Page 98 of Curvy Cabin Fever

“I also started filling out a change-of-address form with my bank.”

That earns me a small smile. “You serious?” he murmurs.

“Yeah.”

“Good.” He presses a kiss just behind my ear, and something in me melts. “You belong here,” he says.

“With you?”

“With us. But right now? With me.”

Later, when we’re in bed—our clothes still on, bodies tangled beneath the quilt—I reach for him.

“Make me forget everything else,” I whisper.

His mouth is on mine before I finish the sentence, rough and hot and full of the promise he made on the porch.

Mine.

“Tell me something true,”I request the next morning. We’re sitting on the porch despite the chill, watching the sun climb over the pines. “Something I don’t know about you.”

Damien gives me a sideways look. “Fishing for secrets already?”

“Not secrets. Just...you.”

He’s quiet for so long, I think he won’t answer. Then: “My father was a carpenter. He built custom homes.”

I turn to face him. “Is that why you became an architect?”

“Partly. I’d watch him work when I was a kid.” His eyes stay fixed on the tree line. “He had this ability to see the finished product before he even started. I wanted that too.”

“The vision?”

He nods. “And the ability to create something lasting. Something that matters.”

The passion in his voice draws me in. “I’d love to see your work someday.”

“You will.” His eyes find mine. “Your turn. Something true.”

I pull the quilt tighter around my shoulders. “My mom’s never met anyone I’ve dated. Not one person.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’d measure them against my dad, and no one would ever be good enough.” I watch steam rise from my mug. “She still wears her wedding ring. It’s been fifteen years since he died.”

Damien shifts closer, his warmth seeping through the blanket. “Would we disappoint her? The three of us?”

I laugh, imagining my straight-laced mother meeting my three...what? Boyfriends? Partners? “She’d have a stroke on the spot.”

“But you’re still here.”

I look at him then, at the morning stubble darkening his jaw, at eyes the color of rain-washed slate. “Yeah. I’m still here.”

The next afternoon,I find him working in what must be the study—a small room with windows that face the mountains. Blueprints spread across the desk, a laptop open beside them.

“So this is where the magic happens,” I remark, leaning against the doorframe.

He glances up, hair falling across his forehead. “Not the only place.”