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

three

Marigold

The next few days pass quietly, but I find myself developing a new morning routine: coffee on my porch, where I have a perfect view of Holt's cabin and his daily wood-splitting ritual.

I tell myself I'm just enjoying the mountain air, but the truth is I'm hoping for another glimpse of my grumpy neighbor.

On Monday morning, I leave a plate of blueberry lemon muffins on his porch with a note: Thanks for everything. Hope you like them! - M

I watch from my kitchen window as he discovers them, sees him pause to read the note before taking the plate inside. A few hours later, I find the empty plate on my porch with a simple "Thanks" scrawled on the back of my note.

Tuesday brings homemade bread. Wednesday, it's soup that's still warm in a thermos, with crackers and a little container of honey butter. Each time, the plate or container comes back clean, sometimes with a brief note of thanks.

By Thursday, I'm starting to look forward to these small exchanges more than I should. I'm not trying to win him over with food—I'm really not. It's just that cooking for one person is depressing, and I've always been someone who shows appreciation through action rather than words.

That afternoon, I decide to venture into town for supplies.

Whitepine is small but charming, with a main street that looks like it belongs in a Hallmark movie.

The general store doubles as a post office, and the woman behind the counter—Mrs. Patterson, according to her name tag—smiles warmly when I introduce myself.

"So you're the city girl who rented the old Hartwell cabin," she says, ringing up my groceries. "How are you finding our little corner of the world?"

"It's beautiful," I say honestly. "Exactly what I needed."

"And how's Holt treating you? That man's been a bear ever since his divorce. Not that I blame him, mind you, after what happened."

I'm instantly curious, but too polite to pry directly. "He's been... helpful. Fixed my porch when a branch fell on it."

Mrs. Patterson's eyebrows shoot up. "Did he now? Well, wonders never cease." She leans in conspiratorially. "That's more than he's done for anyone in town for the past two years. You must have made quite an impression."

***

That afternoon, I see him outside splitting wood with the same methodical precision he brings to everything else. On impulse, I grab a plate of oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and head across the clearing before I can talk myself out of it.

"Afternoon snack?" I offer, holding up the plate.

He stops mid-swing, looking at me with something that might be exasperation. "You don't have to keep feeding me."

"I know I don't have to. I want to." I set the plate on his porch railing. "Besides, they're oatmeal chocolate chip. I made too many."

"You always make too much?"

"Occupational hazard of being an optimistic baker."

He sets down his axe and reaches for a cookie, and I notice his hands are steady and strong, with calluses that speak to years of hard work.

"These are good," he admits after the first bite.

"Don't sound so surprised."

"Not surprised. Just..." He pauses, seeming to struggle with the words. "Haven't had anyone cook for me in a while."

The admission slips out before he can stop it, and I feel my expression soften with understanding.

"Divorce is hard," I say quietly. "Even when it's for the best."

"Who says it was for the best?"

"The fact that you're here instead of there."

My simple logic seems to hit him harder than expected. The truth is, I'm guessing his divorce was probably the best thing that could have happened to him—he just hadn't been ready to admit it at the time.

"What about you?" he asks, more to change the subject than because he needs to know. "Ever been married?"

"Engaged. Caught him cheating three weeks before the wedding." I say it matter-of-factly, though the old hurt still stings. "Turns out planning a life with someone who's planning a different life with someone else doesn't work out well."

"Bastard."

The word comes out with more heat than he seems to have intended, and I look up in surprise at the genuine anger in his voice.

"Yeah," I say softly. "He was."

We stand there in comfortable silence, two people who've been burned by love and are still figuring out how to trust again.

"I should let you get back to your wood," I say eventually, though I'm reluctant to break the moment.

"Yeah." But Holt doesn't immediately pick up his axe. "Marigold?"

"Yes?"

"Thanks. For the cookies. For all of it."

His voice is gruff, almost embarrassed, like he's not used to expressing gratitude. But there's something in his eyes that makes my breath catch—a warmth that hadn't been there before.

"You're welcome," I say softly.

That evening, I'm working on my laptop when I see a light come on in Holt's cabin. Through his kitchen window, I can see him moving around, probably making his solitary dinner. The sight makes me sad in a way I can't quite explain.

On impulse, I grab my phone and send a text to the number he'd given me in case of emergencies: Made too much chili. Want some?

The response comes back almost immediately: On my way.

By the time he arrives at my door, I've set the table for two and opened a bottle of wine. He's wearing the same jeans and flannel from earlier, but his hair is damp like he's just showered, and he smells like soap and something woodsy that's entirely him.

"Perfect timing," I say, stepping aside to let him in. "I just finished making cornbread to go with it."

His cabin may be stark and masculine, but mine smells like home—like cinnamon and vanilla and something indefinably warm. I see him pause in my doorway, seeming to take in the cozy atmosphere.

"You didn't have to go to all this trouble," he says, accepting the bowl I hand him.

"It wasn't trouble. I like cooking for people."

"People in general, or people specifically?"

The question comes out more loaded than I think he intended, and I feel heat creep up my neck.

"Depends on the people," I say softly.

We eat at my small kitchen table, and for the first time since I moved here, the cabin doesn't feel too big or too quiet. Holt is more relaxed than I've seen him before, asking questions about my work and actually seeming interested in the answers.

"Marketing consulting," he says, shaking his head. "Can't say I understand it, but it must pay well if you can afford to live out here and work remotely."

"Well enough. And after my engagement ended, I realized I didn't need a big salary to support someone else's expensive tastes." I take a sip of wine, noting how Holt had accepted a glass without hesitation. "What about you? You mentioned you used to have a construction business."

His expression immediately shuts down, and I realize I've stepped on a landmine.

"Used to," he says curtly.

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry."

He looks at me for a long moment, then seems to make a decision.

"Had a business in Whitepine. Hartwell Construction.

Built custom homes, mostly, some commercial work.

Made this cabin when I was just starting out, before everything was official.

Got hooked." His voice is carefully controlled.

"Ex-wife was my business partner. When the marriage ended, so did the company. "

The bitterness in his voice is unmistakable, and suddenly his guardedness makes perfect sense. I want to ask what happened, want to offer comfort or understanding, but something in his expression suggests the subject is firmly closed.

"That must have been devastating," I say quietly.

"It was." The simple acknowledgment seems to lift some weight off his shoulders. "Spent ten years building something I thought would last forever, only to watch it disappear in a matter of months."

I reach across the table and cover his hand with mine. The contact is simple, comforting, but I feel him tense at the touch.

"I'm sorry," I say. "For what it's worth, I think she was an idiot to let you go."

He looks down at our joined hands, and I see something shift in his expression. "You don't even know me."

"I know enough." My voice is soft but certain. "I know you're kind enough to fix a stranger's porch. I know you take pride in your work. I know you make me feel safe in a way I haven't felt in a long time."

The words slip out before I can stop them, more honest than I intended. But looking into Holt's eyes, seeing the surprise and something that might be hope, I don't regret them.

When he finally stands to leave, I walk him to the door, reluctant to let the evening end.

"Thank you for dinner," he says, pausing on my porch. "And for... listening."

We're standing close now, close enough that I can see the flecks of gold in his dark eyes, can smell the clean scent of his soap. For a moment, I think he might kiss me, and my breath catches in anticipation.

Instead, he reaches up and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear, his touch gentle and brief. "Goodnight, Marigold."

"Goodnight, Holt."

As I watch him walk back to his cabin, I press my fingers to my cheek where he touched me and admit what I've been trying to deny all week: I'm falling for my grumpy neighbor, and I have no idea what to do about it.