Page 205 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

Whatever.

I don’t have the energy to be jealous of a girl who thinks stealing a married man is a personality.

I have a kid. I have a house. I have a life that I’m rebuilding with my bare hands and a lot of swearing.

Still, when Clara and Greyson cut the cake—her in that butter-yellow fairy gown, him looking like he could tear the world in half if anyone looked at her wrong—I feel something in my chest loosen.

It’s beautiful.

It’s real.

It’s the kind of love that doesn’t ask permission.

And I hate how much it makes me want things.

More wine, for starters.

Because fuck this whole fucking year.

“Mind if I join you?”

The voice is rough. Familiar.

I don’t have to look up to know who it is, but I do anyway—because I’m me, and I like to confirm which billionaire is about to ruin my peace.

Leonard J.T. Lawrence himself lowers into the chair beside me like he owns it.

Which, given the way that man operates, he probably thinks he owns the whole mountain.

“Suit yourself,” I mutter.

He looks strangely out of place up here.

The suit is expensive but understated.

The hair is silver at the temples. Long, but held back in a low ponytail.

The face is slightly lined and tanned in a way that says he’s spent a lifetime barking orders and sleeping three hours a night.

He smells faintly like cedar and cologne that costs more than my first car.

He watches the dance floor a moment, expression unreadable.

Then he glances at me.

“You look rough, Kelly.”

I snort. “Wow. Gold star for honesty.”

A corner of his mouth twitches like he might be amused against his will. “I’m not here to fight.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” I say, sipping my wine.

His gaze shifts to the tent, where Willow is spinning in a slow dance with Thatcher, her hand on her belly, laughing like she doesn’t have a single ounce of fear left in her body.

Then his eyes track to Greyson and Clara again.

“Your sister-in-law did good,” he says.