Page 2 of Big and Brawny (Big Boys Love Curves #3)

two

Orson

I lead Bronte toward my home gym, trying not to notice the way her purple workout clothes hug her curves or how her enthusiasm about lifting makes her practically glow.

I've been watching her from a distance for months.

Sometimes catching glimpses of her when she's out for her morning runs, noting the confidence in the way she carries herself—but this is the first real conversation we've ever had.

She's not what I expected. More knowledgeable about training, more passionate about fitness, and definitely more beautiful up close than I'd allowed myself to notice.

The gym takes up what used to be the detached garage after I converted it and connected it to the main house.

It's my pride and joy—a full power rack, Olympic plates, adjustable benches, and enough equipment to train every muscle group effectively.

I've spent three years building it piece by piece, creating the perfect training environment.

"Holy shit," Bronte breathes, then immediately claps a hand over her mouth. "Sorry.”

"Don't apologize. That's exactly the reaction I was hoping for."

She walks into the space like she's entering a cathedral, her eyes wide as she takes in the equipment. "This is incredible. Is that a competition-grade power rack?"

"Yeah. Got it used from a gym that was upgrading." I can't keep the pride out of my voice. "The plates are all calibrated, and the barbell is a proper Olympic bar."

"This is better than most commercial gyms." She runs her hand along the barbell with genuine appreciation.

The fact that she knows the difference between a cheap barbell and quality equipment tells me more about her training background than I'd expected. Most people wouldn't recognize the setup I've invested in.

"I compete sometimes," I admit. "Powerlifting. Local meets, nothing too serious."

"Nothing too serious?" She turns to look at me with clear admiration. "What are your numbers?"

I tell her my personal records, watching her eyes widen as she does the mental math.

"Jesus, Orson. Those are elite numbers."

"Not elite. Just dedicated."

She looks around the gym again, then back at me. "And you'd really let me train here? I promise I'd be respectful of your equipment and your space."

The hopeful note in her voice does something to my chest. The truth is, I've been training alone for years, and the thought of having a training partner—especially one who clearly understands and respects the iron, and is cute and curvy and sweet. It’s more appealing than I want to admit.

"What does your program look like?" I ask.

She pulls out her phone and shows me her training log, and I'm impressed despite myself. Her programming is intelligent, her progression logical, and her form notes suggest she takes the technical aspects seriously.

"This is solid work," I say, handing back her phone. "Who wrote your program?"

"Wayne, my trainer at the gym. But I've been learning to write my own variations." She bites her lower lip, a gesture I try not to find as appealing as I do. "I know it's not as advanced as what you're probably doing..."

"It doesn't need to be advanced. It needs to be appropriate for your goals and experience level. This is perfect."

The relief on her face is unmistakable. "So that's a yes? You'd let me train here?"

I should probably think about this more.

Should consider the implications of having Bronte Laurent in my space three times a week, wearing those form-fitting workout clothes and making the kinds of sounds that serious lifting requires.

But looking at her hopeful expression, I find myself nodding before I can overthink it.

"Monday, Wednesday, Friday mornings work for you? I usually train around six."

"Six is perfect. I'm an early riser anyway." Her smile is brilliant. "Thank you, Orson. You have no idea how much this means to me."

Actually, I think I do. Training has been my sanctuary for years, the one place where I feel completely in control. The thought of losing that would devastate me.

She then glances around the gym again. "Can I ask what got you into powerlifting?"

The question catches me off guard. Most people assume I lift because I'm naturally big, like it's just an extension of genetics rather than years of dedicated work.

"Control, I guess," I say finally. "There's something pure about it. You put in the work, you get stronger. No politics, no games, just iron and effort."

Something in my voice must resonate with her, because her expression softens with understanding.

"I get that," she says quietly. "For me, it's about proving to myself that my body is capable of incredible things, regardless of what society thinks it should look like."

The honesty in her admission makes my chest tighten.

I've spent years in gyms where people train for all the wrong reasons—to punish themselves, to conform to impossible standards, to fix what they think is broken.

Hearing Bronte talk about strength training as self-respect rather than self-improvement is refreshing in a way I didn't expect.

"That's exactly the right attitude," I say, meaning every word.

"Thanks." She finishes her coffee and sets down the mug. "I should probably let you get back to your day. And Orson?" She pauses at my front door. "Thank you. Really. You're saving my sanity."

After she leaves, I find myself standing in my gym, looking at the space with fresh eyes. For three years, it's been my private sanctuary, the one place that's entirely mine. Monday morning, I'll be sharing it with a woman who makes my pulse race just thinking about her.

I should probably be concerned about that. Instead, I find myself looking forward to Monday with an anticipation that has nothing to do with my workout schedule.

My phone buzzes with a text from Boone: Engagement dinner next Saturday. You better be there. Savannah's cooking.

I smile, remembering how my wild cousin had changed almost overnight after meeting Savannah on the mountain trails.

And now they're engaged, after only a few months together.

Just like Holt and Marigold, who had gone from grumpy neighbor and cheerful baker to inseparable in what felt like record time.

I walk to my front window and look down the lane toward Bronte's small cottage.

The curtains are drawn, but I can see her silhouette moving past the window, probably getting ready for her shift at the bakery.

I'm not sure what it is about her that's gotten under my skin so quickly.

Maybe it's the way she looks at training with the same reverence I do.

Maybe it's her smile, or the way she moves with such confidence despite the world constantly telling curvy women they should be smaller.

Whatever it is, I'm looking forward to Monday morning more than I've looked forward to anything in a long time.