Page 2 of Curvy Cabin Fever
I sip my coffee and try to relax, but it’s fucking hard when you’re battling your own mind. I breathe in, slow and deep, the way they taught me, and murmur the words under my breath like a ritual—You’re safe. You’re here. Just breathe.It doesn’t fix anything, but it calms me somewhat. For now, that’s enough.
I drag my phone out of my pocket and check my emails on instinct, not realizing until I’m responding to one that I shouldn’t be online.
Christ.
How can I have a break from work if I’m constantly checking my emails? I make a snap decision and power my phone off, waiting for the tension to leave my shoulders. It’s a financecompany; there are enough people to run it in my absence. I think of my assistant and imagine him cracking the whip, making me chuckle.
Morgan looks over at me, and I shake my head slightly.
“What are you laughing about?”
“Just imagining Price running the show.”
Morgan frowns. “Is that funny?”
“No,” I say, moving closer to the counter. “But I imagined him cracking the whip, which made me laugh.”
Morgan smiles and nods. “He’s a sensitive one, that’s for sure. Hey, did you ever hire another assistant? You said you were thinking about it.”
I blink and study Morgan. How did he remember that? This is how he is, though; his memory is exceptional. He even reminds me to send flowers to my mother on her birthday, for Christ’s sake.
“Yeah, I considered it, but Price manages okay alone.”
We chat business until Morgan starts to prepare pancakes, and I watch idly. I love watching Morgan cook; it’s almost therapeutic.
If only it were enough to calm my mind. Troubled by ghosts and shit I can’t put my finger on. Too much history and not enough present; that’s what my therapist said before I fired him.
And he was one of the best—which was the end of me and therapy.
I suppose I’ll have to make do with watching Morgan cook. There are worse ways to spend the day, I guess.
2
MORGAN
Rhett 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.
