Page 8 of Curvy Girl and the Ex-Military Cowboy

"It was... intense," I settle on. "Dangerous, chaotic, but also—there's a clarity in combat. Your mission, your brothers-in-arms, survival. Everything else falls away."

"Is that why you find civilian life challenging?" she asks perceptively.

I consider denying it, but what would be the point?

"Partly. The noise of normal life—not actual noise, but all the social stuff, the expectations, the small talk—it can be overwhelming. And then there's the other stuff."

"What other stuff?"

I hesitate, but if we're going to do this, really try this, she deserves honesty. "PTSD. Not as bad as some guys I know, but I have nightmares sometimes. Occasional flashbacks. Loud noises can be... difficult. And… I love my brothers, but they don’t understand. None of them went to the military."

“Why did you?”

“That’s a good question. I don’t know. I wanted a different future than everyone else—something to set me apart from them. But, well, look at where that led me… Here, again.”

She absorbs this without visible reaction. "I bet they’re all proud of you, you know? And thank you for telling me."

"I hope so, but are you not worried about any of this?"

"Should I be?"

I shrug. "Most women would be."

"I'm not most women," she says simply. "And I have my own demons, Aaron."

This intrigues me. "Like what?"

She seems to debate internally before answering. "I struggle with anxiety. Social situations with too many people can be... challenging. I've worked on it for years, but it's part of why I chose teaching—it's structured, predictable. I know what's expected of me."

"Is that why you seemed so calm meeting my brothers? Because you were working through it? I know they can be a bit too much sometimes."

She gives me a small smile. "I wouldn't say calm was what I felt, but yes, I have strategies. Deep breathing, focusing on one person at a time, reminding myself that anxiety lies."

I nod, understanding. "We might be more alike than I realized."

"Perhaps that's why this arrangement appealed to both of us," she suggests. "We understand the need for space, for directness."

"I hadn't thought of it that way," I admit.

The conversation flows more easily after that. We talk about books she loves (mostly classics, some contemporary Spanish poets I've never heard of), music I listen to (old country, some indie rock that surprises her), her experiences teaching in different countries, my life on the ranch before and after the military.

I learn that she speaks four languages fluently, can't cook to save her life but bakes surprisingly well, and has a dry sense of humor that emerges once she's comfortable. I find myself telling her about my childhood rivalries with Cole, Jackson's brief rebellious phase before Dad died, and how Vincent surprised us all by being the first having a kid.

Before I know it, two hours have passed, and there's a knock at the door.

"Aaron? Elena?" It's Vincent's voice. "Charlotte's back from town. We're going to show her the new foals if you'd like to join."

I glance at Elena, who looks more relaxed than I've seen her since she arrived. "Want to see the horses?"

She nods, standing and smoothing her dress. "I'd like that."

As we move toward the door, I'm struck by how easy the conversation has been. No awkward silences, no moments where I didn't know what to say next. It's never like that for me—I'm always counting the seconds until I can escape social interaction.

"Aaron," Elena says softly before I open the door. "Thank you. For talking with me. For being honest."

"Thank you for listening," I reply, meaning it.

She smiles, and I find myself noticing the way her eyes crinkle at the corners, as well as how her dark hair has escaped its ponytail in a few places, softly framing her face.

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