Page 6 of Big and Brawny (Big Boys Love Curves #3)

six

Orson

I wake to the unfamiliar but perfect sensation of Bronte curled against me, her dark hair spread across my pillow and her soft curves pressed against my side.

For a moment, I just watch her sleep, unable to believe that this is real—that this incredible woman is in my bed, that last night wasn't just another fantasy.

Then she stirs, her eyes fluttering open, and the smile that spreads across her face when she sees me is enough to make my heart stutter in my chest.

"Morning," she murmurs, her voice husky with sleep.

"Morning," I reply, unable to keep the smile from my face. "Sleep okay?"

"Better than okay." She stretches, catlike, and I have to suppress a groan at the way her body moves against mine. "What time is it?"

I glance at the clock. "Just after six."

"Mmm, perfect timing for a workout," she says with a mischievous smile, sliding her hand down my chest.

What follows is even better than last night—slower, more knowing, now that we've learned each other's bodies.

I take my time with her, worshipping every curve and valley, drawing sounds from her that I'll remember for the rest of my life.

When we finally come together, it's with a perfect synchronicity that leaves us both breathless and dazed.

"I think that counts as cardio," Bronte says afterward, her head on my chest and her fingers tracing patterns on my skin.

I laugh, the sound rumbling through my chest. "Definitely. Though I still owe you pancakes."

"Pancakes can wait," she says, looking up at me with a softness that makes my pulse spike. "This is nice."

We stay in bed for another hour, talking and touching and occasionally dozing. It's the most peaceful morning I've had in years, maybe ever. There's something about Bronte that centers me, that makes me feel both strong and gentle in a way I never have before.

Eventually, hunger drives us to the kitchen. I make good on my pancake promise while Bronte perches on the counter, wearing nothing but one of my t-shirts, which falls almost to her knees.

"So," she says as we eat at the kitchen island, "what happens now?"

The question is casual, but I can hear the uncertainty beneath it. I set down my fork, giving her my full attention.

"What do you want to happen?" I ask carefully.

"I want..." She pauses, seeming to gather her courage. "I want more mornings like this. More nights like last night. More of you, Orson."

Relief and joy flood through me. "That's exactly what I want too."

"But?" she prompts, clearly sensing my hesitation.

"No but," I assure her, reaching across the counter to take her hand. "I just want to make sure you know what you're getting into. The Hartwell men have a reputation in this town—when we commit to something, we go all in. I'm not built for casual, Bronte."

Her smile is slow and beautiful. "Neither am I."

"Good," I say firmly. "Because I'm already falling for you, and it would be awkward if you were just in this for the excellent pancakes and convenient gym access."

She laughs, the sound bright and joyful. "The pancakes are a bonus. The gym is a nice perk. But you, Orson Hartwell, are the real prize here."

"I have to go to my cousins' engagement dinner tonight," I tell her. "Would you... would you want to come with me?"

Her eyes widen slightly. "To meet your family? Officially?"

"If it's too soon—"

"No," she interrupts, rising on her toes to press a quick kiss to my lips. "I'd love to. As long as you're prepared for the inevitable teasing from your cousins."

I feel something settle in my chest—a certainty I've never experienced before. I've spent years building my body, creating a physical strength that made me feel safe and in control. But Bronte makes me strong in a different way, a better way.

My phone buzzes with a text from Boone: So? Festival details please. Did you finally make a move?

I smile as I type my response: She's coming to dinner tonight. Be nice.

His reply is immediate: FINALLY! Savannah owes me $20. She thought you'd wait another week. I knew that gym girl was special.

I shake my head, but can't stop smiling. Her name is Bronte. And yes, she's special.

More special than he could possibly understand. More special than I deserve, probably. But I'm not going to question this gift the universe has given me. I'm just going to cherish it, nurture it, and see where it leads.

That evening, I pick Bronte up at her cottage, her simple dress hugging her curves in a way that nearly stops my heart. During the drive to my cousins', I can't help reaching over to touch her hand, needing to confirm this isn't just another dream.

Boone answers the door before I can knock. "Well, well. Look who finally joined the Hartwell Happily Committed Club!"

"Ignore him," I tell Bronte. "Everyone else does."

Dinner is a revelation. My family welcomes Bronte like she's always belonged, and she fits seamlessly—laughing at Boone's jokes, engaging with Holt's dry observations, and connecting with Marigold and Savannah as if they've known each other for years.

"So," Marigold asks over dessert, "are you joining the Winter Festival committee? We need your design skills."

"I'd love to help," Bronte says without hesitation.

"Consider yourself recruited," Savannah grins. "Once you're in, you're in for life."

"Speaking of traditions," Boone adds, "there's the Hartwell New Year's cabin trip. This year we're including our better halves."

I watch Bronte throughout, marveling at how naturally she fits into this circle. When she catches me staring, her smile is soft and private, just for me.

"What are you thinking?" she asks on the drive home.

"I'm thinking that was the best family dinner I've ever had," I admit. "And I'm thinking about how right you looked there, with all of us."

"It felt right," she says softly. "Your family is amazing."

"They liked you too. Marigold texted me under the table to say you're 'absolutely perfect.'"

At her cottage, I find myself reluctant to leave. The thought of returning to my empty house after today is more depressing than I want to admit.

"Do you want to come in?" Bronte asks, as if reading my mind.

Her cottage is exactly like her—warm and inviting with creative touches everywhere. I fall asleep with Bronte in my arms, surrounded by her scent, thinking about the future in a way I haven't allowed myself to in years.

Three weeks later, when her lease is up for renewal, I suggest she might consider a different living arrangement—specifically, moving into my house.

"On one condition," she says, arms around my neck. "I get to reorganize your protein powders. They're a mess."

"Deal," I agree, pulling her close. "Though I should warn you, my cousins will start wedding planning immediately."

"Let them," she says with a certainty that makes my heart race. "I'm not going anywhere, Orson Hartwell. You're stuck with me now."

"Promise?" I ask, more serious than intended.

Her expression softens as she cups my face. "I promise. This feels right—you and me. Like finding something I didn't even know I was looking for."

Six months later, when we're engaged and planning to expand the gym to accommodate both our training needs, I'll look back on this moment as the one where everything changed.

But tonight, all I know is that I'm exactly where I belong—holding the woman who sees my strength as something to admire rather than fear, in a space that's become sacred to both of us.