Page 81 of Curvy Cabin Fever
Who knew he was so romantic?
The town looksdifferentafter the storm.
Like someone smoothed everything over with snow. The buildings are still old and worn, with faded paint and chipped signs, but under the winter light, it all feels...prettier.
I step out of Damien’s truck and pull my coat tighter around me, boots crunching over packed snow. He circles around to the passenger side and adjusts my scarf without asking, his big hands careful but firm.
“You okay?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, my heart doing that stupid thing it always does when he’s close—like it’s trying to climb out of my chest and into his hands. “I’m good.”
He eyes me for another second, then nods and tilts his head toward the general store. “Come on. Let’s get what we need.”
Inside, the warmth hits immediately—old heaters blasting, the scent of wood smoke and coffee lingering in the air. The shop’s small and cluttered, with narrow aisles and creakyfloorboards. Damien moves like he belongs here. He nods at the woman behind the counter and steers me toward the back.
I trail behind him, watching how people look at him. Not with fear—with respect.
A few men nod. One claps him on the shoulder.
The man beside me in the cabin—the one who split wood with his bare hands and kissed me like it cost him something—is something of a legend here. AndI’mwith him.
He picks up canned goods and tools, muttering under his breath as he scans the shelves. I add band-aids and chocolate and a small bottle of lavender oil. He doesn’t comment, just tosses them into the basket with a quiet grunt.
“Thanks for not judging my survival essentials,” I remark.
“I’m not stupid. I know what keeps morale up.” He gestures to the chocolate. “That, and Morgan’s pancakes.”
I laugh, and something in his shoulders softens.
We check out with no drama. The clerk—an older woman with silver hair and a permanent frown—raises an eyebrow at me when Damien sets a protective hand on my lower back as we leave.
She says nothing.
But I see it, and so does he.
“She doesn’t like me?” I murmur when the bell over the door jingles behind us.
“She doesn’t like anyone under fifty who wears mascara,” Damien replies. “You’re good.”
I nudge him with my elbow. “You’re sweet when you try to be.”
He narrows his eyes. “Take that back.”
“Nope. I stand by it. Sweet.”
He growls softly and opens the truck door for me. I smirk as I climb in.
Instead of heading back to the cabin, he takes a detour—pulling up in front of the small café tucked between the post office and the hardware store.
I blink. “Are we...getting coffee?”
“I figured we could sit awhile.”
“You did ask me on a date.”
“I asked you if you wanted coffee.”
“That’s a date, Damien.”
