Page 2 of Big and Grumpy (Big Boys Love Curves #2)

two

Holt

The next morning, I wake to the sound of something breaking outside Marigold's cabin. Through my kitchen window, I can see that a branch has fallen across her little front porch during the night, taking out one of the support posts and leaving the whole structure looking distinctly unsafe.

I should mind my own business. Should let her figure this out on her own, or call someone from town. The last thing I need is to get more involved with my aggressively cheerful neighbor who makes me want things I gave up on two years ago.

But the thought of her getting hurt trying to fix this herself has me reaching for my tools before I can think better of it.

I grab my chainsaw and cross the clearing, noting how she's standing on her front steps with her hands on her hips, clearly trying to figure out how to safely remove the branch without bringing the whole porch down.

"Don't touch anything," I call out as I approach.

She turns to see me with my chainsaw, and something in her expression shifts from frustration to relief.

"I wasn't going to!"

"Good. That post's load-bearing. If you try to move that branch without proper support, the whole thing'll come down."

I set down the chainsaw and walk around the porch, examining the damage with the practiced eye of someone who knows what he's looking at.

The damage is worse than it looks from a distance.

The branch is massive, probably a hundred years old, and it's taken out not just the post but part of the roof structure.

This is going to take most of the morning to fix properly.

"How bad is it?" she asks, and I can hear the worry in her voice despite her attempts to sound upbeat.

"Bad enough. The whole porch needs to be re-supported before I can remove the branch." I'm already mentally cataloging what I'll need from my workshop. "Going to take a few hours."

"Oh." Her face falls. "I should probably call someone from town then. I don't want to impose—"

"Already here," I say gruffly, not meeting her eyes. "Might as well get it done."

The truth is, I can't stand the thought of some stranger from town coming out here, maybe taking advantage of a woman who doesn't know better. At least this way I can make sure it's done right.

"Thank you," she says softly, and something in her tone makes me look up. For just a moment, our eyes meet, and there's genuine gratitude there, like she's not used to people helping without expecting something in return.

"Don't mention it," I mutter, already turning toward my cabin. "I'll get my tools."

When I return with an impressive array of tools and supplies, she's waiting with a fresh pot of coffee and a determined smile.

"I made coffee," she announces. "And before you say you're too busy, consider this: I make the best coffee in three provinces, and you're doing me a huge favor. The least I can do is keep you caffeinated."

I pause in my work to look at her. "Three provinces is a pretty bold claim."

"I'm a pretty bold woman."

She's not kidding about the coffee. It's rich and perfectly brewed, with just enough bite to wake the dead. I find myself accepting a second cup despite my better judgment, and when she offers me one of those chocolate chip cookies I rejected yesterday, I take that too.

It's as good as it smelled. Better, even.

"These are..." I start, then stop myself before I can admit how long it's been since I've had anything homemade.

"My grandmother's recipe," Marigold says, settling on the porch steps to watch me work. "She always said the secret was using real vanilla and not skimping on the chocolate chips."

"Smart woman."

"The smartest. She's the one who taught me that there's no problem that can't be improved with good coffee and better cookies."

I can feel her watching me as I work, but it's not the kind of attention that makes me want to retreat.

She asks intelligent questions about the repair process and offers to help in ways that are actually useful.

More than that, she seems content to sit in comfortable silence when I need to concentrate.

It's been a long time since I've had company that didn't feel like an intrusion.

"You do this professionally?" she asks during one of my coffee breaks.

"Used to. I had my own construction business until..." I stop abruptly, jaw tightening. "Now I just fix things around the property."

There's understanding in her eyes, but she doesn't push for details. Instead, she refills my coffee cup and offers another cookie.

"Well, I'm grateful you know what you're doing. I probably would have brought the whole porch down trying to move that branch myself."

"Probably," I agree, but there's no mockery in it. "City folk usually do."

"Hey now, I'm not completely helpless. I can change a tire and jumpstart a car and program a universal remote."

"Universal remote?"

"Don't underestimate that skill. I once saved Christmas by figuring out how to get my uncle's new TV to work with his ancient cable box."

For the first time since she's moved in, I almost smile.

As I work on replacing the broken support post, I remember how Orson helped me build this section of the porch years ago.

My quiet cousin is handy with tools, though most people don't realize it since he spends so much time on his fitness training.

We spent a weekend putting in these posts, making sure they were properly anchored for Alberta winters.

"This post was actually installed by my cousin Orson and me about five years ago," I find myself saying as I examine the break. "Strong guy. Could probably hold up the whole roof himself if he needed to."

"Is he the one who stopped by yesterday?"

"No, that was Boone. He's the... energetic one. Orson's the quiet one. Lives on the other side of town."

"Sounds like quite a family."

"They're decent enough. For cousins."

By the time I finish the repairs, it's well past noon and I've consumed more coffee and cookies than I have in the past month combined. The porch is solid now, better than it was before the branch fell, and Marigold has spent the morning being surprisingly good company.

Not that I'm admitting that out loud.

"All set," I say, packing up my tools. "Should hold for another fifty years or so."

"How much do I owe you?" she asks, reaching for her purse.

The question irritates me more than it should. "Nothing. Neighbors help neighbors."

"At least let me pay for materials—"

"I said nothing." My voice comes out harsher than I meant it to, and I see her flinch slightly. "Don't need your money."

Her expression shifts from grateful to hurt, and something in my chest tightens uncomfortably. I grab my toolbox and head for my cabin before I can say something even stupider.

"Thank you," she calls after me, her voice quiet now. "Really. I appreciate it."

I don't turn around, don't acknowledge her thanks. But as I reach my own porch, I can't resist one glance back. She's standing in front of her newly repaired porch, looking small and alone, and the sight bothers me more than I want to admit.

I tell myself it's not my problem. I didn't ask for a neighbor, and I sure as hell didn't ask for one who makes me want things I gave up on two years ago.

But that night, as I lie in bed listening to the silence, I find myself wondering what Marigold is doing in her cabin across the clearing, and whether she's as content with solitude as she pretends to be.

In the distance, I hear the faint sound of Boone's four-wheeler, probably showing off for some tourist he's picked up in town.

The sound reminds me that I need to call Jake at the hardware store tomorrow to see if my special order of imported hinges has arrived.

Jake's been holding my orders for years, ever since the divorce, when I couldn't bear to go into town and face the pitying looks.

"Damn it," I mutter to the empty room. When did I become the town hermit?