Page 100 of Curvy Cabin Fever

“And you?”

His eyes meet mine. “I love them both. Not like I love you. More like brothers.”

“That’s...rare.”

“So is this. What we’re building, it’s a family.” He takes my hand, turns it over to trace the lines of my palm.

I study him. “You think that’s what’s happening?”

“I know it is.” His voice drops. “I’ve wanted you since you walked through that door in the snowstorm. Soaking wet. Glaring at me like I was the last person you wanted to see.”

“You were insufferable.”

“And you weren’t fazed.” His thumb presses into my wrist, finding my pulse. “Do you have any idea how rare that is?”

I smile. “Women are intimidated by you?”

“They’re either intimidated or they see me as a challenge. Someone to conquer.” His voice drops. “You just saw me. Called me on my shit. Didn’t play games.”

“I don’t know how to play games.”

“Good.” He leans closer. “Neither do I.”

Days pass.We fall into a rhythm that feels dangerously easy. Mornings are quiet—coffee, work for him, reading for me. Afternoons we spend exploring the property, him showing me the creek that runs along the eastern boundary, the old hunting blind Rhett’s grandfather built, the shed full of tools they use for maintaining the place.

In the evenings, we cook together. He’s surprisingly skilled in the kitchen, moving with the same precision I imagine he brings to his architectural designs.

“Where’d you learn to cook?” I ask, watching him dice vegetables with practiced ease.

“My mother. She believed every man should be able to feed himself properly.” He slides the veggies into a pan where they sizzle in olive oil. “Though I’ll never be as good as Morgan.”

“Has he always been the cook among you?”

“Always. It’s how he shows love.” Damien stirs the pan. “You might not have noticed yet, but he makes everyone’s favorites. Those pancakes he made you that first morning? He only makes those for people he really cares about.”

I think about that—the care Morgan takes with food, how he watches people eat with that satisfied little smile. “It’s more than just cooking, isn’t it? It’s nurturing.”

“That’s Morgan.’ Damien glances at me. “Big body, bigger heart.”

Later, when we’ve eaten and the dishes are done, he pulls me to the couch and onto his lap, hands settling on my hips with casual possession.

“I want to know everything about you,” he tells me, brushing hair from my face. “Every scar, fear, and dream you’ve ever had.”

“Why?”

“Because you matter.” His thumbs stroke my hip bones through my jeans. “Not just to me. To all of us. And I want to understand why.”

I rest my hands on his shoulders, feeling the solid strength of him. “I’m not that complicated.”

“Liar.” But he says it tenderly, like it’s something he admires. “You’re the most complex person I’ve met in years. That’s why we all fell for you.”

“I thought it was my cooking.”

He laughs, the sound rumbling through his chest. “That too.” His expression sobers. “But mostly it’s the way you see each of us. Not just what we show the world.”

I think about that—about Morgan’s nurturing heart beneath his muscled exterior, about Rhett’s carefully controlled desires, about this man beneath me with his gruff demeanor and passionate vision. “I see you,” I whisper.

His answer is a kiss that starts gentle but doesn’t stay that way—a kiss that burns away everything but this moment, this connection, this man who holds me like I’m something both precious and breakable.