Page 2 of Big and Rowdy (Big Boys Love Curves #1)

two

Boone

Thursday night at Boulder's Pub, I'm holding court at my usual corner table, nursing a beer and trying not to check the door every five minutes.

I'd been hoping Savannah would show up after our encounter on the trail, but I hadn't been sure she actually would.

There's something about her that's gotten under my skin since we met, and the thought of seeing her again has me more on edge than I want to admit.

Old Pete is hunched over his regular corner table, while a group of loggers I know from the mill talk loudly near the pool tables. The usual Thursday crowd, except I'm finding it hard to concentrate on any of their conversations. I keep glancing at the door.

When she finally walks through it, scanning the dim interior with those sharp green eyes.

Savannah traded her hiking gear for jeans and a soft sweater that brings out her eyes, and she moves with the same confident grace I remember from the trail. She’s fucking gorgeous, short and soft, pear-shaped. Generous curves with thick hips that I can’t help but imagine grabbing a hold of.

She spots me before I can decide whether to wave her over, and I stand up with what I hope is a casual smile.

"Well, look who decided to take me up on that beer." I can hear the genuine pleasure in my own voice, and I make no attempt to hide it.

"I was in town anyway," she says, aiming for nonchalant and probably missing by a mile. "Figured I might as well see what passes for nightlife around here."

"This is about as exciting as it gets, unless you count the annual chili cook-off," I say, gesturing to an empty chair across from me. "But the beer's cold and the company's not terrible."

Despite herself, she sits down. I notice she chooses the chair that lets her see most of the pub—a smart woman who likes to keep an eye on her surroundings.

"Modest, aren't you?"

"One of my many fine qualities." I signal the bartender for another round. "So, Savannah Mitchell, freelance wilderness explorer. What's your story?"

"Freelance graphic designer, actually. The wilderness exploring is just for fun." She accepts the beer I slide across to her. "And it's not that exciting a story."

"I'll be the judge of that." I lean back in my chair, giving her my full attention. "Most people don't tackle those mountain trails solo. Especially not that particular trail."

She takes a sip of the beer, and her expression betrays that surprised to find it's actually quite good.

"I started camping with my dad when I was a kid.

After he died a few years ago, I decided life was too short to wait for someone else to be ready for adventure.

Also discovered I'm terrible at staying in one place.

Three months in the same apartment and I start climbing the walls. "

"I'm sorry about your dad."

"Thank you." There's something vulnerable in the way she says it that makes me want to reach across the table and take her hand. "He would have loved these mountains. We always talked about coming out here together."

"He would've been proud of you for making the trip anyway."

The certainty in my voice seems to surprise her. "You don't even know me."

"Know enough." My eyes meet hers across the table. "Takes guts to tackle life on your own terms. Not everyone's built for it."

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the noise of the pub washing around us. I find myself reassessing my first impression of this woman. There's strength in her, but also something that looks like loneliness, even though I doubt she'd admit it.

"What about you?" she asks. "Born and raised in these mountains?"

"Third generation. My grandfather bought the land where I live now, and my dad expanded it. Now it's me and my cousins keeping the family business going."

"Which is?"

"Hartwell Outfitters. We do guided hunting and fishing trips, some backcountry camping expeditions.

I handle the extreme sports side—ATV tours, rock climbing, that kind of thing.

Orson handles the more technical aspects—gear maintenance, safety protocols, all the stuff that needs actual brain power.

" I pause, my fingers tracing patterns on the condensation of my beer bottle.

"Dad always said I was too reckless to be trusted with the family legacy, but here I am anyway. "

The admission slips out before I can stop it.

"Sounds like he was wrong," she says quietly.

"Jury's still out on that one."

Two men at the bar glance over at us, whispering something that makes them both chuckle. I catch them looking and shoot them a warning glance that silences them immediately.

"Town gossip," I explain with a sigh. "Hazard of living in a place where everyone knows your family history back five generations. The Hartwell boys are favorite subjects at the barber shop."

"Sounds nice," she says. "Having family close."

"Has its perks. Also means everyone knows your business before you do." I can't help but grin. "My cousin Holt's probably already heard through the grapevine that I'm having a beer with a pretty woman."

"And how does cousin Holt feel about that?"

"Holt doesn't feel much of anything about anybody these days. Man's been grumpier than a bear with a sore tooth since his divorce." I shrug. "But that's his story to tell."

I appreciate that she doesn't push for details. Most women in town would be fishing for the whole divorce saga by now.

We talk easily after that, conversation flowing from travel stories to favorite hiking spots to the best places to see wildlife in the area.

I tell her about the hidden valleys where the elk gather in fall, the secret fishing spots where the trout are so plentiful you can almost catch them with your hands.

She listens with genuine interest, asking intelligent questions instead of just waiting for her turn to speak.

She tells me about camping in Yellowstone, about the desert in Utah that looks like another planet, about watching the sunrise from a mountain in Colorado. The passion in her voice when she talks about these wild places matches my own, and I find myself more and more drawn to her.

"You know," I say as the evening winds down, "if you're planning to stay in the area for a while, I could show you some spots that don't make it onto the tourist maps."

Her eyes light up with interest. "What kind of spots?"

"Waterfalls most people never see. Views that'll take your breath away. Places where you can camp and not hear anything but the wind in the trees."

I can see her wavering, and something in my chest tightens with hope. I want to show her those places, and I want to see them through her eyes.

"I might be interested," she says carefully.

"Saturday morning? I could pick you up, show you around properly. Promise to keep the four-wheeler at a reasonable speed."

She looks at me across the table, her green eyes digging deep into my soul. I feel like she's seeing past the charm to something deeper, the stuff that most girls never get to see.

"Okay," she says finally. "Saturday morning."