel wanted. Claimed. Chosen. And powerful in my own right.
Now, that might scare the sawmill guys. But it doesn’t scare me.
So, yeah, J.T. is one of a kind. And Mom and Dad are happy for me, and I don’t blame them.
I spared them the steamier details, of course. They know enough about what Mike did.
The money. The cheating. The second mortgage I didn’t know about. The way he left.
We’re not the kind of family who gets all up in each other’s business, but we’re pretty close knit. And part of me is glad—deeply glad—that J.T. insisted on a real wedding.
Mike and I had a courthouse ceremony. Quick. Cheap. Followed by breakfast.
We didn’t have much then. Everything we earned came after that. And really, Mike wasn’t big on earning. He always had some problem or other that forced him to quit jobs or be out of work for months on end.
Always another health issue. Or he wasn’t getting along with people. Too much was expected of him.
That kind of thing. Yeah, Mike really wasn’t big on hard work at all.
I was always the breadwinner.
The sawmill was left to me and Thatcher after our dad retired, but Thatcher built it up, really. He made sure I had my fair share and profits.
I still work there, but my income mostly comes from my ownership stake.
For a fleeting second, I wonder if that will change. If J.T. expects me to stop working.
To step back. To let him “take care” of me in a way that shrinks my world.
Something tells me no. But I’ll ask him about it anyway. Because this time, I won’t just assume. I’m not going to be a passive player in this relationship like I was before.
Right now, I’m standing in his beautiful house with his arms wrapped around me, watching my son laugh under the glow of patio lights, and I feel something stronger than doubt.
I feel anchored.
For better or worse.
I’m in this.
And in no time at all the organist will start the march, and it’ll be “Here Comes the Bride” for real.
Funny thing is I’m not nervous about it. Not like I was the first time I got married. Not when I didn’t know what I was getting into.
I’ve known J.T. for years. Know what he’s like. And with him, I feel eager, excited, and maybe a little bit happy.
The evening settles soft and golden over J.T.’s property, the kind of quiet mountain dusk that makes everything feel slower, gentler.
My mind replays dinner tonight. It had been simple—pasta, roasted chicken, and the salad J.T. insists makes him feel “less like a caveman.”
Evan ate like an ogre. Two full bowls of pasta and talked more than I’ve heard him talk in days, asking J.T. questions about the goats, the swans, the old barn, and whether the chickens really know their own names.
Now the three of us are walking through the backyard.
The air smells like pine and warm earth, and somewhere in the distance I can hear the faint rush of the creek that runs along the lower edge of the property.
The mountains surrounding Woodhaven are painted in shades of blue and lavender as the sun dips lower behind them.
Evan walks ahead of us, his sneakers kicking lightly at the dirt path as we pass the goat enclosure.
“Hey!” he laughs when one of the smaller goats sticks its nose through the fence.
“That one’s Peanut,” J.T. says beside me.
Evan turns, eyes wide. “You name them?”
J.T. shrugs like it’s no big deal, though I catch the hint of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
“Some, but Maddox did most of that. I just feed ‘em.”
Evan crouches near the fence, and the goat sniffs at his fingers.
“He’s funny,” Evan says.
“He’s an asshole. He’ll eat your shoes while you’re still wearing them,” J.T. replies dryly.
Evan bursts out laughing.
My heart squeezes.
We keep walking past the pens and toward the far edge of the property where the trees thin out around a small clearing.
The pond sits there like a piece of glass, reflecting the sky as twilight creeps across the mountain.
Two white shapes glide slowly across the water.
The swans.
Evan stops so suddenly, I nearly bump into him.
“Whoa.”
His voice drops to a whisper.
“They’re huge.”
J.T. nods, resting his hands on his hips as he watches the birds.
“They’ve been here a while.”
“Do they live here all the time?” Evan asks.
“Yeah.”
Evan studies them, completely mesmerized as the pair drift toward the edge of the pond.
“They’re always together?” Evan says, but it’s more like a question.
“They are,” J.T. replies.
“Why?”
J.T. glances at me briefly before answering. I’ve heard this story, but it still makes my heart well every time he tells it.
“Well, you see, the female got hurt a few years back. Wing never healed right.”
Evan frowns.
“So she can’t fly?”
“Nope.”
Evan watches the swans more closely now.
“But the other one could, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Then why didn’t he leave?”
J.T. takes a slow breath, eyes following the male swan as it glides protectively beside the female.
“Guess he didn’t want to.”
Evan tilts his head.
“Because they’re friends?”
J.T. huffs softly.
“Something like that.”
Evan considers this with the seriousness only a ten-year-old can muster.
“That’s kinda cool.”
“Yeah,” J.T. says quietly. “It is.”
The male swan drifts closer to shore, its long neck curving elegantly as it studies us.
Evan inches forward, eyes glowing with fascination.
“Can I feed them sometime?”
J.T. nods.
“Sure. We’ll bring some cracked corn down. They love it.”
Evan beams.
“Really?”
“Yep.”
Evan looks up at him like J.T. just handed him the keys to the kingdom.
“Awesome!”
J.T. ruffles the boy’s hair lightly.
And Evan doesn’t pull away.
The moment is small. So small it would be easy to miss. But it hits me straight in the chest.
The fading light reflects across the pond, painting the water silver and gold while the swans drift quietly through it.
Evan starts peppering J.T. with questions again—about the barn, the goats, whether he can help collect eggs from the chickens.
J.T. answers each one patiently, his deep voice calm and steady beside us.
And as I stand there watching them—my son and the man I’m about to marry—I feel something inside me settle.
For the first time in a long while home doesn’t feel fragile anymore.
It feels whole.