Page 6 of Big and Grumpy (Big Boys Love Curves #2)

six

Holt

Three days later, Marigold is officially moved into my cabin, though we're both pretending it's temporary. "Just until the roads are completely clear," I'd said gruffly, but when she'd started to pack her things to go back to her own place, the look of panic on my face had been unmistakable.

"Or maybe a little longer," she'd suggested, and the relief in my eyes had told her everything she needed to know.

Now she's working at my kitchen table while I repair a client's chair in my workshop, and the domestic routine feels more natural than anything I've ever experienced. We move around each other with an ease that suggests we've been doing this for years instead of days.

"How's the logo coming?" I ask, emerging from the workshop with sawdust in my hair and grease on my hands.

"Good. The client loves the direction." She saves her work and closes the laptop, stretching muscles that are stiff from sitting too long. "How's the chair?"

"Finished. Should be good for another decade." I move to the sink to wash my hands, very aware of how she's watching me with appreciation.

"You know," she says carefully, "if you ever wanted to start taking on more projects like that, I could help you set up a website. Maybe some marketing materials."

I can’t help but sigh. "I told you, I'm not in construction anymore."

"I'm not talking about construction. I'm talking about custom woodworking, furniture restoration, things like that." She stands up and moves to lean against the counter beside me. "You're incredibly talented, Holt. People would pay good money for work like yours."

The suggestion should irritate me. I've been very clear about wanting to be left alone, about not wanting to rebuild what I lost. But looking into Marigold's earnest face, I see something I haven't seen in years—someone who believes in me.

"It's not that simple," I say finally.

"Why not?"

"Because..." I struggle for the words to explain something I'm not sure I understand myself. "Because last time I tried to build something that mattered, it all fell apart. And I'm not sure I'm strong enough to go through that again."

She reaches up and cups my face, forcing me to meet her eyes. "What if it doesn't fall apart this time?"

"What if it does?"

"Then we deal with it together." Her voice is soft but certain. "But Holt, you can't live your whole life afraid of taking risks just because one person let you down."

She's right, and I know it. But knowing something intellectually and feeling it emotionally are two very different things.

"I'll think about it," I say finally.

"That's all I'm asking."

That evening, we're cooking dinner together when my phone rings. I glance at the caller ID and frown.

"It's Boone," I say, sounding puzzled. "He never calls unless something's wrong."

"Answer it," Marigold encourages. "I'll finish the pasta."

"Hey," I say into the phone, then pause. "Yeah, she's here. Why?"

Boone's side of the conversation is typically enthusiastic, something about bringing Savannah by for dinner this weekend because she's curious about the woman who's got me "acting human again."

"They want to come for dinner Saturday," I tell Marigold after hanging up. "Apparently you're famous for domesticating the grumpiest Hartwell."

"I'd like to meet her. And I'd like to cook for your family."

I look at her like she's just volunteered to wrestle a bear. "You want to cook for the Hartwell cousins? All of us together?"

"Why not? I like cooking, and I'd like to meet the people who matter to you."

The idea of Marigold meeting my cousins should terrify me. Boone will inevitably say something embarrassing, and Orson will be so polite it'll make everyone uncomfortable. But looking at her eager face, I find myself actually considering it.

"They're not exactly dinner party material," I warn her.

"Good thing I'm not exactly dinner party material either." She grins and reaches up to kiss my cheek. "Besides, I'm curious about the men who raised such a grumpy, wonderful hermit."

"I'm not wonderful."

"You are to me."

The simple declaration does something to my chest, something warm and terrifying and completely foreign. I've spent two years convinced I was better off alone, that relationships were just another way to get hurt.

But watching Marigold move around my kitchen like she belongs here, humming under her breath as she cooks for me, I'm starting to think maybe I was wrong about a lot of things.

Saturday evening arrives with clear skies and the kind of crisp air that makes the mountains look like they're carved from crystal. Marigold has spent the day cooking—roast chicken with herbs, roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and a chocolate cake that's currently cooling on the counter.

I've been pacing nervously for the past hour, checking the table settings she's arranged and straightening things that don't need straightening.

"They're going to love you," she tells me, catching my hands to still their restless movement.

"That's not what I'm worried about."

"What are you worried about?"

I look down at our joined hands, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "That you'll realize I'm the difficult one in the family and decide you can do better."

The insecurity in my voice seems to break her heart. She rises up on her toes and kisses me softly, pouring all her certainty into the contact.

"Not possible," she whispers against my lips. "I happen to like difficult men who fix my roof and make me feel safe and let me reorganize their spice rack."

"You did reorganize my spice rack."

"Alphabetically. You're welcome."

Boone arrives first, as usual, roaring up on his four-wheeler with Savannah on the back. She's exactly what I expected from Boone's descriptions—confident and beautiful, with the kind of easy grace that comes from being comfortable in her own skin.

"Holt!" Boone calls out, pulling off his helmet with a grin. "Good to see you looking human again."

"Shut up, Boone," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.

Orson arrives just as we're making introductions, wearing his usual gentle smile.

"Sorry I'm late," he says, shaking Savannah's hand and giving Marigold a hug that makes me feel an unexpected flash of possessiveness. "I had to finish a project. You must be the woman who's got Holt smiling again."

"Guilty as charged," Marigold says with a laugh. "Though I think it's more that he's forgotten how to scowl in the face of constant cookies."

Dinner is a revelation. My cousins together are nothing like what Marigold probably expected—they're funny and warm and obviously devoted to each other, even when they're trading insults.

Boone tells embarrassing stories about our childhood that have everyone laughing, while Orson quietly makes sure everyone's wine glass stays full.

And I'm different with my family around. Still gruff, still economical with words, but there's an ease to me that I haven't felt in years. When Boone teases me about being domestic, I just roll my eyes and steal a bite of Savannah's dessert.

"You and Savannah are getting pretty serious, huh?" I ask Boone during a lull in the conversation, noting how she's wearing his grandmother's bracelet—something I know he wouldn't have given lightly.

"Moving in together next month," Boone confirms, his grin softening when he looks at Savannah. "Never thought I'd be the first one of us to settle down."

"The wild one tamed at last," Orson says with a gentle smile.

"Not tamed. Just... focused." Boone raises his glass in a toast. "To finding someone who makes us better versions of ourselves."

"I'll drink to that," I say, meeting Marigold's eyes across the table.

"Speaking of personal improvements," Orson says, "I'm thinking of expanding my home gym. Adding a dedicated power rack and some more free weights."

"That's right, you have that amazing setup," Marigold says.

"It's adequate," Orson says modestly.

"You should do it," Savannah says. "There's a real shortage of good trainers around here."

"Maybe," Orson agrees, but I catch something in his expression—a certain loneliness that makes me wonder if he's considering the change for reasons beyond just business opportunity.

"This meal is incredible," Savannah says, raising her wine glass. "To Marigold, for managing to domesticate the wildest Hartwell."

"I was never wild," I protest.

"You jumped off Boulder's Bridge into the river when you were fifteen," Orson points out mildly.

"That was different. That was stupidity, not wildness."

"What's the difference?" Marigold asks, genuinely curious.

Boone and Orson exchange a look before Boone grins. "Wildness is what I do. Stupidity is what Holt does when he thinks no one's watching."

"I liked you all better when you lived farther away," I mutter, but I'm fighting a smile.

The truth is, having my cousins here, seeing them accept Marigold without question, makes something tight in my chest finally relax. I'd been worried they'd think I was moving too fast, that I was making the same mistakes I'd made before.

But watching Marigold laugh at one of Boone's terrible jokes, seeing how easily she fits into our family dynamic, I realize my cousins see what I'm only beginning to admit to myself: she's not a rebound or a distraction. She's something real.

Three months later, when we're engaged and planning to turn her cabin into the office for my new custom furniture business—with Marigold handling all the marketing and client relations—I'll look back on this moment as the one where we both stopped running from the past and started building toward the future.

But tonight, all I know is that I'm exactly where I belong—holding the woman who sees past my rough edges to the man I'm becoming, in a place that finally feels like home again.