Page 3 of Big and Brawny
I should probably think about this more. Should consider the implications of having Bronte Laurent in my space three times a week, wearing those form-fitting workout clothes and making the kinds of sounds that serious lifting requires. But looking at her hopeful expression, I find myself nodding before I can overthink it.
"Monday, Wednesday, Friday mornings work for you? I usually train around six."
"Six is perfect. I'm an early riser anyway." Her smile is brilliant. "Thank you, Orson. You have no idea how much this means to me."
Actually, I think I do. Training has been my sanctuary for years, the one place where I feel completely in control. The thought of losing that would devastate me.
She then glances around the gym again. "Can I ask what got you into powerlifting?"
The question catches me off guard. Most people assume I lift because I'm naturally big, like it's just an extension of genetics rather than years of dedicated work.
"Control, I guess," I say finally. "There's something pure about it. You put in the work, you get stronger. No politics, no games, just iron and effort."
Something in my voice must resonate with her, because her expression softens with understanding.
"I get that," she says quietly. "For me, it's about proving to myself that my body is capable of incredible things, regardless of what society thinks it should look like."
The honesty in her admission makes my chest tighten. I've spent years in gyms where people train for all the wrong reasons—to punish themselves, to conform to impossible standards, to fix what they think is broken. Hearing Bronte talk about strength training as self-respect rather than self-improvement is refreshing in a way I didn't expect.
"That's exactly the right attitude," I say, meaning every word.
"Thanks." She finishes her coffee and sets down the mug. "I should probably let you get back to your day. And Orson?" She pauses at my front door. "Thank you. Really. You're saving my sanity."
After she leaves, I find myself standing in my gym, looking at the space with fresh eyes. For three years, it's been my private sanctuary, the one place that's entirely mine. Monday morning, I'll be sharing it with a woman who makes my pulse race just thinking about her.
I should probably be concerned about that. Instead, I find myself looking forward to Monday with an anticipation that has nothing to do with my workout schedule.
My phone buzzes with a text from Boone:Engagement dinner next Saturday. You better be there. Savannah's cooking.
I smile, remembering how my wild cousin had changed almost overnight after meeting Savannah on the mountain trails. And now they're engaged, after only a few months together. Just likeHolt and Marigold, who had gone from grumpy neighbor and cheerful baker to inseparable in what felt like record time.
I walk to my front window and look down the lane toward Bronte's small cottage. The curtains are drawn, but I can see her silhouette moving past the window, probably getting ready for her shift at the bakery. I'm not sure what it is about her that's gotten under my skin so quickly. Maybe it's the way she looks at training with the same reverence I do. Maybe it's her smile, or the way she moves with such confidence despite the world constantly telling curvy women they should be smaller.
Whatever it is, I'm looking forward to Monday morning more than I've looked forward to anything in a long time.
three
Bronte
Mondaymorningarriveswithcrisp autumn air that makes me grateful for the short drive from my cottage to Orson's house. I'm nervous in a way I haven't been since my first day at the gym—not about the workout itself, but about spending an hour with a man who's been featuring in my daydreams more often than I care to admit.
I knock softly at exactly six o'clock, not wanting to be the neighbor who disturbs the peace of our quiet lane.
Orson opens the door wearing shorts and a tank top that showcases arms that could probably deadlift a small car, and for a moment I forget how to form words. I've seen him in casual clothes before, but seeing him in proper gym attire is a revelation. The man is built like a classical sculpture but still someone who takes second helpings of pasta. Hes the perfect mix of athletic and dad bod goodness.
"Morning," he says, stepping aside to let me in. "Ready to lift some heavy things?"
"More than ready," I manage, following him toward the gym area. "I've been thinking about this all weekend."
His home gym looks even more impressive in the morning light streaming through the windows. Everything is well-organized, and I can see he's already set up two different stations—one that looks like his usual Monday routine, and another that matches the program I'd shown him.
"I took the liberty of setting up some plates for you based on your training log," he says, gesturing toward a loaded barbell. "But we can adjust if the weight's not right."
The thoughtfulness of the gesture catches me off guard. "That's perfect, actually. You didn't have to go to that trouble."
"Wasn't any trouble. Efficiency makes workouts better for everyone."
We start with a warm-up, and I'm immediately struck by how different this feels from training at a commercial gym. There's no waiting for equipment, no self-conscious glances around to see who's watching, just the pure focus that comes from being in a space designed entirely for serious training.
