Page 11 of Big and Brawny

I smile as I type my response:She's coming to dinner tonight. Be nice.

His reply is immediate:FINALLY! Savannah owes me $20. She thought you'd wait another week. I knew that gym girl was special.

I shake my head, but can't stop smiling.Her name is Bronte. And yes, she's special.

More special than he could possibly understand. More special than I deserve, probably. But I'm not going to question this gift the universe has given me. I'm just going to cherish it, nurture it, and see where it leads.

That evening, I pick Bronte up at her cottage, her simple dress hugging her curves in a way that nearly stops my heart. During the drive to my cousins', I can't help reaching over to touch her hand, needing to confirm this isn't just another dream.

Boone answers the door before I can knock. "Well, well. Look who finally joined the Hartwell Happily Committed Club!"

"Ignore him," I tell Bronte. "Everyone else does."

Dinner is a revelation. My family welcomes Bronte like she's always belonged, and she fits seamlessly—laughing at Boone's jokes, engaging with Holt's dry observations, and connecting with Marigold and Savannah as if they've known each other for years.

"So," Marigold asks over dessert, "are you joining the Winter Festival committee? We need your design skills."

"I'd love to help," Bronte says without hesitation.

"Consider yourself recruited," Savannah grins. "Once you're in, you're in for life."

"Speaking of traditions," Boone adds, "there's the Hartwell New Year's cabin trip. This year we're including our better halves."

I watch Bronte throughout, marveling at how naturally she fits into this circle. When she catches me staring, her smile is soft and private, just for me.

"What are you thinking?" she asks on the drive home.

"I'm thinking that was the best family dinner I've ever had," I admit. "And I'm thinking about how right you looked there, with all of us."

"It felt right," she says softly. "Your family is amazing."

"They liked you too. Marigold texted me under the table to say you're 'absolutely perfect.'"

At her cottage, I find myself reluctant to leave. The thought of returning to my empty house after today is more depressing than I want to admit.

"Do you want to come in?" Bronte asks, as if reading my mind.

Her cottage is exactly like her—warm and inviting with creative touches everywhere. I fall asleep with Bronte in my arms, surrounded by her scent, thinking about the future in a way I haven't allowed myself to in years.

Three weeks later, when her lease is up for renewal, I suggest she might consider a different living arrangement—specifically, moving into my house.

"On one condition," she says, arms around my neck. "I get to reorganize your protein powders. They're a mess."

"Deal," I agree, pulling her close. "Though I should warn you, my cousins will start wedding planning immediately."

"Let them," she says with a certainty that makes my heart race. "I'm not going anywhere, Orson Hartwell. You're stuck with me now."

"Promise?" I ask, more serious than intended.

Her expression softens as she cups my face. "I promise. This feels right—you and me. Like finding something I didn't even know I was looking for."

Six months later, when we're engaged and planning to expand the gym to accommodate both our training needs, I'll look back on this moment as the one where everything changed.

But tonight, all I know is that I'm exactly where I belong—holding the woman who sees my strength as something toadmire rather than fear, in a space that's become sacred to both of us.