Because that’s ridiculous.
I’m forty-two.A middle-aged divorcee with stretch marks and a kid, and a whole damn pile of baggage.My ex literally left me for a girl who still had acne.
And this man?
This man could have anyone.
Young women who look like they belong on yachts in bikinis.
Women with perfect bodies and smooth skin and none of the scars life leaves behind.
Not a sawmill girl who’s been chewed up and spit out by a twenty-seven-year relationship, nineteen of which I’d spent married to a man who apparently didn’t even like me.
But J.T.keeps looking at me.
Really looking.
Not past me.
Not through me.
Atme.
“I want you, Kelly.”His voice drops low, rough enough that it skates down my spine like a spark.“Why the hell wouldn’t I want you?”
I blink at him, stunned by the sheer certainty in his tone.
“J.T., come on,” I say weakly, heat creeping up my neck.“I’m too old for?—”
“Too old?”he cuts in, the words sharp with disbelief.“Woman, I’m fifty-five years old.I know exactly what I like.”
Then his gaze moves over me.
Slowly.
Not politely.Not the quick, dismissive glance most men give a woman my age before their attention drifts somewhere younger and tighter.
No—this is deliberate.Intentional.
His eyes travel from my face down to my mouth, over the curve of my shoulders, lingering in a way that makes my stomach flip.
I feel it everywhere—that look.
Like heat spreading across my skin.
And suddenly I’m hyperaware of everything about myself.
The way my dress emphasizes my hips.
The way my pulse is fluttering in my throat.
The way his attention makes me feel.
Nervous.Hot.Needy.
I actually tremble under it.
“I’ve wanted you for years,” he says quietly.
