Page 11 of Big and Grumpy
"It's Boone," I say, sounding puzzled. "He never calls unless something's wrong."
"Answer it," Marigold encourages. "I'll finish the pasta."
"Hey," I say into the phone, then pause. "Yeah, she's here. Why?"
Boone's side of the conversation is typically enthusiastic, something about bringing Savannah by for dinner this weekend because she's curious about the woman who's got me "acting human again."
"They want to come for dinner Saturday," I tell Marigold after hanging up. "Apparently you're famous for domesticating the grumpiest Hartwell."
"I'd like to meet her. And I'd like to cook for your family."
I look at her like she's just volunteered to wrestle a bear. "You want to cook for the Hartwell cousins? All of us together?"
"Why not? I like cooking, and I'd like to meet the people who matter to you."
The idea of Marigold meeting my cousins should terrify me. Boone will inevitably say something embarrassing, and Orson will be so polite it'll make everyone uncomfortable. But looking at her eager face, I find myself actually considering it.
"They're not exactly dinner party material," I warn her.
"Good thing I'm not exactly dinner party material either." She grins and reaches up to kiss my cheek. "Besides, I'm curious about the men who raised such a grumpy, wonderful hermit."
"I'm not wonderful."
"You are to me."
The simple declaration does something to my chest, something warm and terrifying and completely foreign. I'vespent two years convinced I was better off alone, that relationships were just another way to get hurt.
But watching Marigold move around my kitchen like she belongs here, humming under her breath as she cooks for me, I'm starting to think maybe I was wrong about a lot of things.
Saturday evening arrives with clear skies and the kind of crisp air that makes the mountains look like they're carved from crystal. Marigold has spent the day cooking—roast chicken with herbs, roasted vegetables, fresh bread, and a chocolate cake that's currently cooling on the counter.
I've been pacing nervously for the past hour, checking the table settings she's arranged and straightening things that don't need straightening.
"They're going to love you," she tells me, catching my hands to still their restless movement.
"That's not what I'm worried about."
"What are you worried about?"
I look down at our joined hands, feeling suddenly vulnerable. "That you'll realize I'm the difficult one in the family and decide you can do better."
The insecurity in my voice seems to break her heart. She rises up on her toes and kisses me softly, pouring all her certainty into the contact.
"Not possible," she whispers against my lips. "I happen to like difficult men who fix my roof and make me feel safe and let me reorganize their spice rack."
"You did reorganize my spice rack."
"Alphabetically. You're welcome."
Boone arrives first, as usual, roaring up on his four-wheeler with Savannah on the back. She's exactly what I expected from Boone's descriptions—confident and beautiful, with the kind of easy grace that comes from being comfortable in her own skin.
"Holt!" Boone calls out, pulling off his helmet with a grin. "Good to see you looking human again."
"Shut up, Boone," I mutter, but there's no heat in it.
Orson arrives just as we're making introductions, wearing his usual gentle smile.
"Sorry I'm late," he says, shaking Savannah's hand and giving Marigold a hug that makes me feel an unexpected flash of possessiveness. "I had to finish a project. You must be the woman who's got Holt smiling again."
