Page 4 of Big and Brawny (Big Boys Love Curves #3)

four

Orson

By Friday morning, training with Bronte has become the highlight of my week.

She's everything I could want in a training partner—focused, dedicated, and knowledgeable enough to hold real conversations about programming and technique.

More than that, she brings an energy to my gym that I didn't realize had been missing.

Wednesday's breakfast at May's had stretched into a two-hour conversation that had nothing to do with training and everything to do with getting to know each other.

I learned that Bronte moved to Whitepine after a bad breakup, that she's a talented graphic designer who splits her time between the bakery and freelance clients, and that her laugh is the most addictive sound I've ever heard.

Watching her lift is becoming a problem, though. Not because her form is bad—quite the opposite. She moves with a confidence and power that's incredibly attractive, and the sounds she makes during heavy sets are doing things to my concentration that have nothing to do with fitness.

"Spot me on the bench?" she asks, settling under the barbell loaded with what I know is a personal record attempt for her.

"Of course." I position myself behind the bar, close enough to assist if needed but trying not to notice how the position gives me a perfect view of her determined expression.

"This is either going to be really good or really embarrassing," she says, settling her grip on the bar.

"You've got this. The weight moved easy on your warm-ups."

She takes a deep breath, unracks the weight, and descends with perfect control. For a moment at the bottom, I think she might struggle, but then she drives through her heels and powers the weight back up with authority.

"Yes!" she shouts, racking the weight with a huge grin. "Did you see that? That was smooth!"

Her excitement is infectious, and I find myself grinning back. "Told you you had it. That was a beautiful lift."

She sits up on the bench, face flushed with exertion and triumph, and I have to take a step back because she's never looked more beautiful than she does right now—glowing with accomplishment and completely in her element.

"Personal record," she says, pulling out her phone to log the lift. "God, I love this feeling. Like I could conquer the world."

"That's what good lifting does. Makes you feel invincible."

"Is that why you got into powerlifting? For the feeling?"

I consider the question while stripping plates from her bar. "Partly. But also because it's honest. The weight doesn't care about your job or your relationships or what kind of day you're having. It just is what it is, and either you're strong enough to move it or you're not."

"Sounds like there's a story there."

There is a story, but it's not one I usually share. Something about the way Bronte is looking at me—interested but not pushy—makes me want to tell her anyway.

"I wasn't always this big," I say finally.

"Grew up as the skinny kid who got picked on.

Started lifting in high school as a way to level the playing field.

" I pause, loading another plate with more force than necessary.

"Had an older brother who was everything I wasn't—athletic, popular, confident.

When he died in a motorcycle accident my senior year, I guess I threw myself into training as a way to deal with losing him.

Wanted to build something that couldn't be taken away. "

Her expression softens with understanding. "I'm sorry about your brother," she says quietly. "That must have been devastating."

"It was. But the training... It helped. Gave me something to focus on when everything else felt out of control." I meet her eyes. "What about you? What got you into lifting?"

"Actually, it was kind of the opposite reason.

I spent my whole life feeling like I didn't have control over my body—like I was destined to be the 'big girl' and should just accept it.

" She sits up straighter on the bench. "Then I found this trainer who specialized in body-positive fitness.

He showed me that I could be strong and powerful exactly as I am.

That I didn't have to get smaller to be worthy of taking up space. "

Her voice holds a quiet conviction that makes my chest tight. I've seen too many people—women especially—punish themselves in the gym, trying to shrink or change or fix what they think is wrong with them.

"Strong is definitely better than small," I say firmly.

"Tell that to the guys who used to suggest I'd be 'really pretty if I just lost some weight.'"

The casual way she mentions it makes me want to find those guys and introduce them to some of the heavier plates in my gym.

"Their loss," I say, meaning every word.

Something in my tone makes her look up sharply, and for a moment our eyes meet across the gym. The air between us feels charged, like the moment before a storm breaks.

"Orson," she says softly, and her voice has a quality I haven't heard before.

"Yeah?"

"Nothing. Just... Thank you. For this, for letting me train here. It means more than you know."

"Thank you for asking. I'd forgotten how much better training is with good company."

We finish our workouts in comfortable silence, but there's an awareness between us that wasn't there before. When Bronte bends to pick up a plate, I catch myself watching the curve of her waist. When I'm doing overhead presses, I notice her eyes tracking the movement of my shoulders.

"I saw your cousin in town yesterday," she says as we're cleaning up. "At least, I think it was your cousin. Tall, dark-haired, actually smiling while helping a small woman with bright yellow boots load furniture into a truck?"

I laugh. "That would be Holt and Marigold. The yellow boots are a dead giveaway. She's always wearing something colorful. Completely transformed him in just a few months—he used to be the grumpiest man in town."

"They looked happy. It's nice to see."

"It is. Though it took some getting used to, seeing Holt smile so much. My other cousin, Boone, has been giving him endless grief about it." I pause, considering my next words carefully. "They met back in August, right around when Boone met Savannah. It's been a whirlwind for both of them."

"That's... fast," Bronte says, her eyebrows raised.

"Hartwell men tend to know what they want when they find it," I say, then immediately feel heat rise to my face at the implication. "I mean—"

"I get it," she says, her smile gentle. "When it's right, it's right."

"Yeah." I clear my throat. "Are you planning to go to the Harvest Festival this weekend? The whole town turns out for it, and May's Diner does a special menu."

"I was thinking about it. I signed up to help with the bakery's booth, but only for the morning shift."

"Maybe I could meet you there? After your shift?" The question comes out before I can overthink it.

Her smile is radiant. "I'd like that. I finish at noon."

"I'll be there."

As we walk toward the door, I notice Bronte shiver slightly. The morning is chilly, and she's only wearing a light jacket over her workout clothes.

"Here," I say, reaching for my flannel shirt that's hanging by the door. "Take this."

"Oh, I'm fine, really—"

"Please. It's getting colder, and you have a drive back to your place." I hold the shirt out to her. "I have plenty."

She accepts it with a soft "thank you," and something about seeing her in my clothes makes my chest tight. The shirt is large on her, but she wraps it around herself like it's precious.

"See you tomorrow at the festival?" she asks, pausing at her car.

"Noon, by the bakery booth. I'll be there."

I watch her drive away, her hand raised in a wave, and realize I'm standing in my driveway smiling like an idiot.

I haven't felt this way about anyone in a long time—maybe ever.

There's something about Bronte that makes me want things I'd given up on, makes me think about possibilities I'd long since abandoned.

My phone buzzes in my pocket with a text from Boone: Don't forget, engagement dinner tonight. 7pm. And bring that gym girl you've been smiling about.

I shake my head, but can't stop smiling. Her name is Bronte. And we're not at that stage yet.

His response is immediate: Yet being the operative word. See you at 7.

As I head back inside to shower and get ready for the day, I can't help but wonder what it would be like to bring Bronte to family dinner. To introduce her to my cousins officially, to see her interact with Marigold and Savannah. The thought makes my stomach flutter with anticipation.

But first, the Harvest Festival. Tomorrow at noon. I'm already counting the hours.