Pleasingly Plump (Babes of Biggal Mountain Book 2)

by Elaria Ride

Marina sucks her teeth. In spite of my low simmer of irritation, I can’t help myself from smiling down at the top of her head; she’s obviously gotten over her embarrassment.

  “I think it’s pretty apparent that I’m settling in just fine.” Her eyes narrow, but Sylvie seems to take this as a personal challenge.

  “Good. I’d always hoped things would… develop between the two of you.”

  My face flushes in shame. She’d better get to the damned point.

  “Look, Sylvie,” I bark. “It was nice of you to stop by, but—”

  Sylvie interrupts me with a laugh and a wave of her hand. “Finn, I didn’t come here to be a cock-block. We actually have a couple of business things to discuss.”

  Oh. Right.

  I’ve almost managed to forget that I’m actually trying to run a winery here.

  Marina gives me a questioning look from over her shoulder, and I shrug; Sylvie probably does a legitimate reason for showing up.

  But Marina doesn’t look upset or put-out by this reasoning. Instead, she smiles at me shyly, biting her lip, and motions for me to sit down in the chair.

  Yes. She understands. I give her hand a grateful squeeze; she’s giving me a way to hide the stained front of my pants.

  I sit, and she makes sure I’m fully scooted in before she walks around the front of the desk.

  “Nice to see you,” Marina says, any hint of animosity forgotten as she gives Sylvie a little half-hug.

  “You too,” my sister says warmly, embracing her former employee. “And oh!” Sylvie pulls back from the hug, her eyes twinkling again.

  It’s a look I must’ve seen a hundred times before — it means she’s plotting something.

  “Before I forget,” she adds, her voice ringing with such faux-seriousness that I know whatever she’s about to say isn’t remotely true. “I thought I would spur-of-the-moment offer to watch Marco tonight — in case the two of you want to go on a date.”

  Sylvie finishes with a grin I can almost see rather than hear.

  Marina, though, isn’t as wise to her tricks; she cocks her head, considering.

  “Sylvie,” I groan, rubbing my hand over my face. Does she seriously have no sense of propriety? “I haven’t even asked her yet. It’s not polite to just assume—”

  “— So ask me.”

  Marina abruptly cuts across my stilted attempt at scolding my sister. She turns to face me, her eyes shining with something new; her cheeks are flushed too, a beautiful pink color that adds an even lovelier contrast to her caramel skin.

  There’s no other way to describe it: She’s thrilled. And I’ll be damned if I’m the one to take any of that away from her.

  Still, it’s more than a little weird to be doing this in front of my sister, who is now reclining in her chair with such a graceful ease that she might as well be eating popcorn to enjoy the show.

  “Ok,” I start, my voice taking on a pitch a little deeper than the one I’d anticipated. “Marina. Will you go out with me tonight?”

  However, as awkward as I am about having this conversation right here, right now, Marina doesn’t seem to mind; her face splits into a wide grin, and I can almost feel the excitement radiating off her in waves.

  “Sure!” She tucks her hands behind her and bounces a little on the balls of her feet. I chuckle again, shaking my head in amazement. Jesus, she’s adorable.

  We just stare at each other for a few moments, brimming in mutual anticipation.

  But then, of course, Sylvie has to remind us that she’s there.

  Because she’s the best/worst sister ever.

  “So how does seven sound?” She props her feet up on the table, stretching her back in way that must be eerily reminiscent of how I do it, too.

  Marina doesn’t seem too worried, though.

  “Seven sounds great!” She bends to give Sylvie a farewell hug before crossing to the door. She pauses for just a moment, her hand on the doorknob, and turns to look at me from over her shoulder.

  “See you tonight, Finn,” Marina says, her voice so soft and sweet you’d never know there’s a little minx lurking beneath the surface.

  And with that, she’s gone, her beautiful ass bouncing beneath her jeans as she heads out of the office.

  I hadn’t even realized I’ve been staring at the door like an idiot until Sylvie snaps her fingers in front of my face.

  “Hey! Earth to Finn! Wake the hell up, we have things to talk about. I need those final expense report numbers by Monday. We’re still running a business here, even if you also happen to be chasing tail.”

  I rip my eyes from the door and roll them at her.

  “Marina isn’t just tail,” I snap, a bit surprised at the venom in my tone. “You know better than that. You’re the one who arranged this whole thing, anyway. “

  Sylvie grins and leans back again. “Ah, what can I say. I’m an excellent cupid.” She cups her hands behind her back and stares fondly at the ceiling. “I happen to be uniquely skilled at finding curvy ladies and matching them up with my brothers — who only like their ladies curvy.”

  I snort and stare down at my desk, but I’ve got nothing to refute that; we both know she’s telling the truth.

  You see, we here on Biggal Mountain are known for one thing: our preference for curvy ladies. We also might describe them as big, fat, curvy, plump, chubby, or women of size. Basically, we’re cool describing them in whatever way they’re comfortable being described — and yes, most of us spent high school jacking off to the models in Torrid and Lane Bryant catalogs.

  It typically comes as more of a shock when we leave Biggal Mountain (for whatever reason) to discover that liking normal-sized ladies isn’t the norm outside of our mountain sanctuary. Why anyone would be into women who are stick-thin and skeletal is something that’s beyond me, but it speaks to the fuckery of society that we often struggle to convince potential partners we’re the ones telling the truth.

  That unfortunate reality (combined with the fact that I’m pretty shy) means that I haven’t had anything even resembling a girlfriend since I got my Sommelier certification two years ago. Back then, I dated a girl in my program, but things had ended rather badly.

  I haven’t felt up to putting myself out there since then, but almost as soon as Marina started working at the other location, Sylvie had started dropping not-so-subtle hints about finding someone new. I’d ignored her for a long time until the loneliness — and the need to legitimately look into hiring people for my own location — had taken priority.

  And yeah, in retrospect, I can admit that it’s more than a little creepy that the first time I’d laid eyes on Marina (or more aptly on the curve of her ass as she’d sauntered around the other winery), I’d just known that she’d be a perfect fit… for the new location.

  Or me.

  Or both.

  Of course, I couldn’t have anticipated things going as well as they just had — that was a lottery-level stroke of luck. I only hope I hadn’t been too forward, even though I’d come in my pants in front of her. All that really means is that I’d better damn well make sure that she comes tonight.

  It’s not acceptable to be the only one who gets to finish — not on my watch.

  “—Dammit, Finn, are you listening to anything at all I’m saying?” Sylvie’s incredulous voice cuts through my scandalized thoughts.

  Nope.

  I spread my palms and give her a sheepish smile, which seems to answer her question. She rolls her eyes exaggeratedly.

  “Expense reports, Finn,” Sylvie says plainly, not amused in the least. “I need those. To resettle the tax terms for the new location.”

  “Yeah, yeah, fine.” I shrug. “I’ll get right on that. I don’t mind working through lunch — need to keep busy, after all.”

  I end with a half-hearted chuckle, hoping to disguise the reason I won’t stand up.

  For just a second, I think my excuse has actually worked — that I’ve gotten away with that, as feeble as it sounds.<
br />
  Of course, I’m proven wrong almost immediately.

  Sylvie strides towards the door and we say our goodbyes, but then she stills, her hand on the doorknob.

  “Oh, and Finn?” she calls. There’s a hint of something in her voice — a kind of teasing, sing-song, mocking thing. If I’d heard that once during my childhood, I’d heard it a hundred times.

  And it’s never a tone of voice that bodes well.

  “You might want to change before tonight,” she says casually, opening the door. “Jizz In My Pants is a song. Not a lifestyle choice.”

  She disappears behind the door just in time to avoid the flying projectile of my pen.

  3

  Marina

  At first, I hadn’t been sure how I’d do making a career switch from bartending to winery work. When Sylvie first offered me the job at her location in Seattle, I’d been willing to do basically anything; this had occurred straight after the Mike situation, after all; I’d been desperate to get my life together.

  So it goes without saying that my initial experiences in Sylvie’s winery had been eye-opening. For starters, I’d had to learn that bar patrons and winery patrons are very different people. In my experience, bar patrons (regardless of the time of their visit) tend to fall into one of three distinct categories: kids, drunks, or people down on their luck.

  I’ve always preferred the latter two.

  The kids (and by kids I mean college students) who’d visited my bar back in Brooklyn were largely the entitled, snobby types who’d snap their fingers to get me to do their bidding. If they weren’t snobby or entitled, they’d typically try to skate through on fake IDs — and they’d turn into real jerks when I called them out. On the off-chance these kids weren’t snobby or carrying fake IDs, they usually wouldn’t know how to hold their liquor. Which created far more of a headache than it was worth.

  Sure, the drunks I’d dealt with in my bar had a tendency to get boisterous, but I’ve never been the type of gal who’s afraid of getting my hands dirty. Usually there would be another person in the bar (or a co-worker) who would help out if things got too violent or disruptive. Also, the regulars tended to tip well, because they knew they’d be back.

  The bar-folk who’d been down on their luck always made me a little sad. Their life stories had varied widely (survivors of 9/11, laid off corporate employees, divorcées) but by-and-large, they’d been genuinely kind people who just wanted a shoulder to cry on or a listening ear. I still keep in touch with a few of these folks, but as far as I know, my former bar is still the place they call home.

  But winery people are very different — and that had taken some getting used to.

  We get the occasional alcoholic who is only interested in getting drunk, but this type is few and far between. I’ve only been doing this a few months, but from what I can tell, most of our winery clientele can be broken into the categories of people trying to impress dates, retirees, or tourists.

  And just like at the bar, I prefer the latter two options.

  Fortunately, the universe seems to have heard my silent prayer to avoid too much unnecessary drama today. The rest of the workday passes in a kind of blurry daze, one that leaves me feeling far more giddy and smitten than I’d like to admit. The customers — mostly tourists, at this time of year — begin drifting in around 1.

  To my delight, they’re all attentive and respectful. I never thought I’d actually get into the educational aspect of this job, but it is kind of fun to explain which grapes we use for each blend. I’ve learned quite a lot since starting here, and I like to think that my palette has become more refined in the process.

  Even with the steady stream of tastings, though, I know I’m not really on my game. Things that are usually easy (making small talk, explaining the tasting options, providing measured pours) become more difficult than they’ve ever been.

  And it’s Finn’s fault.

  I feel myself blushing (again) as I wipe down the counter; a thrill races through me whenever I think back to our… earlier rendezvous. The fact that I’d made a big sexy lumberjack so aroused that he’d actually come in his pants is something that I don’t think will ever cease to fuel my fantasies, regardless of where this relationship (if you can call it that) might lead.

  Of course, this leaves me with the unpleasant side effect of being so turned on that it’s that much harder for me to do my actual job.

  I rub my thighs together impatiently as I load used tasting glasses into the below-counter dishwasher. It’s 4:30 now, but my shift doesn’t end til 5. Seeing as how it’s only my first day, I’m not sure how long it’ll take to get from here to Marco’s babysitter. It was a 45-minute trek this morning, but I know from living in New York that evening traffic is a completely different animal.

  This uncertainty with my commute means I definitely won’t get the chance to take care of this aching, pulsating need before our date tonight, which is annoying, to say the least. Even if Marco were willing to give me two seconds to myself (which he never is), there’s no way I’d be able to find the time between dinner and bath and getting him ready for Sylvie.

  I’m really not sure how tonight will play out, but I feel fairly confident in my ability to take charge, just like I had today. I grin again. Taking control had been so fluid, so surprisingly easy, that it almost feels like I’ve been doing it all my life.

  I bite my lip and close the door to the dishwasher. My discomfort is made all the more pronounced by the fact that Finn had seemed more than willing to address my needs before we were interrupted. It would have been impossible to fake the look of primal frustration etched across his face when Sylvie has burst through the door.

  Good. I smirk a little to myself. It’s titillating to know that — miraculously — it almost seems like I want him as much as he wants me. I’m excited to test this theory, even if it means I’ll just be perpetually soaking wet until he picks me up tonight…

  “And what could possibly be causing Matronly Marina to blush like that?”

  Justin, my fabulously gay co-worker, interrupts my thoughts as he saunters his way behind the counter. He makes a big show of taking the wine spittoon and washing it out, but he’s less subtle than he thinks; that spittoon has been empty for hours.

  I roll my eyes; Justin and I were the only two recruits from the first location, so I’ve known him since I moved to Seattle in the first place. This means that as much as I adore him — which I do — I also know that he’s a terrible gossip.

  “Oh, nothing,” I say, trying to keep my voice as neutral as possible. “Just excited to see Marco tonight.”

  Justin scoffs at this and pauses at the sink, his hand on his hip. “Girl, if you expect me to believe that, I’ve got a fake university to sell you.”

  I laugh in spite of myself and begin to wipe down the counter, mostly so I’ll have something to do with my hands. Try as I might, though, I can’t stop a smile from tugging at the corners of my lips.

  “Oh,” and Justin adds, his tone faux-casual, “I’m sure that little smile has nothing to do with how you disappeared into Finn’s office for lunch. And how you came out looking like you took a front seat ride in a top-down Jeep.”

  Shit.

  I freeze mid-wipe, staring down at my hand in horror. In the recesses of my mind, I knew we hadn’t been as discreet as we should have. If this gets out, it could have so many ramifications… ones that I’m not prepared for…

  But then I glance over at Justin, who is still wearing that knowing smirk. I roll my eyes. No. He has absolutely nothing on me; he’s reaching, at best.

  “Well, I don’t know what you’d expect. Sylvie came by for a visit,” I lie smoothly, turning back to the counter. “The two of us have always gotten into animated conversations, you know that.”

  Justin narrows his eyes. He knows what I’m saying is true. At the old location, Sylvie and I had been well-known for our boisterous story-telling and recounting customer antics.

  He doesn’t ha
ve much to go on. But he’s not buying it.

  “Uh-huh,” he says, his voice full of disbelief. He doesn’t push things further, though, for which I’m grateful; he’s pretty good at knowing when to stop. Before Mike, I might have trusted him with this sort of secret — but that relationship has left me guarded, conflicted. Untrusting.

  Maybe someday I’ll trust people enough to share that type of thing with him. But that day isn’t today.

  Justin turns to head back to the store room, but then he stops, his hand on my shoulder. “And I’m sure,” he drawls, in a softer voice than before, “that your time in Finn’s office has nothing to do with the fact that Biggal Mountain dudes have a thing for girls with some junk in the trunk.”

  I roll my eyes and open my mouth to object, but he places a finger on my lips. Justin’s eyes are suddenly serious and protective, like my cousin’s used to be. That memory makes my heart ache, just a little.

  “Just… be careful, ok?” he says gently, sounding more concerned than I’ve ever heard him. It takes me off guard how Justin — of all people — seems so troubled. For the first time in my life, I’m struck with how difficult it might be to explain that my feelings aren’t the ones anyone needs to worry about.

  So instead I just offer Justin a reassuring little smile and place my hand over his. “I always am.”

  4

  Finn

  Normally, I’d find it encouraging that my employees are so dedicated that they’re still working past their official end time (6 PM).

  Under normal circumstances, I might even offer said employees some polite praise, or tell them how much I appreciate their desire to go the extra mile.

  But absolutely nothing about today is what I’d consider “normal.”

  And by the time 6:05 finally rolls around, I feel like I’m about to crawl out of my skin… because Justin and Marina are still here.

  For the past six hours, I’ve been staring at my computer screen and trying my hardest to actually get some work done. To my dismay, it’s been a complete wash. And I won't lie and claim that my distraction is due anything other than sitting in my own half-dried mess.