Page 5 of Curvy Cabin Fever

ARIA

T he storm howls outside, rattling the windows of the cabin as I try to settle into this unfamiliar space.

My stomach growls, reminding me that I haven’t eaten since those croissants at the little coffee shop in town.

The thought of food makes me more aware of my current situation—trapped in a luxury cabin with three sinfully attractive men.

How did this happen again?

“Well, sweetheart, looks like you’re stuck with us,” the sullen dark-haired one drawls, leaning against the kitchen counter like he owns the place.

I mean—he might for all I know.

His smirk is lazy, but the way his gaze drags over me is anything but. “I’m not complaining.”

Heat rises up my neck, and I turn away so he doesn’t see.

Damn this man.

The one who looks like he’s stepped out of a fitness magazine sighs. “The storm’s getting worse.”

The other man hasn’t said a word. He stands near the fireplace, arms crossed, jaw tight. The crackling flames cast shadows over his face, making his expression unreadable.

He doesn’t want me here .

That much is obvious.

“Since you’ll be stuck with us for the night, we should probably introduce ourselves,” the fitness god-like creature says, gestures toward himself. “I’m Morgan. The menace over there is Damien. And the broody one by the fireplace is Rhett.”

I nod, rolling the names over in my head.

Morgan, Damien, Rhett.

They’re normal. But I still feel uneasy.

“Maybe I should drive back into town,” I begin hesitantly, imagining driving in that storm.

“Not in this weather, you’re not,” Rhett’s deep voice cuts through my suggestion. Coffee mug in hand, he turns to watch the snow build up against the glass. His blue eyes meet mine briefly before returning to the storm. “Roads will be impassable soon.”

I curse myself for the way my stomach flips at his deep voice. He sounds like authority, like safety, like… Nope. Not going there.

I close my eyes and curse myself for letting that thought slip in. But I can’t help it—Rhett screams Daddy vibes.

Moody Daddy vibes at that.

I sink into a plush armchair, trying to make myself smaller. The heat rises to my cheeks as Damien drops onto the couch closest to me, spreading his arms across the back with casual confidence. “You better get comfortable, Aria.”

Morgan’s cooking fills the open-plan kitchen with mouth-watering aromas—garlic, herbs, something rich and savory. My stomach betrays me again with an audible growl, and Damien’s laugh makes me want to disappear into the cushions.

“Someone is hungry,” he remarks, winking.

“I should help,” I say, starting to rise, but Morgan’s voice booms from the kitchen area.

“Absolutely not. Guest stays put. Although...” He looks over at Damien pointedly, tattoos visible where he’s rolled up his sleeves, “ Someone could set the table.”

“I’ll do it,” I respond quickly, grateful for any excuse to move.

“I’ve got it,” Rhett states at the same time, finally leaving his post by the fireplace.

We awkwardly dodge each other in the narrow space, and I catch a whiff of his coffee-and-pine scent. His shoulder brushes mine, sending an unexpected shiver down my spine.

“Seriously though, you’re staying here tonight,” Rhett calls over his shoulder.

My eyes widen, and I glance at Morgan, who gives me a reassuring smile, but I can’t return it, my face still numb from the cold.

Damien notices. Of course, he notices. “Cold, Aria? I know a few ways to warm you up.”

This man, honestly. I’ve known him for a few seconds, but this is how he is?

Jeez .

I eye his lean body and midnight black hair, my heart dancing with desire.

Not that I’m complaining.

“Damien,” Morgan warns from the kitchen, but I can hear the amusement in his voice.

I curl my legs under me, trying to ignore how the tension in the room shifts. How do I survive a night here when every glance, or accidental touch, every smirk from Damien feels like it’s charging the air with electricity?

As the tension crackles between us, I find myself holding my breath.

Despite my exhaustion and better judgment, there’s something magnetic about all three of them.

The way Morgan hums while he cooks, how Damien’s presence seems to command my attention, and even Rhett’s brooding silence—it all pulls at something deep inside me.

The storm rages on outside, but in here, trapped with these three men, I’m beginning to wonder if I’ll survive it all?

The wind whistles around this massive cabin, and I can’t help but take in more details now that I’m getting more acclimated.

Everything here speaks of masculine luxury—dark leather, polished wood, and huge windows that would probably showcase spectacular mountain views if they weren’t currently being assaulted by snow.

A stone fireplace dominates one wall, unlit but promising warmth.

The furniture is oversized, making me feel even smaller than usual.

It looks exactly how it did online.

I shrug off my puffy jacket, immediately regretting it as I feel exposed in my sweater.

Next to these men, with their perfect physiques, my chunky body feels out of place.

I catch my reflection in one of the darkened windows—my hair slightly messed from the wind, cheeks flushed, body taking up more space than I’d like in this chair that somehow makes me feel both comfortable and vulnerable.

“The heat’s cranked up,” Morgan calls from the kitchen, mistaking my discomfort for being cold. “Should feel warmer soon.” He’s right—the temperature is rising—but I’m not sure if it’s the heating system or the way Damien’s gaze keeps finding mine.

Surely, he’s not really attracted to me?

I try to push the thought away, but it lingers—this constant tug-of-war between what I feel and what I think I should feel. Damien must have options. He doesn’t need someone like me. So why is he entertaining it? Maybe he’s just being nice. Or...

Jesus, what if he’s a psychopath?

Instantly, I remember every horror movie Trevor made me sit through, and I try not to lose my sanity. Surely, I won’t end up chopped into little pieces. He is too beautiful to be a serial killer.

Right?

Damien's heated gaze never leaves mine.

I swallow hard and try to pretend I don’t notice, despite my pulse quickening.

The storm picks up intensity, snow now blowing in a blur past the windows. The wind moans around the corners of the cabin like it’s alive. A particularly strong gust rattles the windows, making me jump.

“Are you scared of storms?” Damien asks, his voice low and teasing. He’s moved closer, and I can see a small scar near his collarbone where it peeks out from his shirt.

“Not usually,” I answer, trying to keep my voice steady. “But I’m not usually stranded in them either.”

“Stranded with strange men ,” Rhett adds quietly, shooting a glare at Damien who promptly ignores it.

When I look at Rhett, his blue eyes are intense enough to make me catch my breath. There’s something haunted in them—not empty, exactly, but guarded, like he’s holding a storm just behind his gaze. It makes me want to dig deeper, to know what wrecked him enough to build walls that high.

The kitchen smells amazing now—Morgan is clearly some kind of culinary god.

I watch him move around the space with surprising grace for someone his size, his tattoos shifting as he works.

He catches me looking and winks, but it’s friendly rather than flirtatious.

“Almost ready,” he says. “Hope you like pasta.”

“I love pasta,” I gush, then immediately feel self-conscious. Of course I do—my size makes that obvious enough. I resist the urge to cross my arms over my stomach.

Thunder crashes outside, impossibly loud for a snowstorm, and the lights flicker ominously. My heart jumps into my throat.

“Don’t worry,” Rhett comments, noticing my panic. “We have generators.” He moves to light the fireplace. “But just in case.”

The warm glow of the starting fire catches the angles of his face, softening them slightly. For a moment, I glimpse something gentle in his expression before it’s gone again, replaced by his usual stoic mask.

“It’s getting cozy,” Damien remarks, stretching like a cat beside me. His shirt rides up slightly, revealing a strip of toned stomach that I absolutely do not stare at. “Almost romantic, isn’t it, Aria?”

I’m definitely not imagining this. His gaze is practically devouring me, and the thought of it has a strange, giddy flutter rising in my chest. My heart’s racing now, like I’ve just sprinted a mile. And I can promise you, I haven’t run a mile in years, if ever.

Morgan emerges from the kitchen area with a steaming pot of what looks like the most amazing pasta I’ve ever seen. “Food first, flirting later,” he states firmly, but there’s a glint in his eye that makes me wonder if he’s really as disapproving of Damien’s behavior as he seems.

As I watch them move around each other with familiar ease—Rhett grabbing wine glasses, Damien finally making himself useful by carrying sauce to the table, Morgan orchestrating it all—I feel like I’m watching a well-choreographed dance.

They fit together somehow, these three very different men, and I’m suddenly desperate to understand how.

The storm rages harder, as if trying to remind me that I’m trapped here, in this stunning cabin with these beautiful, yet unfamiliar men. But as I rise to join them at the table, I’m starting to wonder if “trapped” is really the right word for what I’m feeling.

Maybe “fated” would be more accurate, even if that thought terrifies me almost as much as the storm outside.

“Would you like some wine?” Rhett offers, holding up two bottles. “Red or white?”