Page 4 of Big and Grumpy (Big Boys Love Curves #2)

four

Holt

The weather forecast calls for a massive storm system moving through the mountains—the kind of early winter storm that can knock out power for days and make the back roads impassable. I spend Friday morning securing everything that could blow away and making sure my generator is ready to go.

I'm stacking firewood on my covered porch when I see Marigold outside her cabin, struggling to move a heavy patio table that's definitely going to become a projectile if she leaves it where it is.

"Let me help with that," I call out, jogging across the clearing before she can hurt herself trying to wrestle the thing into her storage shed.

"I can manage," she says, but she's breathing hard and the table hasn't budged.

"I'm sure you can. But it'll be faster with two people." I grab one end of the table, noting how her cheeks are flushed with exertion. "This thing weighs more than you do."

"Are you calling me small?"

"I'm calling you smart enough not to give yourself a hernia over patio furniture."

We get the table secured, along with her outdoor chairs and a decorative wind chime that would definitely not survive what's coming. I move with efficient purpose, checking her cabin's storm preparations with the thoroughness of someone who's weathered his share of mountain storms.

"You've got enough food?" I ask, examining the heavy shutters someone had the foresight to install on the cabin's windows.

"I think so. Canned goods, bread, plenty of coffee."

"What about heat? This place have a backup heat source?"

She gestures toward the stone fireplace. "Fireplace works, and there's about half a cord of split wood in the shed."

"That's not enough." My expression grows grim as I look up at the darkening sky. "Storm this size could last two days, and if you lose power, that fireplace is going to be your only heat source."

"I can always come knock on your door if I run out."

The words are meant lightly, but something in my chest tightens at the thought of her alone in her cabin during a storm that could knock out power for days.

"Actually," I hear myself saying, "might be smarter if you just stayed at my place tonight. My cabin's bigger, better insulated, and I've got a wood-burning stove that'll heat the whole space."

The offer surprises me as much as it does her. I hadn't planned to ask—hadn't even consciously made the decision. But the thought of Marigold alone during what could be a dangerous storm makes every protective instinct I have flare to life.

"I couldn't impose like that," she says, but I can see her wavering.

"It's not an imposition. It's practical." I'm already mentally preparing the guest bedroom, making sure it's clean and comfortable. "Besides, if something goes wrong with your cabin, you'll be right next door instead of stuck here alone."

She bites her lower lip, considering. "You're sure you don't mind?"

"I'm sure."

What I don't say is that the thought of her company during what would otherwise be a long, lonely few days sounds like a gift I don't deserve.

"Okay," she says finally. "Let me pack a bag."

Twenty minutes later, she's standing in my living room with an overnight bag and a bottle of wine, looking suddenly nervous about what she's agreed to. My cabin is larger than hers, all dark wood and masculine furniture, with a massive stone fireplace and windows that showcase the wilderness views.

"Guest room's upstairs," I say, taking her bag with careful courtesy. "Bathroom's at the end of the hall. Make yourself at home."

My phone buzzes with a text, and I check it quickly.

"Your cousin?" Marigold asks, noticing my slight smile.

"Orson. Checking if I need anything before the roads close." I type a quick response. "He's the responsible one. Always making sure everyone's prepared."

"That's nice. Family looking out for each other."

"It's what we do." I pause, considering my next words carefully. "The town has a pretty good system for these storms. Everyone checks on their neighbors, the general store stays open as long as possible, and the community center becomes a shelter if needed. Been that way since before I was born."

"I like that."

"It's one of the good things about small towns. People may gossip, but they also show up when it matters."

The storm hits just after dinner, and it's every bit as vicious as the forecast predicted. Rain lashes the windows, wind howls through the trees, and just before nine o'clock, the power goes out with a finality that suggests it won't be coming back anytime soon.

"Well," Marigold says philosophically, settling deeper into the couch cushions. "Good thing you convinced me to stay here."

The firelight flickers across her face, highlighting the curve of her cheek and the way her dark hair falls over one shoulder. She's changed into soft clothes—leggings and an oversized sweater that somehow manage to be both modest and incredibly appealing.

"Good thing," I agree, trying not to notice how right she looks in my living room.

We've been talking for hours—easy conversation about books and movies and travel, punctuated by comfortable silences. The wine has loosened both our tongues, and I've found myself sharing stories I haven't told anyone in years.

"So Boone really jumped his dirt bike into the creek?" she asks, laughing at my latest tale of my cousin's youthful stupidity.

"With half the town watching. Kid never did learn when to quit.

" I take a sip of wine, noting how the alcohol is making it easier to talk, easier to relax in her presence.

"Still doesn't, come to think of it. Heard he's been seeing some woman he met on the trails.

Getting pretty serious, from what I hear.

She'd have to be a saint to put up with Boone.

" I shake my head, but there's fondness in my voice.

"Though he seems different with her. Less reckless, more.

.. focused. Never thought I'd see the day. "

"Love can do that to a person."

"Love," I repeat, and the word feels strange in my mouth. "You think that's what it is?"

"I don't know. But whatever it is, it seems good for him."

"What about you?" she asks softly. "Are you happy?"

The question hangs in the air between us, heavy with implication. In the firelight, with the storm raging outside and this beautiful woman looking at me like I matter, I'm forced to consider the question seriously.

"I'm working on it," I say finally.

"What would happy look like for you?"

I'm quiet for so long I think she might give up on getting an answer. When I finally speak, my voice is barely above a whisper.

"Peace, I guess. A place where I can work with my hands and not have to pretend to be someone I'm not. Someone to share it with who understands that I'm not good with words but I'm reliable in all the ways that matter."

The honesty in my voice surprises even me. I haven't articulated those thoughts to anyone, haven't even fully admitted them to myself.

"That doesn't sound like too much to ask for," she says gently.

I look at her. "I'm not easy to be around, Marigold. I'm moody and antisocial and I've got more baggage than a cross-country flight."

"So do I," she says simply. "And I happen to like moody and antisocial. It's honest."

She's looking at me like I'm something precious instead of something broken, and the feeling is so foreign I don't know what to do with it.

The wine and the firelight and the sound of rain against the windows are creating a cocoon of intimacy that's making it hard to remember why I've been keeping my distance.

"Marigold," I say, her name a warning.

"What?"

"We should probably talk about what's happening here."

"What is happening here?"

I lean forward. "You know what."

She doesn't back away. If anything, she leans closer. "Maybe I want to hear you say it."

"I want you," I say simply. "Have since the first day you showed up on my porch with those damn cookies. But I'm not good at this, and I don't want to hurt you."

"What makes you think you'll hurt me?"

"Because I hurt everyone eventually. It's what I do."

The pain in my voice seems to break something in her expression. She reaches up and cups my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. "You're not going to hurt me, Holt. And you know how I know that?"

"How?"

"Because you care too much. A man who didn't care wouldn't worry about hurting someone." She strokes her thumb across my cheekbone, and the gentle touch undoes me completely. "A man who didn't care wouldn't spend three days fixing a stranger's roof."

"You're not a stranger anymore."

"No," she agrees softly. "I'm not."

When I kiss her, it's with the desperate hunger of a man who's been starving without realizing it. She tastes like wine and promise, and when she sighs into my mouth and melts against me, I feel like I'm drowning in the best possible way.