Snowed In With My Ex’s Hot Cousin

I still can’t believe I drove three hours into a literal whiteout over a goddamn Slack invite. Twenty-nine years old, marketing coordinator extraordinaire, freshly dumped by Chad via a three-word text—“we’re done, k”—and somehow still idiot enough to show up for the annual “Synergy Summit” at this remote mountain cabin the company insists builds “cross-functional bonds.” The blizzard hit like a middle finger from the universe. Roads vanished. Phone signal died. And when I finally skidded into the driveway, tires screaming, the only lights on belonged to the one person I least wanted to see: Marcus, Chad’s absurdly hot twenty-eight-year-old cousin.

He opened the door in nothing but a towel, steam still curling off his shoulders, dark hair dripping onto a chest that looked like it had been carved by someone who hated shirts. I stood there clutching the world’s largest emergency candle—the kind you could use as a battering ram—my coat half-unzipped, snow melting into my bra, and absolutely zero chill.

“Well, fuck me sideways,” I said. “Of course you’re here.”

Marcus grinned, that smug tech-bro smirk that somehow made me want to punch him and sit on his face at the same time. “Sloane. Fancy meeting you in the apocalypse. Chad bailed on the retreat, so they guilted me into taking his spot. Power’s out, by the way. Generator’s dead. Snow’s already blocking the door. We’re officially snowed in with each other’s terrible life choices.”

I shoved past him, candle held like a weapon, and immediately regretted every decision that led me here. The cabin was all exposed beams and sad corporate posters about “leaning in.” Marcus disappeared to finish drying off. I dropped my bag, lit the candle with shaking fingers, and—because the universe has a sense of humor—walked straight into the bathroom without knocking while hunting for more light.

There he was. Fresh from the shower, towel abandoned on the floor, water beading down the V of his hips, cock hanging heavy and half-hard like it already knew the punchline. My candle flickered between us. I made a noise that can only be described as a dying goose.

“Jesus Christ, warn a girl!”

He didn’t cover up. Just leaned against the sink, completely unbothered, eyes dragging over my snow-damp blouse. “You’re the one with the massive phallic candle. Projection much? Also, hi. Single now too, I heard. Chad’s loss. Dude sends dick pics that look like sad thumbnails.”

I should have left. Instead I barked a laugh so loud it echoed. “They really were tragic. Like a thumb with commitment issues. And you’re one to talk—Chad said you once tried to close a deal by calling yourself a ‘disruptor of pussy.’”

Marcus cracked up, full-body, unselfconscious. “Okay, fair. That was a low point. Look, we’re both dumped, trapped, and weirdly into how fucked this is. Power’s gone. Roads are gone. My cousin’s terrible taste in women just delivered me a sarcastic marketing gremlin holding a candle the size of my forearm. Want to roast the shit out of him until we forget why we’re miserable?”

Something molten and ridiculous uncoiled in my gut. I set the candle on the counter, let my eyes flick down once more—yeah, he was definitely filling out now—and smirked. “Only if we keep the corporate buzzword hell going. I’m going to make you moan ‘circle back’ before this night is over.”

We ended up in the main room, fire struggling to life in the stone hearth, bearskin rug looking like a prop from a very horny hunting lodge. The snow sealed the windows white. No escape. Just us, a bottle of the company’s awful branded whiskey, and a duffel full of swag: logo’d beanies, “synergy” socks, stress balls shaped like lightbulbs, and one truly cursed fanny pack that said “Thought Leader.”

The roast battles started savage and got filthier by the minute. I detailed Chad’s dick pics—“like a melted crayon trying to high-five”—while Marcus countered with stories of Chad’s “thought leadership” emails that somehow always circled back to his CrossFit PR. Every jab landed hotter. Our knees brushed. Then our thighs. Then I was straddling the arm of the couch, whiskey warming my throat, watching his cock tent the sweatpants he’d finally pulled on.

“Bet you,” Marcus said suddenly, voice low and laughing, “I can make you laugh harder than you can make me moan. Escalating dares. Strip-poker rules, but only with this garbage swag. Loser loses a layer. Winner gets to… suggest the next move.”

I stuck out my hand. “You’re on, you smug asshole. Prepare to synergy your pants off.”

We used the stress balls as dice, the fanny pack as the pot. First round I made him model the beanie while reciting quarterly OKRs in a sexy voice. He lost the beanie and the socks. Second round he dared me to twerk while explaining “paradigm shifts.” I lost my blouse and laughed so hard I snorted whiskey out my nose. By the time we were both down to underwear—me in a practical black bra and panties that suddenly felt like lingerie, him in gray briefs stretched obscenely—the air was electric. Breathless. I was wet enough to ruin the rug.