Unintentionally Yours: Instalove Curvy Girl Mountain Man: A BBW Romance

CHAPTER FOUR

. . .

Layla woke slowly. She stretched languidly, reveling in the slip-slide of cool cotton sheets against her bare legs. She burrowed deeper into the mattress, chasing the remnants of a dream filled with strong, work-roughened hands that made her body ache with longing.

Finn. Finn Brody. Her unlikely knight in denim and flannel.

Her dreams had been filled with images of Finn in this bed with her. Kissing her, touching her. Making love to her.

Reality crashed over her like a bucket of ice water, jerking her into sharp, sudden wakefulness. Shit. This wasn’t her bed. Not her sheets. Not her…anything.

Layla’s eyes popped open, darting around the dimly lit room as memories of the previous day flooded back in a dizzying rush. The wedding. Her flight into the woods.

Straight into Finn’s arms.

Well, almost.

Oh God. She’d really done it. She’d run away from her wedding like a madwoman, hitching up her skirts and haring off into the wilderness without a backward glance. And now, here she was, sleeping in a strange man’s bed, dressed in his clothes, her entire life turned upside down in the span of twenty-four turbulent hours.

As if on cue, her phone buzzed on the nightstand, rattling ominously against the wood. Layla stared at it, her stomach turning to lead. Twenty-seven missed calls and thirteen increasingly frantic texts.

The thought of the explanations—and apologies—she owed swirled around in her head. To Randy. To her mother. God, her mother. Layla took a deep, shuddering breath, holding it for a count of five before releasing it slowly through her teeth. Okay. She could do this. She was Layla fucking Bryant.

She’d faced down gossipy debutants and lecherous board members, had smiled through a thousand snide comments about her weight, her clothes, her brash, unladylike tendency to actually voice an opinion.

She could handle the fallout from one measly runaway bride moment.

“They never really write about this part in the fairytales, do they, Goldilocks?”

“What?” she squeaked.

Finn’s voice, rough with sleep and rich with amusement, nearly startled Layla out of her skin. She bolted upright, clutching the blanket to her chest as her gaze collided with his, where he lounged in the doorway.

Lounged being a relative term, of course. No one that large and imposing could really lounge. He more sort of...hulked. Attractively.

Layla swallowed hard, trying to force her sleep-addled brain into some semblance of coherence. It was an uphill battle, what with his broad chest, wide shoulders, and massive biceps.

The man was built like a tank, all solid muscle, and coiled strength. And don’t even get her started on the low-slung sweatpants riding his narrow hips or the trail of dark hair disappearing beneath the waistband that made her fingers itch to follow it.

To pull those sweatpants down, fall on her knees, and…

Honestly, it was unfair for anyone to look that good this early in the morning. There ought to be a law.

“The morning after. They never tell that in fairytales, do they?”

Oh, the images those words aroused in her. A morning after with him. Which would imply she’d spent the night in his bed. Which technically, she had. Alone.

She sighed. That was the story of her life.

Finn’s lips twitched; a ghost of a smile that made Layla’s heart do a giddy little flip in her chest. His words also teased her curiosity. It transformed his face, softening the harsh lines and lending a boyish charm to his rugged features. She had a feeling he didn’t smile nearly often enough.

She found herself wanting to change that. Wanting to coax that elusive curve of his lips.

Dangerous thoughts for a runaway bride to be having about her impromptu host. But then, Layla was quickly learning that nothing about this situation was safe. Or sane.

Least of all, her own treacherous heart.

“Breakfast is ready,” Finn said, interrupting her wayward musings. He jerked his chin towards the kitchen before turning on his heel and padding away, the floorboards creaking beneath his weight.

Layla watched him go, transfixed by the play of muscle, the intriguing flex of his back and shoulders. There was a curious hitching to his gait, his left leg not quite keeping pace with his right. An injury, perhaps?

It reminded her of the scar cleaving his eyebrow, the silvered slash that lent his face a rakish, dangerous air. What had happened to him to leave such a mark? What kind of trauma, both physical and emotional, had shaped this solitary man?

Curiosity burned in Layla’s gut, the need to know, to understand, to unravel the mystery that was Finn Brody. But she tamped it down, recognizing the impulse for the distraction it was.

She had no business prying into Finn’s secret demons when she had so many of her own to confront. Starting with the reason she was in his bed in the first place.

Sighing, Layla tossed back the blanket and stood, grimacing as her body protested the movement. Apparently, a night spent tossing and turning, no matter how comfortable the mattress, didn’t agree with her.

Or maybe it was the unaccustomed exercise from her hike up the mountain.

She stretched, raising her arms overhead until her spine popped and the hem of her borrowed shirt rode up to expose the juncture of her thighs. Finn’s t-shirt was that large, even on a big girl such as herself. The fabric was warm and soft, worn butter-smooth with age and a multitude of washings.

It smelled like him, like pine and fresh air and something uniquely masculine. Something that made her want to bury her nose in the collar and just...breathe.

Layla gave herself a mental shake, telling herself not to get caught up in her own fantasies. Get it together, Bryant. The man had already done you a tremendous kindness by taking you in, no questions asked. The least you could do was refrain from creeping on his clothes like some kind of weirdo.

Neatly making the bed, Layla trailed her fingers over the forest-green quilt. There was a bittersweet pang in her chest as she took in his bedroom. The masculine furniture and the exquisite view from the windows that made up almost an entire wall.

She was going to miss this. Miss him. It was crazy, utterly nonsensical, to feel so attached to a place, a person, after such a short time. But there it was, this bone-deep reluctance to leave, to step back into the harsh light of reality.

But she couldn’t hide forever. As tempting as it might be to lose herself in this little haven, in the steadfast shelter of Finn’s presence...it wasn’t fair to either of them.

Layla had made her bed, as it were. Now, it was time to lie in it.

Even if a traitorous part of her wished she was lying in a different bed. This bed, night after night, with a certain surly, sexy-as-sin mountain man.

Nope. No. Bad Layla.

Giving herself a firm mental slap, Layla tugged on her borrowed pants from yesterday, squared her shoulders, and marched toward the kitchen, determined to face the day with grace and dignity.

The delectable scent of frying bacon slapped her in the face as soon as she crossed the threshold, making her stomach rumble and her mouth water. Finn stood at the stove, his broad back to her as he wielded a spatula with impressive dexterity. Heavy rain was drumming on the roof.

“Anything I can do to help?” Layla asked. “Everything smells amazing.”

Finn grunted a sound that could have meant anything. But he gestured towards the table with his chin, a silent invitation to sit and make herself at home.

Layla did so, perching on one of the chairs and trying not to ogle Finn’s truly spectacular backside as he manned the stove. It was a losing battle.

The man had an ass that wouldn’t quit, high and tight and perfectly proportioned to the rest of his impressive physique. And those sweatpants...Lord have mercy. They clung lovingly to every curve and hollow, leaving little to the imagination.

It was enough to make a girl forget her own name, never mind her manners.

Finn turned, a plate piled high with crispy bacon and sausage in hand, and Layla hastily averted her gaze, finding sudden fascination with the red-and-white checked curtains framing the window over the sink.

“Bacon or sausage?” Finn asked, setting the platter down on the table. There was a curious hum to his voice as they flicked over her blushing face that made Layla’s toes curl in her borrowed socks.

She licked her lips, trying to remember how to form words. “Bacon, please.”

The corner of Finn’s mouth kicked up just a fraction, and Layla’s flush deepened. It was as if he could read her mind, could sense the wholly inappropriate direction of her thoughts.

Which was ridiculous. The man was not a telepath. He just had a very...arresting presence. A way of looking at her that made her feel stripped bare, laid open, every secret want and need exposed to his knowing gaze.

It was unsettling. Thrilling.

And absolutely terrifying.

Mercifully, Finn didn’t seem to expect further conversation. He simply dished up two heaping plates of food - eggs, biscuits, bacon, the works - and set one down in front of Layla, along with a steaming mug of coffee.

There was already a small jug of milk, a crock of butter, and various jams and jellies crowding the center of the table. A cozy, homey touch that made Layla’s chest feel strangely tight. When was the last time she’d had a proper homemade breakfast? Hell, any kind of breakfast that didn’t consist of a granola bar scarfed down on the way to some soul-sucking brunch, fundraiser, or society function?

Too long. Too damn long.

“Dig in,” Finn said, pulling out his chair and settling his large frame with a nonchalant grace that made Layla faintly envious. She was pretty sure she still had pillow creases on her face.

Pushing down a flare of purely feminine pique - really, no one had the right to look that good after a night on the couch - Layla reached for the milk...at the exact moment, Finn did.

Their fingers brushed, a whisper of skin against skin, and Layla nearly jolted out of her chair at the shock of sensation that shot up her arm. Every nerve ending in her body was suddenly, violently awake and clamoring for attention.

From the way Finn stilled, his hand hovering millimeters from her own...she wasn’t the only one affected.

“Sorry,” Layla snatched her hand back as if scalded. Adrenaline surged through her veins.

Finn’s throat worked as he swallowed, his hand flexing once before curling it around the milk bottle. “S’okay.”

He poured for both of them, the trickle of liquid into ceramic mugs obscenely loud in the charged quiet. Layla watched the strong, deft movements of his hands, the way tendons corded in his wrists, the play of veins beneath tanned skin, and felt a corresponding tug low in her belly.

Oh, this was bad. So very, very bad.

Needing a distraction, Layla picked up her fork and tucked into her breakfast, hardly tasting the fluffy eggs or buttery biscuit as she chewed mechanically. Anything to keep her mouth busy, to prevent any of the wild, wanton words crowding her tongue from escaping.

“This is so good,” she mumbled around a mouthful. She swallowed and shot him a smile. “You’re quite the cook. I had you pegged as more of a hardtack and jerky kind of guy.”

He snorted. “I do have a few other skills beyond brooding and chopping wood, you know.”

“Oh, is that what mountain men do?”

“Pretty much.” He continued to eat.

“So, what made you ditch society?” As soon as she asked the question, she knew it had been the wrong thing to say. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to pry. I just… It’s just…” She shrugged. “It’s just unusual for someone so young and…” Gorgeous. Virile. Devastating. “…healthy to live alone in the middle of nowhere.”

He shrugged; gaze fixed on her. “Maybe I like the quiet. Getting away from all the noise and bullshit.”

She nodded slowly. “I understand that. Sometimes it feels like the whole world is pressing in, expecting you to be someone you’re not.” She poked at the rest of her eggs, her appetite fading. “I’ve never been very good at living up to expectations. Case in point.” She gestured wryly to her borrowed clothes.

Just then, a crack of thunder rattled the windowpanes, startling her and making her drop her fork with a clatter. Lightning split the sky a second later, a violent spear of electricity that seemed to strike mere inches from the cabin.

Heart in her throat, Layla pushed back from the table, her chair shrieking across the floor. She was shaking, fine tremors wracking her from head to toe as the storm raged outside, rain lashing the windows and wind howling like a lost soul.

She’d never liked thunderstorms, finding their chaotic violence deeply unsettling. And now, with her nerves already raw and exposed, her emotions scraped bloody...it was too much.

Too loud, too bright, too fucking much.

Cool, work-roughened hands landed on her shoulders, the unexpected touch making her flinch. But Finn just squeezed gently, his touch firm and grounding as he turned her to face him.

“Easy there, baby.” His voice was a low, soothing rumble, a balm to her frazzled senses. “Nothing to worry about. Just the storm finally gathering steam. It’ll blow over soon enough, just like all storms do.”

Layla swallowed hard, fighting the urge to bury her face in his chest, to seek shelter in his arms. “I’m sorry. I don’t...I don’t know why I’m reacting like this.”

Finn’s eyes softened, a wealth of understanding in their mossy depths. “You’ve been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours. Cut yourself some slack.”

Carefully, giving her every opportunity to pull away, he slid one hand up to cup her jaw, his thumb stroking a tender path across her cheekbone.

Layla couldn’t help it - she leaned into his touch, savoring the rough warmth of his skin, the unexpected gentleness in hands so large and powerful. He touched her like she was something precious. Fragile.

Cherished.

It stole the breath from her lungs and stopped the blood in her veins. When was the last time someone had touched her like that? Hell, had anyone ever?

She didn’t know. Couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe past the hammering of her heart, the dry click of her throat as she swallowed. Finn was so close, the heat of him seeping into her bones, the clean, sharp scent of him filling her head until she felt drunk with it.

It would be so easy to sway forward, to close the scant distance between them, until nothing remained but the press of his body against hers, the rasp of his stubble against her lips as she rose up to meet his...

No. No, she couldn’t. Shouldn’t.

Kissing Finn would be a mistake of monumental proportions. An act of sheer, unmitigated selfishness that would do neither of them any favors in the long run.

Layla was already living on borrowed time, taking shameless advantage of Finn’s hospitality and kindness. She refused to compound that sin by using him to scratch the sudden, desperate itch beneath her skin.

No matter how badly she wanted to.

With a ragged exhale, Layla pulled away, taking a careful step back to put some much-needed distance between them. She instantly felt the loss of his touch, his warmth, but she made herself ignore the hollow ache in her chest. The yearning twisting like dull knives in her belly.

“Thank you,” she said, absurdly proud of how steady her voice sounded. “I’m sorry for freaking out a little. I really don’t like storms.”

A soft huff of laughter escaped Finn’s throat. “Nothing to forget, as far as I’m concerned.” His gaze turned serious, intent. “I meant what I said, Layla. Cut yourself some slack. God knows you’ve earned a freakout or two.”

They stood staring at each other for a long moment. Again, the urge to kiss him was almost overpowering. This man...he did something to her. Twisted her up inside until she hardly knew which way was up.

It was dangerous, this pull she felt. This bone-deep need to lean on him, to trust him, to let him shoulder some of the weight crushing down on her.

But that wasn’t his job. It wasn’t his mess to clean up.

No, that dubious honor fell to Layla and Layla alone.

Squaring her shoulders, she pasted on a smile that was only slightly tremulous at the edges. “Right. Well. No more freaking out today, scout’s honor.”

One dark brow arched towards Finn’s hairline. “You were a Girl Scout?”

“No,” Layla admitted with a rueful twist of her lips. “But I ate a lot of thin mints, so that has to count for something, right?”

Finn snorted, shaking his head in amused exasperation. “Sure. We’ll go with that.”

“So,” she said, tucking her hair behind her ears. “What does one do for fun around here when the weather is shitty, and the company is...well. Me?”

“There’s a few things we can do,” he said slowly, an odd note in his voice that made Layla’s head snap up. He was watching her, his gaze dark and intent in a way that made her nerve endings sizzle. “We could play chess...or get to know each other better.”

A thrill shot through Layla at the rough burr of his voice, the unspoken promise lacing the seemingly innocent words. She swallowed hard, her mouth suddenly bone dry as images flashed through her mind - tangled limbs and sweat-slicked skin, strong hands and wicked lips mapping every curve and hollow of her body.

Was he actually suggesting...?

But before she could form the words, before she could do something truly ill-advised like climb him like a tree, Finn started toward the door and the charged moment snapped like an overstretched rubber band.

He jerked his chin towards the window, where the rain still lashed against the glass in heavy, unrelenting sheets. “Why don’t you poke around, see if you can find something to keep you occupied while I take care of a few things? Got some books on the shelf and a couple board games in the closet. Mi casa es su casa and all that.”

With that, he pulled on a pair of boots and grabbed a coat from the rack by the door and shrugged into it, tugging the collar up around his ears before ducking out into the rain. Layla stared after him, feeling oddly bereft in the sudden stillness of the cabin.

Keep herself occupied. Right. She could do that.