Cabin Daddy & Two Lost Boys

MMMF Why-Choose Cabin Romance
by Isla Wilde

Available at all major retailers

Pairing: MMMF (Why-Choose)

Heat: 🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ Inferno

Tropes: Why Choose, Reverse Harem, Jilted Bride, Daddy Kink, Age Gap, Snowed In, Cabin Romance, Forced Proximity, Found Family, Praise Kink, Hurt/Comfort, Touch Starved, Rescue Romance, Silver Fox, Grief Recovery, Quad Romance

She ran from her wedding. She found her home in a blizzard.

Twelve hours before her wedding, Harper West walked into the venue she’d spent six months designing and found her fiancé balls-deep in her business partner — on the table where she’d hand-lettered the seating cards.

His defense: “You planned the perfect wedding and forgot to be a real person.”

She drove three hundred miles into the Cascades, booked the most remote cabin she could find, and was fifteen minutes from freezing to death when Grant Hollow kicked the door off its hinges and carried her out into the snow like she weighed nothing.

Grant is forty-one, built like the mountain he lives on, and hasn’t let anyone stay in his cabin since the fire that killed the woman he loved. He saves people. Then he sends them away. That’s the system.

Then two half-frozen hikers pound on his door.

Leo Quinn is twenty-four, brilliant, and terrified he’s too much for anyone to keep. Finn Carter is twenty-seven, quietly devastating, and has never once been someone’s first choice. Four strangers. One cabin. A blizzard that isn’t breaking for ten days.

Grant sets rules. They break every single one.

What starts as survival becomes a bath that ends in the first orgasm another person has ever given her. Then a word she’s never said out loud. Then a bed that holds four. And when the storm finally clears and the road opens and the world comes back — Harper has to decide whether the woman she became in the snow can survive going home.

You’ll love this book if you enjoy:

✅ MMMF why-choose — three men, one woman, no choosing, HEA with all four
✅ A silver-fox daddy who rescues her from a snowstorm and never stops taking care of her
✅ Three heroes who are completely distinct (authority · joy · devotion) and never compete
✅ A heroine who’s never had an orgasm with a partner — until Chapter 6
✅ Snowed-in forced proximity with genuine survival stakes
✅ Found family that heals four separate wounds
✅ Escalating heat from first touch to full four-person inferno (🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️🌶️ — graphic, explicit, emotional)
✅ HEA guaranteed — she keeps all three

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⚠️ Content Warning: This novel contains explicit sexual content (graphic multi-partner MMMF scenes), daddy kink and power exchange, strong language, infidelity by a prior partner, on-page hypothermia and survival peril, parental rejection and emotional abandonment, grief and survivor’s guilt relating to a character death by wildfire, and depictions of anxiety and self-doubt. Intended for readers 18+.

📖 Read Chapter One Free

Not sure yet? Read the full first chapter right here.

Chapter One: Run

The champagne was warm.

That was the detail my brain decided to fixate on while the rest of my life burned to the ground — the fact that the bottle of Veuve Clicquot I’d packed for my wedding night was sitting in the passenger seat of my Subaru, unchilled, sweating through the tissue paper I’d wrapped it in three days ago when I still believed in things like forever and fidelity and the basic human decency of not fucking your fiancée’s best friend on a table covered in hand-calligraphed seating cards.

I was still wearing the dress.

That part was less funny.

It was a Monique Lhuillier — strapless, ivory, hand-beaded bodice, twelve thousand dollars of tulle and broken promises pooling around the gas pedal of a car that smelled like dog and regret. My mascara had migrated somewhere south of my cheekbones. My veil was in a rest stop trash can outside of Ellensburg. My engagement ring was in the cupholder because I’d ripped it off my finger so hard it left a welt, and I couldn’t bring myself to throw it out the window at eighty miles an hour even though the fantasy of watching it disappear into the median had sustained me for roughly forty-five minutes of I-90.

Six hours. I’d been driving for six hours, and I still couldn’t outrun the image.

Tyler’s bare ass. Jess’s legs wrapped around his waist. The seating cards — my seating cards, the ones I’d spent three weeks hand-addressing in that dusty-rose ink I’d ordered from a specialty shop in Vermont — scattered across the floor like confetti at a party I wasn’t invited to.

On the table. In the venue. The venue I’d spent six months designing down to the last goddamn votive candle.

Twelve hours before a hundred and fifty people were supposed to watch me walk down an aisle lined with garden roses and eucalyptus toward a man who was, at that very moment, balls-deep in my business partner on top of Table 7’s place settings.

I’d stood in the doorway for eleven seconds. I counted. Eleven seconds of watching the two people I trusted most in the world ruin everything I’d built, and neither of them noticed me until Jess opened her eyes and made a sound that wasn’t a moan — it was a gasp, the kind you make when you realize the fire alarm isn’t a drill.

“Harper —”

Tyler had spun around so fast he knocked three water glasses off the table. They shattered on the hardwood floor I’d personally selected from a reclaimed-wood supplier in Walla Walla. His shirt was unbuttoned. His belt was on the floor. His face was the particular shade of white that men turn when they realize the consequences of their actions are standing in the doorway wearing a bathrobe and holding a garment steamer.

I’d come to steam my dress. That was the part that killed me. I’d driven to the venue at nine o’clock at night, the night before my wedding, because I wanted to make sure the dress was perfect. Because I was Harper West, and Harper West didn’t leave things to chance. Harper West planned. Harper West prepared. Harper West made everything beautiful for everyone else and never once stopped to wonder if anyone was doing the same for her.

“It’s not —” Tyler started.

“If you say ‘it’s not what it looks like,’ I will break your jaw with this garment steamer.”

He didn’t say it. Small mercies.

What he said instead was worse.

“You weren’t supposed to be here.” Like that was the problem. Like the issue wasn’t that he was screwing Jess six feet from a seating chart that said Mr. and Mrs. Tyler Reeves in ink I’d mixed myself — the issue was that I had the audacity to show up and witness it.

Then he said the thing. The thing that was still playing on a loop in my head six hours and three hundred miles later, the thing I was going to hear every time I closed my eyes for the foreseeable future, the thing that had lodged itself in my chest like a fish hook and refused to come out.

“You care more about the centerpieces than you care about me, Harper. You planned the perfect wedding and forgot to be a real person.”

I didn’t hit him. I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry — that came later, in the parking lot, in great heaving sobs that fogged the windows and scared a valet. What I did was set the garment steamer on the floor, very carefully, the way you set down something fragile. Then I walked out. I got in my car. I pulled up Airbnb on my phone and typed remote cabin mountains January and booked the first listing that came up — some place in the Cascades with a single photo of a wood-paneled room and a description that said “off-grid, no cell service, peace and solitude guaranteed.”

Peace and solitude. That sounded like exactly the right place to fall apart.

I drove.

Past Snoqualmie. Past Cle Elum. Past the exit for the resort where we’d had our first anniversary dinner and Tyler had told me I was the most organized woman he’d ever met, which I’d taken as a compliment and was now reexamining in a very different light. Past the rest stop where I ripped off my veil and stuffed it in a trash can next to a half-eaten bag of Funyuns.

My phone buzzed forty-three times in the first hour. Tyler. Jess. My mother. My sister. Tyler again. Tyler again. Tyler again. I turned it off somewhere around Vantage and watched the Columbia Basin flatten out in my headlights, vast and empty and indifferent, and thought: Good. Be empty. I’ll match.

The cabin listing said the key would be under a rock to the left of the front step. “You’ll know the one — it’s shaped like a bear.”

I arrived at eleven p.m. after a final forty-five minutes on a dirt road that the Subaru handled with the resigned competence of a car that had given up on dignity years ago. The snow had started about an hour back — light at first, then steady, then the kind of thick, silent fall that makes the world feel like it’s being erased.

The cabin was small. Smaller than the photos. A single room with a kitchenette, a bed frame with a bare mattress, a bathroom the size of a closet, and a fireplace full of old ash. The air inside was only marginally warmer than the air outside. The light switch by the door controlled a single bare bulb that cast everything in the color of disappointment.

It was perfect.

Not in the way I usually meant that word — not polished and curated and Instagram-ready, not the kind of perfect I’d spent my entire career constructing for other people’s happiest days. Perfect in the way that a place can only be when it expects absolutely nothing from you. No one was going to walk in here and ask me if the flowers matched the bridesmaids’ dresses. No one was going to need me to coordinate their timeline or manage their guest list or solve their seating drama or make their dream come true while mine went up in smoke.

There was a mattress and four walls and snow falling outside and nobody who wanted anything from me, and that was enough.

I stood in the middle of the room and unzipped the Monique Lhuillier.

It took a while. Twelve thousand dollars buys a lot of buttons, and my fingers were stiff from six hours of white-knuckling a steering wheel. The bodice had left angry red marks across my ribs where the boning had dug in. The tulle puddled at my feet like a shed skin. I stepped out of it in my strapless bra and shapewear and stood there for a moment, half-naked in a freezing cabin in the middle of nowhere, looking down at the most expensive piece of clothing I’d ever owned crumpled on a dirty floor.

I picked it up. Folded it. Muscle memory — I folded things. I organized things. I made things neat and manageable even when the world was neither.

Then I stopped.

I looked at the dress in my hands. I thought about the six fittings. The tears of joy when I’d first put it on. The way my mother had pressed her hand to her mouth and said, “Oh, honey.” The way Jess had said, “Tyler’s not going to know what hit him,” which was funny now in a way that made me want to set things on fire.

I stuffed the dress in a garbage bag. Knotted it. Kicked it under the bed.

The overnight bag gave me yoga pants, an oversized Portland State hoodie, and the fuzzy blue socks. I pulled on everything, then added one of the cabin’s musty blankets for good measure. I looked like a woman who had given up, and the relief of it was staggering. Nobody to perform for. Nobody to be pretty for. Nobody to be perfect for.

The champagne was still warm.

I opened it anyway.

The cork hit the ceiling and left a mark. I didn’t have a glass, so I drank from the bottle, sitting cross-legged on the bare mattress with the blanket around my shoulders and the electric heater clicking its impotent little clicks and the snow falling harder now, the kind of snow that means business, the kind that doesn’t care about your plans.

I should have been on my honeymoon. Right now, at this moment, I should have been in a suite at the Willows Lodge with a man I’d loved for four years, drinking this exact bottle of champagne after a wedding that went exactly according to my meticulously crafted, color-coded, minute-by-minute timeline.

You planned the perfect wedding and forgot to be a real person.

I took another long drink. The bubbles burned going down.

Was he right?

The question sat in my stomach like a stone. I didn’t want to look at it. I wanted to stay angry — anger was clean and simple and pointed in one direction, and that direction was Tyler-Is-A-Cheating-Piece-Of-Shit, which was a direction I could navigate. But underneath the anger, in the place I’d been avoiding for six hours and three hundred miles, there was something worse.

Doubt.

I thought about the last time Tyler had touched me. Really touched me — not a perfunctory kiss on the forehead when he left for work or a pat on the ass when he walked past me in the kitchen, but the kind of touch that made you feel like you existed, like you were a body and not just a brain in a planner’s apron.

I couldn’t remember.

Weeks. Maybe longer. Months? We’d had sex — when? The weekend of the cake tasting. He’d been distracted. I’d been on my phone confirming the rental chairs. It lasted maybe ten minutes. I faked it. I always faked it.

I always faked it.

God. Four years. Hundreds of times, and I’d faked it every single one, because being easy and agreeable was what I did, because asking for what I actually needed felt greedy and demanding and too much, because the one time I’d tried to tell Tyler that I wanted him to slow down, to hold me harder, to look at me while he was inside me, he’d laughed — not cruelly, just dismissively, the way you laugh at a child who says something unexpectedly complicated — and said, “Babe, you read too many romance novels.”

So I stopped asking. I stopped wanting. I filed my needs under “someday” and focused on centerpieces and seating charts and making everything beautiful for everyone but myself, and look where it got me: alone, drunk, wearing fuzzy socks on a bare mattress in a cabin that smelled like pine sol and mouse droppings, toasting my failed wedding with a bottle of champagne that should have been cold.

“To me,” I said out loud, raising the bottle. My voice sounded foreign in the empty room. “To being a real fucking person.”

I drank. The champagne was getting flat. I didn’t care.

Outside, the snow fell harder.

Somewhere between the champagne and the exhaustion and the deep animal need for warmth, I fell asleep. My last conscious thought was that the snow sounded different now — heavier, faster, like it was trying to bury the cabin. Like it was trying to erase me along with everything else.

I let it.

I woke up freezing.

Not “cold” — not the manageable chill of a drafty apartment or an under-heated hotel room. Freezing. The kind of cold that goes past discomfort and into something primal, something that lives in the lizard part of your brain and whispers danger.

The cabin was dark. Completely dark. The bare bulb was dead, the electric heater was silent, and my breath was making clouds in the air in front of my face. I reached for my phone with numb fingers and found it black and unresponsive — dead, killed by the cold and the miles and the fact that I’d turned it off somewhere around Vantage and never thought to charge it.

I crossed to the window on legs that felt like someone else’s and pulled the curtain back.

White. Everything was white. Not the picturesque, Thomas Kinkade white of a holiday card — a solid, featureless, terrifying white that erased the tree line and the road and the place where my car should have been. Snow was piled up past the window ledge, still falling in dense sheets that moved sideways in a wind I could hear now, howling around the corners of the cabin like something looking for a way in.

My car was a vague hump in the distance. The road was gone. The world was gone.

The cabin’s heat was electric. No power meant no heat. The fireplace was there, but I had no firewood inside, no kindling, no matches that I could find in the dark kitchen drawers, and the flue — even if I could find something to burn — might not even work. This place had been rented as a summer cabin. It wasn’t built for this.

My fingers were already stiff. My toes ached. The temperature inside the cabin was dropping by the minute, and outside, the blizzard was a wall of white noise and wind that showed no sign of stopping.

I was alone, freezing, unprepared, off-grid, and completely invisible to anyone who might have been looking for me — which, given that I’d turned off my phone and driven three hundred miles without telling a soul where I was going, was probably nobody.

For the first time since Tyler, since the dress, since the seating cards and the shattered water glasses and the six-hour drive into oblivion, I felt something break through the numbness.

Fear.

Not heartbreak. Not humiliation. Not the slow, corrosive doubt of wondering whether I was a real person or just a walking event planner with a pulse.

Real, honest, body-level fear. The kind that clears out everything else and leaves you with a single, screaming thought:

I don’t want to die here.

Not over him. Not over any of it.

I pulled the blanket tighter, watched my breath crystallize in the air, and listened to the storm try to eat the cabin alive.

And I waited.

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Snowbound Again — A scene TOO HOT for retailers

The epilogue closes the door. This opens it. One year to the night since the blizzard that brought them together, Harper asks for the one thing they’ve never done — and all three of them say yes. The filthiest, most joyful chapter in the book.

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