Page 2 of Curvy Cabin Fever

MORGAN

R hett thinks he can survive on coffee and cigarettes.

He doesn’t take care of himself, yet he has a body blessed by the gym gods.

I mean, in fairness, he does work out, but his diet is shit.

I pour the batter into the sizzling pan and inhale the sweet aroma, thanking my mama’s tip to always sprinkle sugar in the batter.

No one makes better pancakes than her, so I always do the same when I make them.

I knew Rhett would want bacon, carnivore that he is, and that’s already sizzling in the pan beside this one.

Rhett has been pacing around the kitchen with a frown that tells me he’s in work mode. It’s cute; his face lines with concentration, but he still looks…haunted. We chat until he finally slides onto a stool, still carrying his coffee with him like it’s a fucking IV drip.

I glance over just as Rhett lifts his arm to stifle a yawn, his other hand cradling the mug like it’s the only thing holding him together. There are dark smudges under his eyes, the kind that no amount of caffeine can touch.

After all that coffee, he’s still tired.

“Did you get much sleep?” I ask, knowing full well he didn’t. He never does.

Rhett shrugs and drains the last of his coffee before nodding to the pot behind me for a refill. “Pass me the coffee pot, would you?”

“You need sleep, not coffee.”

“You need to mind your business,” he snaps.

I give him a look before telling him to get his own damn coffee. Like a grizzly bear, he grunts and shoves the chair back, striding to the coffee pot before filling his cup to the rim.

I gesture to it, my tone sharp.

“Caffeine is?—”

“Nectar from the gods. Save it, Morgan; I don’t care if it kills me. I’m drinking it,” Rhett rumbles, glaring at me as we have our age-old debate.

I know he won’t listen, so I focus on making his breakfast instead.

The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, right?

I flip the pancakes and roll my eyes. There’s no point arguing with Rhett Callahan. He’s a moody prick at the best of times.

“What’s the plan today? Wanna go hiking?” I ask, glancing outside.

I love the outdoors, especially out here in the mountains. It beats my little studio back in New York, that’s for sure.

I have the next few days planned meticulously: early morning hikes, a few home-cooked meals, and a chance to finally relax in peace.

No work, no distractions—just the three of us and the mountain air.

The mountains have a way of clearing my head, but lately, even the stillness feels…

empty. I’m not sure what I’m looking for, but I know I haven’t found it yet.

“Sure. Are you gonna get D up?” Rhett raises his eyebrows at me before smirking, knowing Damien won’t wake up before late in the afternoon, not even for pancakes and bacon.

One time in college, he slept until six in the evening after going to bed at nine the night before. That man loves his sleep.

“Nope.” I pop the P, slide the pancakes and bacon onto a plate, and push it across the counter to Rhett.

I hand him the maple syrup before checking the weather on my phone.

I don’t mind a bit of rain, but it’s winter in the mountains, and you never know.

Snow can fall rapidly out here; if we were too far from the cabin, we’d freeze.

Plus, there’s no phone signal.

Thank god for the Wi-Fi.

“These are delicious,” Rhett compliments through a mouthful of food, and pride blossoms in my chest.

Cooking was always a massive part of my life growing up, and every weekend, we’d have everyone around our tiny house for a feast. I can’t count how many cousins I have or aunts, uncles, and grandmas.

Yes, grandmas. My mama always invited the whole block, including lonely neighbors and forgotten souls.

But our home always had room for anyone with a hungry belly and in need of company.

Ain’t nothing a casserole can’t fix, Morgan. My mama’s voice rings in the back of my mind.

I chuckle to myself as Rhett lets out a contented groan, and I swipe at my phone screen.

Heavy snow is expected from three p.m.

“We need to be back before two,” I declare as Rhett stacks the dishwasher. I can’t help but admire his muscular arms beneath the thin t-shirt and wonder how they’d feel wrapped around me.

Fucking hell.

I’ve been crushing on this man for far too long. I need a hobby or something. No other man does this to me—I train handsome, ripped men every day. I don’t know what it is about him, but he has always made me feel something no one else has.

Well, except maybe Damien in his jeans and no top when he’s hungover and tired…but that’s just me observing a pretty man when I see one.

I’m a whore for Rhett; I admit it.

“Alright.” Rhett stretches, his t-shirt riding up to reveal his sexy stomach, the outline of a six-pack visible even from over here.

I avert my eyes and start cleaning, giving myself a chance to cool the fuck down.

So what if I want to fuck my best friend? He’s as straight as a blade; it ain’t ever gonna happen. I came to terms with that years ago.

So, if I get to stay with him in the mountains once a year, I’ll take it.

I need to get laid, but at thirty-two years old, I’m starting to want something more. I’m just not going to get it lusting after him.

“Fuck it, I’m waking him up,” I announce as Rhett snorts.

“Good luck, brother.”

I still at the nickname before he claps me on the back, another reminder that I can never tell him how I really feel. Because to him, we’re family, which means more than anything.

Especially to Rhett.

I nod and move to the stairway, bracing myself for Storm Damien.

I clearly have a thing for alpha men.