Page 7 of Curvy Girl and the Ex-Military Cowboy

"How old were you?" she asks.

"Seventeen when Mom died. Dad held on for another three years, but he was never the same after she was gone. Lung cancer." The familiar ache is still there when I think about them, but it's now duller with time.

Elena nods, her eyes soft with understanding. "I lost my father when I was twelve. Car accident. My mother remarried when I was in university."

This is new information. In our emails and calls, we'd kept mostly to the present and future, avoiding too many details about our pasts. I realize how little I actually know about her.

"Do you get along with your stepfather?" I ask.

She shrugs slightly. "He's... fine. Kind enough, but we never connected. He and my mother moved to France for his work five years ago. I see them at Christmas, usually."

"Is that why you decided to..." I trail off, unsure how to phrase it delicately.

"Become a mail order bride?" she finishes, arching an eyebrow. "You can say it, Aaron. It's what I am. What we've arranged."

I feel heat creep up my neck. "It sounds so transactional when you put it that way."

"Isn't it, though?" she challenges, but her tone isn't harsh. "We made an arrangement. Three months to see if we're compatible for marriage. A practical solution for both of us."

"When you put it like that, it sounds cold," I say, shifting uncomfortably in my seat.

Elena tilts her head slightly. "I don't see it as cold. Practical doesn't mean without feeling. It just means we're being honest about what we want."

"And what do you want, Elena?" I find myself asking. "Really?"

She doesn't answer immediately, and I appreciate that. It means she's giving the question real thought.

"Stability," she finally says. "A home that feels permanent. Family. Maybe children someday." She looks down at her hands. "In Spain, I always felt I was meant to leave. In England, France, Germany—everywhere I taught, I was the foreigner, the temporary one. I want to belong somewhere."

Her honesty cuts through my defenses. It's the most personal thing either of us has shared.

"I want a partner," I admit. "Someone who understands that this ranch, these people—they're my life. After the Army, I came back different. Dating felt impossible. I'd get through a dinner, but when she wanted to know about me, about the real stuff..." I shake my head. "I'd shut down."

"And you think this arrangement will be different?" she asks, genuinely curious.

"I think starting with the understanding that we're building toward something specific helps," I say. "No games, no wondering when to call, no dating rituals I never understood anyway. Just two adults trying to build something together."

Elena smiles slightly. "Like a business partnership."

"With more kissing," I say before I can stop myself, then feel my face grow hot. "Eventually, I mean. If we—if it works out."

To my relief, she laughs—a genuine sound that makes something in my chest loosen.

"I appreciate your directness," she says. "It's refreshing."

"Not a common compliment I get," I admit. "My brothers would say I'm about as communicative as a fence post."

"Yet here you are, talking to me."

I consider this. "Yeah, I guess I am."

"Tell me about your time in the military," she says, changing the subject. "You mentioned Iraq in your emails, but not much else."

Normally, this is where I'd deflect, change the subject, or give some vague non-answer. But something about Elena's direct gaze makes me want to try.

"Third Ranger Battalion, 75th Ranger Regiment," I say. "Did three tours in Iraq, two in Afghanistan. Special operations, mainly."

"That must have been difficult," she says simply, not pushing but not shying away either.

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