Page 13 of Curvy Girl and the Ex-Military Cowboy

She laughs, a sound I'm quickly coming to enjoy.

We settle on the blanket, and I'm struck by how natural this feels—sitting with her as the sun sets, sharing a meal away from prying eyes and questions. She sits with her legs tucked beneath her, somehow managing to look elegant even on a picnic blanket in the middle of nowhere.

"Is this part of your land?" she asks, sampling a piece of cheese.

"Not really. Covington Ranch extends about two miles in that direction," I say, pointing west. "This spot is technically very close to our property, but still far enough from the ranch, if that makes sense. I come here when I need some space."

"And you're sharing it with me," she observes, her eyes meeting mine.

"Seems right somehow."

As we eat, the conversation flows easily between us again, just as it did in her room earlier, as she now talks about her past as a teacher.

"The students in Berlin were terrible at first," Elena says, gesturing with a piece of bread. "Fourteen-year-olds who thought they knew everything and resented having a foreign teacher."

"How'd you win them over?" I ask, genuinely curious.

She smiles, remembering. "I stopped trying to be their friend and started challenging them. One boy, Anton, was the worst—always disrupting class. So I assigned a debate where he had to argue in English for something he passionately disagreed with."

"Bet that went over well."

"He was furious," she laughs. "But he worked harder on that assignment than anything else all year. After that, the whole dynamic shifted." She pauses, looking out at the darkening landscape. "It made me realize what I really want to do someday."

"What's that?" I ask, taking a bite of chicken.

"I want to open my own language school," she says, her voice growing animated. "Not just English, but a place that teaches multiple languages. Something to help people adjust while preserving their cultural identity. A bridge between worlds."

"That sounds amazing," I say, genuinely impressed. "You've thought a lot about this."

She nods. "It's been my dream for years." Her eyes meet mine briefly before looking away.

"Why haven't you done it yet?" I ask.

She shrugs slightly. "Many reasons. Money, for one. Fear of failure. And I suppose I was waiting to find somewhere that felt permanent."

I understand that feeling more than I can express.

"The horses helped with that for me," I say, "After everything with the PTSD, they gave me something solid to hang onto."

"How so?" she asks.

"They need consistency," I explain. "Regular feeding, grooming, exercise. On my worst days, when I couldn't do it for myself, I'd do it for them. Get up, go through the motions." I pause. "They saved me in ways my therapist couldn't."

"You saw a therapist?" There's no judgment in her voice, just interest.

"VA made me," I admit with a small smile. "Jackson drove me to every appointment for six months. Said if I was stubborn enough to survive Iraq, I was stubborn enough to survive therapy."

Elena laughs softly. "He sounds like a good brother."

"The best," I agree. "Even if he's going to interrogate you like a hostile witness the first chance he gets."

She smiles, unfazed. "I can handle it. I handled fourteen German teenagers, remember?"

I smile.

As the sun dips below the horizon and stars begin to appear in the darkening sky, I watch Elena's profile in the fading light. Hercurvy figure is softly outlined against the twilight, and the urge to reach out and touch her is almost overwhelming. I want to trace the line of her jaw, tuck that strand of hair behind her ear, pull her close, and discover if her lips are as soft as they look.

But I know I can't. Not yet. We may have an arrangement, but that doesn't change the fact that we've only just met in person. This isn't some whirlwind romance; it's the careful foundation of something we hope will last.

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