Page 47 of Curvy Cabin Fever

The kitchen is too quiet. The only sounds are the occasional crackle of the fire and my own uneven breathing.

I try to avoid eye contact with him becauseI can’t look at him.

Not now.

Morgan is still watching me, smirking, standingwaytoo fucking close for a guy who isn’t trying to drive me insane.

I force myself to look anywhere but at him.

At the floor. The wall. The goddamn protein bar in his hand?—

Bad idea.

He’s licking peanut butter off his thumb, tongue flicking out just enough to make something twist in my gut.

I exhale through my nose, gripping the edge of the table. I will not react.

The light from the fireplace flickers over his bare chest, highlighting every fucking muscle. He’s always been built like this—broad, thick, stronger than he looks when he’s teasing.

“You’re being weird,” I mutter, turning toward the sink and rinsing out my mug so I have something to do with my hands.

Morgan leans against the counter. “You’re one to talk,” he murmurs, voice lower now.

I keep my back to him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

Morgan steps so close I can feel his heat behind me. The cabin suddenly feels fucking tiny.

“You tell me,” he replies smoothly.

I grip the counter too hard. “Archer, I swear to?—”

He grabs my wrist.

It’s not aggressive, not like yesterday when we were shoving each other in the snow.

It’s worse.

Because this touch is controlled. Deliberate.

I swallow, my throat bone dry.

What the fuck am I supposed to do?

Morgan tugs just enough to turn me toward him.

We’re close again.

Too fucking close.

His dark eyes lock onto mine, searching, testing me again.

I tell myself I’m going to pull away—but I don’t.

The firelight flickers over his face, his cheekbones sharp, his lips parted just slightly like he’s waiting. Then his gaze flicks down to my mouth.

Fuck.

I should leave.