Most people in Ridge Hollow saw Jenna Coleman as the warm, approachable woman who worked at the local hardware store. Fifty-nine, quick with a joke, quicker with advice, she had a way of making strangers feel like old friends and old friends feel like family. But what they noticed first—what everyone noticed—were her curves.
Not in a showy, attention-seeking way. Jenna carried herself like a woman who had been shaped by life, not trend. Soft in places that told stories. Strong in places that hinted at battles fought years ago. Men admired her, women trusted her, and Jenna simply smiled through it all.
But few understood what those curves actually meant.
They were the map of a past she didn’t talk about. Not because she was hiding something shameful—but because she’d learned that vulnerability was something you earned, not something you spilled.
Then Mark Hanley walked into her life.
Mark was sixty, a former firefighter with a rebuilt knee and a slow, steady way of moving through the world. He came into the hardware store looking for deck screws, but he ended up standing in Jenna’s aisle long after he’d forgotten what he came for.
“You look like a man who’s pretending he knows what he’s doing,” she teased.
He chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re not wrong. I’m winging it.”
“Good,” she said, handing him the right box. “Honesty makes you easier to help.”
Mark liked that about her immediately—she saw through people gently, like she didn’t want to embarrass them, just guide them toward something steadier. Over the next few weeks, he found excuses to stop by: paint samples, gloves, a rake he absolutely didn’t need. And every time, Jenna treated him with the same calm warmth that made his chest tighten in ways he’d thought were behind him.
One rainy afternoon, he walked in soaked from the shoulders down. Jenna stepped out from behind the counter, handed him a towel, and shook her head.
“You’re going to catch something out there.”
He laughed. “Maybe. But I needed something to fix a leak.”
She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing with playful suspicion. “Or maybe you needed conversation.”
Mark didn’t deny it. “Could be both.”
That was the first moment her expression softened in a way he hadn’t seen before—like she’d let a door crack open, just for him.
As they sorted through plumbing parts, he noticed how she paused occasionally, touching the shelf absentmindedly as if grounding herself. Her posture—strong yet gentle—left him curious.
Finally, he asked quietly, “Jenna… you always carry yourself like you’re balancing more than you say. Ever feel like sharing any of it?”
She hesitated, her fingers tracing the edge of a copper fitting. A long breath left her chest.
“Most people assume curves mean indulgence,” she said softly. “But life… life shapes people. Mine just did it in ways that show.”
“What do they mean?” Mark asked, careful not to push.
Jenna looked up, meeting his eyes with a steadiness that made his heart thump harder than he expected. “They mean I survived things. Loss. Divorce. A few years I wouldn’t repeat for anything. They mean I learned to take care of others before I ever learned to take care of myself.”
She paused, her voice low but firm. “And they mean I carry more strength than most people guess.”
Mark didn’t comment on her body. He didn’t tease. He simply stepped a little closer, his presence warm and solid.
“Then you should know,” he said quietly, “none of that scares me.”
Her lips parted slightly—surprise first, then something softer. Gratitude. Recognition. Relief.
For the first time in years, she allowed someone to stand close without stepping away.
Jenna’s curves didn’t make her who she was. They revealed where she’d been, what she’d endured, and how deeply she felt things she rarely said out loud.
And Mark… he was the first man in a long time who looked at her and didn’t just see shape—he saw story.
And she found herself, slowly, learning to tell it.
