Page 207 of The Lumberjack and the City Slicker

My pulse kicks.

Because I’ve heard stories about this man.

J.T. Lawrence Construction—top builder in the state, ruthless as hell, the kind of name that makes people straighten their backs when they say it.

He kept the mill afloat back when Thatcher was barely old enough to shave and his father was still trying to figure out how not to lose everything.

Lawrence has power.

And power—real power—always comes with teeth.

“Kelly,” he says, and my name coming out of his mouth makes it feel like a contract. “You deserve more than survival mode.”

My throat tightens, and I hate it.

Hate that he can say one sentence and hit a bruise I’ve been pretending isn’t there.

“I’m fine,” I lie automatically.

He watches me for a long moment.

Then, slowly, he slides something across the table.

A card.

Minimal. Crisp. Raised lettering.

A private number.

My stomach drops.

“What is this?” I ask.

“It’s a direct line,” he says. “For when you decide you’re done playing nice.”

My heart stutters.

I should be offended.

Should be scared.

Should shove it back and tell him to go to hell.

But then I think of Evan’s college fund—Evan’s future—being ripped away like it was nothing.

I think of the way Mike looked at me when he left.

Like I was an inconvenience.

A burden.

I think of Stormee’s smug face, probably wearing Mike’s robe or some miniscule piece of clothing I could use as a dish towel in their new house.

And something in me hardens.

“Why do you care?” I demand. “You barely know me.”

Lawrence leans in slightly, voice dropping so no one else can hear.