Curvy Christmas (Babes of Biggal Mountain Book 3) Read online

  Curvy Christmas

  Babes of Biggal Mountain: Book 3

  Elaria Ride

  Curvy Christmas

  Book 3

  Babes of Biggal Mountain:

  A Body-Positive Romance Series

  Elaria Ride

  Copyright © 2018 by Elara Ride. All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in articles or reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Curvy Christmas

  Elaria Ride

  Harrison, a handsome lumberjack-turned-restauranteur, spent most of his life on Biggal Mountain fantasizing about Kara — the red-haired vixen of his deepest desires.

  In his fantasies, though, Kara’s always been a BBW…and in reality, she’s just too thin. As a man who appreciates women of size, Harrison hadn’t been able to see past that while she’d lacked the curves he craved.

  But sparks fly when Kara— now a world-famous chef— returns to their hometown for Christmas with a few extra pounds in tow. Harrison’s desperate to prove that she’s what he’s always wanted…by worshipping her for the plus-sized goddess she’s finally become.

  Stay tuned for a red-hot, body-positive, happily-ever-after romance that celebrates size!

  Contents

  1. Kara

  2. Harrison

  3. Kara

  4. Harrison

  5. Kara

  6. Harrison

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  Stay Connected

  Book 1: Lumberjack’s Luscious Lady

  Book 2: Pleasingly Plump

  Kara

  The snowflakes drift through the thin mountain air, almost mesmerizingly peaceful in their tranquil beauty. I step through the doors of the airport, overjoyed with the type of peaceful, blanketed silence that only accompanies a fresh snowfall.

  I tilt my head back and take a deep breath, scarcely aware of the luggage slipping from my palms and clattering to the concrete below. It's almost as if being back in my hometown has compelled me to experience the fresh air I've been denied for so long…

  I take a deep breath and finally fill my lungs.

  This couldn’t possibly be any further from the air in LA.

  And yes…I’ve missed this.

  I don’t even care that people are probably staring at me like a lunatic as I stand outside the airport, waiting for my ride.

  I also don't care that I'm not adequately dressed for the weather, clad only in yoga pants and an oversized hoodie. I'm not wearing any makeup, my hair isn't coiffed just so. In fact, I’m sure I look exactly like what you'd picture if given the description of an overworked fat chick whose pastry shop — and only significant life achievement — is about to close forever.

  But for once in my life? Not caring feels so good…

  I take another deep, cleansing breath as I let go of all my ridiculous fears and worries, the ones that constantly plague me in LA— the place where I’m never thin enough. Or pretty enough. Or successful enough.

  But Biggal Mountain? Yes… this place is different.

  And truthfully, I probably would have continued standing in the snow and grinning like a psycho if a car horn — followed by a particularly lascivious cat call — hadn't interrupted my reverie.

  I glance up to see a scruffy-looking guy in a worn out red truck wagging his eyebrows at me. I shudder, just a bit, thankful that he’s taking the cue to drive away.

  Gross.

  I shake my head, more than a little disgusted — but also filled with a certain degree of surprise. It's been a long time since I've been catcalled…over five years, actually. I don't appreciate it, not by a long shot, but it does remind me that things are going to be different for me here than they were in high school.

  I blush self-consciously, kicking my feet in the snow. Well, I guess that answers that question: Looks like I’m finally curvy enough for their standards!

  I sigh, staring off into the distance.

  You see, Biggal Mountain is not like most places. Here, fat women are the only ones who are considered beautiful, the only ones who were ever popular in school…the only ones who ever experienced any real degree of romantic success, if I'm honest. Skinny women are the odd ones out — which is why most of us who'd been unlucky enough to fall into that category had moved away after high school.

  My own middle and high school years were spent lamenting my propensity towards being thin; at 5’5”, I’d never been able to get past 115 pounds, regardless of what I ate or did. I’ve always been the odd man out in my family. My mom has always been fat (and beautiful). My sister has always been fat (and beautiful). As such, they’d both gotten married pretty fast, swept up by high school sweethearts before they’d had a chance to see how different things are outside this little mountain paradise.

  Of course, I hadn’t been given that option.

  I'd had feelings for boys, of course, as most straight teenage girls do. One boy, in particular, had caught my eye the second we'd met in culinary class in 10th grade. Oh, Harrison Bosco… the would-be love of my life — if only anything had ever transpired between us!

  God, he'd been absolutely gorgeous, though… sandy blonde hair, dark green eyes, dimpled chin, and a rugged jaw. His father had owned the lumber mill on the side of the mountain, and as a result, he'd been insanely buff and built. I'd spent most of my time in culinary class trying not to drool over the way his forearms flexed when he julienned carrots.

  We'd shared lingering glances and soft, blushing smiles, but he'd never made a move, not even when we'd gradually gravitated towards the same circle of friends. Over the years, the relationship had become blatantly flirtatious — to the point where we'd bantered and joked like an old married couple. Harrison had been quite the smart ass, and I'd never hesitated to serve him sass right back.

  We’d both taken advanced culinary classes all the way through senior year. Harrison wasn’t the only reason I’d chosen to pursue culinary classes for so long, but I won’t deny that the attraction we’d shared in class hadn’t hurt. Before long, we were the only two students left at the advanced level — which ensured lots of close contact.

  As a result of being (literally) the only two kids in the program in a small school, Harrison and I had been required to complete an internship together during senior year. We’d been tasked with delivering meals to various community members in need. Our typical “route” was loading food into Harrison’s pickup and bringing it to three different places: the soup kitchen, the hospital, and the assisted living facility.

  Harrison and I had grumbled about it at the time, but for a couple of high school kids, the food delivery internship had really been an eye-opening experience. We’d both walked away from it convinced that the food industry was where we were meant to be for the rest of our lives.

  Oh…and of course, our chemistry while preparing food that often had been absolutely off the charts.

  Initially, it had come as quite a shock to me that the two of us would work so well together. We’d always been friends, and the attraction had always been there, but I really hadn’t expected us to… just gel.

  But to my utmost surprise, we had.

  Granted, this was many years (and pounds) ago, but at the time, Harrison had been the very portrait of restaurateur professionalism, even though he was just a la
nky kid of 18. He’d been excellent at giving me instructions, and I’d been excellent at interpreting every single one of his requests. I’d tried to take the lead a few times, but it had just been apparent that Harrison was just better-suited for giving directives.

  And honestly? That hadn’t bothered me at all.

  An important part of working with other people is learning to take direction, now and again. This is especially relevant in the culinary field, where following orders and communicating is a key component of success. Besides that, even back then, I’d known that preparing full meals wasn’t really my thing — but I’d also known that making food, in general, was what I wanted to do.

  Overall, here’s the way I see it: Food is a guaranteed way to make people happy. I’ve met a lot of people over the course of my life, but I’ve never met a single person who hates all types of food.

  Even if you’re the picky type (and if you are, I’m jealous), there is still something, somewhere that you like. Maybe it’s a food that reminds you of home-cooked meals with your mom. Maybe it’s a cultural food from your childhood. Maybe it’s a food you associate with a memory or an experience from a great vacation.

  Or maybe it’s none of these things — which only means I need to work a little harder to find out how to make you happy!

  All-in-all, I like to think I’m a generous friend. Gift-giving is definitely my love language, even though I rarely give non-consumable gifts. Still, I can’t deny I get a warm feeling of satisfaction when I give a friend or relative a pastry or cookie. It’s a gesture that shows I care about you, something that suggests I’ve thought about you enough to remember what you like.

  It sounds corny, but the simple act of handing over that decorated box— all wrapped in butcher paper and tied with a neat little string— brings so much joy to my heart. Actually, the reason I have so much luggage right now is that I’ve come prepared; I have scones and macarons and danishes, all tucked away, ready to disperse to my family for Christmas.

  I’ve already handed out early Christmas gifts to the folks I know back in LA, which had been harder than I thought; half of the people I know claim to have food sensitivities, but I’ve never gotten a good read if these are legitimate or not. The only person I know who is truly gluten intolerant is Daljit, the woman who owns the yoga studio next door to the bakery. She avoided my shop for a few months — and she later admitted that this was because gluten products still tempt her, even though she can’t have them.

  But because I’m the insane type of person who legitimately believes that food has healing powers, I’ve gone out of my way to find something Daljit can eat. And to my surprise? It worked! I’ve since incorporated gluten-free options into our bakery selection, and although this hasn’t been much of a draw to the general public, I nevertheless know I’ve made Daljit feel a little more included.

  Like I said, food has healing powers; I’d never dream of excluding anyone from a food experience, even if that means I need to work just a little harder to find exactly what someone wants. To me, the reward is worth it in the end, and the proof of that is in the pudding— so to speak. Daljit knows that I care for her and that I’d go out of my way to make her happy.

  And what could be better than making people happy?

  That being said, I know everyone has a different definition of “making people happy” and figuring out how to do that. You might’ve guessed as much by now, but I tend to be a little impatient. As such, I’ve never been as into serving huge meals. Those take coordinated planning and organization and varied ingredients.

  Even from as far back as ninth grade, Harrison was great at that. He could give expert instructions in less than five minutes. Under his guidance, a total novice could have pasta boiling or steak searing or chicken baking. I’d always thought Harrison got a greater intrinsic reward from being a sort of kitchen maestro. He’d enjoyed watching all the pieces come together like a symphony, each piece of the puzzle falling into place just so.

  As for me, I prefer desserts. The way I see things is that desserts are small, but they’re often the most memorable part of your meal. Not much tops a quality cheesecake or an expertly-baked Red Velvet. I am a sweet tooth type of gal, though, so I suppose I might be a little biased.

  But apart from all of that, desserts are also easier to disperse as gifts. Who ever heard of getting a pasta for Christmas?!

  Not me.

  Back then, Harrison had been the opposite, of course. He’d gotten a much greater thrill out of providing the main course, of feeding people (what he called) “actual food.” This was one of the flirtatious debates we’d have all the time… and I mean all the time. At one point, I’d foolishly allowed myself to believe that we’d actually go anywhere with our feelings.

  But in a very anti-climactic conclusion, Harrison had never asked me out. I’d spent long enough on Biggal Mountain to know that girls like me never end up with guys like him. I’d long-since accepted that guys like Harrison probably want someone with a little more… physical substance.

  These days, I make a point of avoiding social media that doesn't pertain to my business, but from what I hear, Harrison and his brothers more or less run Biggal Mountain. He has a sister, too — not that I'd known her particularly well. It seems that the Bosco clan owns several small businesses in addition to running the lumber mill.

  And hey, good for them! I’m glad they were able to make it in this economy. As someone whose own small business is about to go under, I know firsthand how cutthroat it can be. I swallow, staring at the ground, and wonder if my mother is close by; I’m starting to get more than a little chilly.

  I'd love to be able to say that leaving Biggal Mountain had been the best thing that ever happened to me… but that would be a lie.

  A few years ago, though, I’d shown some great potential; I’d left the mountain after high school, where I’d gone on to study at an exclusive culinary school in Italy. I’d trained for two years before becoming a certified pastry chef.

  I’d maintained my petite figure all through culinary school, and I hadn’t hated the attention I’d finally received from the way my body simply was. I’d dated occasionally, but never experienced anything too lasting.

  Of course, things had gone downhill since then.

  After culinary school, I decided to achieve my dream. I'd moved to LA and opened up my own pastry shop. It had been expensive, sure — but I figured I'd eventually recoup my losses. For the first year or so, I'd been quite happy with city living. The work had been demanding, and as such, it hadn't left me much time for a socializing or romance. I had a good rapport with my employees, but that's about it.

  Despite some early success, though, business has started to dwindle in the last two years. It's hard to define a single thing that's contributed to its demise, but my personal (and somewhat bitter) theory is that it's probably a renewed trend in body-shaming that's taken LA by storm. Pastries aren't low-fat or low-carb or keto — and as such, they just aren't as cool as they used to be.

  Oh, and there’s also the fact that I’ve probably gained at least 75 pounds since I’ve moved. In LA, being fat certainly doesn’t help one’s image.

  The weight gain was something that had crept up on me somewhere in between the late nights and the stress-eating. It was the type of thing that I hadn’t even noticed until my chef shirt had suddenly been far too tight. In a cruel twist of irony, the only time I’d been able to gain weight was the one time I hadn’t wanted to.

  But honestly, being fat isn’t as big of a deal to me as I thought it would be, mostly because I just don’t have time to worry about it. I’ve been so preoccupied with the shop that my own family hasn’t even seen me since last Christmas.

  I’d finally decided that enough was enough — and that I was long overdue for a visit— after I’d only sold a single cake the entire month of November. After all, what was the point in killing myself over this business if it was destined to fail?

  And now? I take another
deep breath of the fresh air. It’s good to be home. My shop is officially closed for the next two weeks; I’m so far in the red it’s unlikely I’ll be able to crawl out. All non-essential employees have already been cut. I’m hoping that this trip home will create a renewed spark, that it will provide me with some semblance of inspiration to get through this slump—

  "KARA!" A delighted voice pierces through my thoughts. It's a voice I'd know anywhere, one I haven't heard (in person) for far, far too long.

  “MOM!” I reply, overjoyed. My mother is rushing towards me, her face split into a wide, beaming grin, her shoulder-length gray curls creating the most beautiful contrast against her red pea code. I have a brief thought that she looks, for all the world, like my own personal Mrs. Claus…

  We rush towards each other, giggling as we finally embrace. I wrap my arms around her, smiling into her shoulder as the snow continues to fall around us. I close my eyes. I missed her so much…

  She pulls back after a moment and grips my shoulders, giving me an appraising once-over.

  “Kara,” she says, arching an eyebrow. I’m certain she’s about to comment on my weight, when — “You are far underdressed for the weather.”

  Oh. I give my mother a relieved smile. "Yeah, sorry, my old winter clothes are a little… snug." I trail off uncomfortably, but she just gives me a pat on the shoulder.

  “We’ll get you taken care of, dear,” she assures me. “But first? Dinner. There’s a new restaurant in town, one you simply must check out.”

  She finishes with a wink I don’t entirely understand, but I’m not one to look too much into things. My dad pulls around with the old family station wagon, and the two of us exchange greetings as I hop in the backseat. I talk to my parents fairly regularly, but it’s always nice to see a familiar face in person.