Page 15 of Curvy Girl and the Ex-Military Cowboy

"It's one of the things that drew me to you," she admits. "There was no pretense, no game-playing. Just honesty."

"Even when the honesty wasn't particularly charming?" I ask, thinking of how I'd laid out my issues pretty clearly from the start.

"Especially then," she says. "Charm is easy. Honesty is rare."

I find myself shifting closer to her on the blanket. "Is that why you agreed to this? My brutal honesty?"

She considers this. "Partly. And partly because I recognized something in you that I understand—the desire for something real, even if the path to it is... unconventional."

"A mail-order bride," I say, testing the phrase between us for the first time in person.

She doesn't flinch. "Yes. Though I prefer to think of it as an arranged marriage of our own making. Two adults choosing compatibility and shared goals over fleeting passion."

"You don't think there can be both?" I ask, suddenly very aware of how close we're sitting, of the faint scent of her perfume mingling with the night air.

Her eyes meet mine, steady and thoughtful. "I think passion without foundation burns out quickly. But a solid foundation... it can support anything that might grow upon it."

The way she says it, with such quiet certainty, makes my heart beat faster. This woman, who crossed an ocean based on our written agreement, has more courage than many soldiers I've known.

"You're remarkable," I tell her, the words escaping before I can censor them.

The compliment seems to surprise her. "I'm just practical."

"No," I say, shaking my head. "There's nothing 'just' about you, Elena."

A strand of her hair has fallen across her cheek, and without thinking, I reach out to brush it back. My fingers graze her skin, soft and cool in the night air. She doesn't pull away.

My hand lingers, cupping her cheek gently.

"I should probably get you back to the ranch," I say, though I make no move to leave.

"Probably," she agrees, her eyes not leaving mine.

Neither of us moves. The night seems to hold its breath around us.

"Elena," I say softly. "I know this isn't part of our agreement yet, but I'd very much like to kiss you right now."

Her lips part slightly in surprise, but she doesn't back away. "I thought we were building a foundation first."

"We are," I assure her, my thumb tracing her cheekbone. "But sometimes... sometimes you need to test the materials."

A small smile curves her lips. "Is that a construction metaphor?"

"Terrible, isn't it?" I admit, returning her smile.

"Awful," she agrees, but she's leaning closer.

"So," I whisper, our faces now inches apart. "May I?"

She doesn't reply with words. Instead, Elena leans forward, closing the distance between us, and presses her lips to mine. She tastes like wine and something else, probably jasmine.

For a moment, I'm frozen in surprise—this wasn't how I expected it to happen. But then instinct takes over, and I'm kissing her back, one hand still cupping her face, the other finding her waist to draw her closer.

The kiss deepens, her lips parting beneath mine, and I feel something I haven't experienced in years—desire, yes, but also a kind of exhilaration that I'd forgotten was possible. Her hand moves to my shoulder, then to the back of my neck, fingers threading through my hair.

I have no idea if I'm doing this right. It's been so long since I've kissed someone, since my calloused hands have touched a woman's body. Too long spent alone, too many nights convincing myself I didn't need this kind of connection.

But Elena doesn't seem to mind my rustiness. She makes a soft sound against my mouth that sends heat coursing through me,and suddenly we're fully making out like teenagers, there on the picnic blanket under the stars.

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