Page 1 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Fifi

I’ve always said there’s no better therapy than changing sheets in a sunlit room.

Sure, some people do yoga. Some meditate. Some journal their way to inner peace with a lavender candle and a mug of existential dread.

Me?

I beat my stress out with a fitted sheet and a spritz of linen spray.

“Ha!” I grunted as I wrestled the elastic corner over the mattress. “You thought you could escape me, didn’t you, you crinkled demon?”

The sheet didn’t answer, mostly because inanimate objects know better than to sass me at the Honey Leaf Lodge. This was my domain. And today, everything felt like it was humming in harmony.

The birds chirped, the lemon oil was extra lemony, and the coffee from this morning still had me operating at a low-level vibrational frequency just shy of astral projection.

I smoothed the top sheet, gave the comforter a satisfying fluff, and plopped a decorative pillow into place with a flourish worthy of Olympic commentary.

Perfect.

The sun spilled across the room like honey, which was exactly what I wanted every guest to feel when they arrived. The room was bathed in golden comfort and subtle hospitality manipulation.

The first check-in of the new season was today, and I was determined to make it the coziest spring welcome in lodge history. Which, okay, might not sound like fierce competition, but I take my charm offensive very seriously. I even perfumed the welcome card. And who does that to a welcome card?

Fifi Harper did.

I paused by the window, looking out across the property. Maple trees were budding, the lake glittered in the distance, and my sisters were probably off somewhere living their best effortlessly adorable lives in between stopping by the lodge to lend a hand.

Well, that wasn’t completely true. Violet still shot most of her blog content and continued to help with meals, but Sienna tended to wander off on hiking adventures across the Upper Peninsula, also known as the UP, and would suddenly appear to lend a helping hand when we least expected it.

Meanwhile, I had a collection of novelty mugs and a passionate relationship with my label maker.

I let out a long, theatrical sigh and made my way to the bathroom to clean and refresh everything.

I’ve always said you can tell a lot about a person by how they leave their towels.

Neat little stack with the edges aligned? Kind soul. Probably the type to rescue earthworms off the sidewalk after it rains.

Towels flung like confetti and the tiny shampoo bottle caps screwed on halfway? Chaotic gremlin energy. Maybe artistic. Definitely not punctual.

“Guess it’s just me and Beck now,” I muttered, adding a few washcloths to the stack. “Two perfectly lovable weirdos fated to be single until sixty, running the family lodge. Or until one of us marries a cryptid.”

Although, if we’re being honest, Beck had more game than he let on. All flannel and freckles and guitar-playing charm. He just hadn’t picked anyone yet. Whereas I, queen of optimism and sprinkle cupcakes, somehow managed to repel every date like I was cursed with a reverse rom-com spell.

Still, I wasn’t bitter. Just occasionally… reflective. And maybe a little jealous when Violet’s partner massaged her shoulders in that I-built-you-a-greenhouse way that felt like an indie film montage.

And how did my mind go from towels to being eternally single?

No, it didn’t bother me. Not at all.

A knock at the open door startled me out of my thoughts.

“Hey, honey,” my mom called, leaning against the frame with her usual cheerful presence and a clipboard tucked under one arm. “The first guest just called from the airport. Said his flight got in early. Hoped he could check in, oh,” she glanced at her watch, “now-ish?”

I blinked. “Oh! Yeah, that’s fine. This room’s all done, actually.”

“Perfect. He’ll be here any minute.” She gave me a curious look. “You okay?”

“Totally. Just contemplating my inevitable spinsterhood and battling linens. You know. Normal Tuesday.”

She chuckled and gave the room a once-over. “Looks beautiful, Fifi. Like something out of a magazine shoot. Maybe the kind where they feature innkeepers who absolutely have their lives together.”

“Tell that to my perpetual upside-down laundry pile and the seven voice memos I left myself this morning because I forgot my actual to-do list at the coffee shop.”

She winked. “Fake it till the next guest arrives. Oh, wait…that’s now.”

My ears perked. “Now-now?”

A car door slammed outside.

Mom tilted her head. “Sounds like now now.”

Excitement fizzed in my chest like champagne. I loved guest arrivals. The nervous energy. The first impressions. The chance to casually recommend the best muffins on the west side of town and slide in a complimentary jar of peach preserves.

“This is going to be great,” I said, practically skipping toward the stairs. “Everything’s going great. We’re gonna have the best spring season yet. Perhaps he’s a sweet old man who writes postcards or a botanist who converses with plants. Maybe he loves puzzles!”

I hit the landing with a bounce in my step, high on lemon oil and optimism. The front door creaked open below me.

“Hello?” a deep voice called out, low and husky in that way that sounds like it’s made from hulk and secrets.

I froze mid-step.

That was not a botanist's voice.

My heart did a funny little hiccup.

From the staircase, I saw him step fully into the foyer, backlit by the afternoon light.

Tall.

Broad shoulders.

A perfectly trimmed beard.

Wearing a thermal shirt and jeans that looked very, very unfair on someone checking into a lodge alone.

A duffel bag slung over one shoulder.

A face carved by an exquisite hand and probably wielded by angels with a very specific sense of humor.

He was glorious.

“Oh no,” I whispered to myself.

Because standing in my lodge, under the framed sign that said Welcome to the Honey Leaf Lodge, where Guests Become Family , was the sexiest lumberjack I had ever seen.

And he was absolutely not smiling.

Something wasn’t right about that. How could you come to the sweetest lodge in all of Wisconsin and look mad about it?

I had a plan.

A good one.

It involved a bright smile, a warm greeting, and the kind of professional charm that said, Yes, I run a charming family lodge and am at your service.

But note to self: do not melt into hormonal soup when attractive men show up with duffel bags and cheekbones sharp enough to slice brie.

The moment the man in question stepped fully into the lobby, I forgot how to use syllables.

He was… a lot.

A lot of height. A lot of flannel. A lot of beard.

And a whole lot of glowering .

“Hi!” I said, possibly too loudly. “Welcome to the Honey Leaf Lodge! You must be our early arrival. I’m Fifi.”

My shout must have caused ringing in his ears as he turned and stared.

All he did was nod once. Just once, as if his head was unionized and had a strict motion budget.

“Ben Jensen,” he said, voice low and gravelly.

Of course, he had a name like Ben Jensen. Probably broke limbs with his bare hands. Probably hated indoor lighting. Probably…

“Reservation should be under Jensen,” he added, clearly unaware that my brain had already turned his name into a dramatic 12-part romance miniseries.

“Right, yes, of course, Jensen,” I said, fumbling with the check-in tablet. “Two weeks, Maple Room. Lovely. Cozy. Slight risk of excessive hospitality.”

His brow ticked up. “I don’t do small talk.”

“Oh, good,” I said, tapping away. “I do enough for both of us.”

His mouth didn’t smile, but something in his eyes almost twitched.

Victory?

I slid the guest form across the desk. “Standard paperwork. Don’t worry, it’s only your soul and a promise to love the complimentary muffins.”

He picked up the pen like it offended him. “You always this... enthusiastic?”

“Only before noon,” I said brightly. “After that I switch to wine and interpretive dance.”

A beat.

Was that a smirk ?

No, impossible. It was probably nothing more than a muscle spasm.

I cleared my throat, trying not to watch his hands as he signed. Big hands. Veiny hands. The kind of hands that should be illegal in flannel.

Because my mind suddenly imagined them running along my body.

Wait. What? I bit my lip and forced my mind to do a reset.

“You’re in room four,” I said. “Second floor, lake-facing, private balcony, local honey soaps, and, oh!” I flashed an even bigger grin. “I put out lemon shortbread as a welcome treat.”

He gave me a look. The kind that suggested lemon shortbread was suspicious and possibly treacherous.

“You’re serious about this whole… lodge cheer thing.”

I leaned one elbow on the counter, smiling. “Absolutely. It’s an art form. You don’t survive three generations of hospitality and six separate Best Stay in the Pines awards without committing to the bit. Not to mention my degree was in hospitality.”

Ben didn’t respond. Just stared like he wasn’t sure if I was real or the product of reverse altitude sickness.

Because Wisconsin’s idea of altitude was the size of a gentle hill that the Rockies would laugh at.

My sister Sienna walked by carrying a stack of towels and wiggled her brows behind the guest, and I hid a chuckle.

He glanced at the brochure rack. Then at the mounted antlers on the wall. Then at me.

“You’re not going to try and hug me at some point, are you?” he growled, and I suddenly liked the idea.

“Not unless you request it on the form,” I deadpanned. “There’s a checkbox. Right next to ‘Would you like extra pillows?’ and ‘Are you emotionally available?’”

His eyebrow twitched again. We were so close to an actual expression, I could taste it.

“Available for what?”

I stepped around the desk and reached for the key off the hook. This time it was my turn not to answer his question.

“You’re all set. Just head upstairs…”

He reached for his bag at the same time I stepped closer, which resulted in an awkward shoulder brush, a near trip, followed by his very strong, very warm arm grazing mine.

I gasped. He froze. We both backed up, as if we'd accidentally touched a live wire.

Cool. Normal.

“I…I meant to say I’ll be in your room later,” I blurted, and then immediately wanted to fall into a deep hole and never resurface.

His eyes locked onto mine.

Sharp.

Startled.

My soul left my body.

“I mean….I meant for turndown service! ” I waved my hands like they might erase the sound waves. “To refresh towels and pillow fluffing! Not me fluffing your…no, not you . I mean, yes, you, but not me with you . I—”

He blinked.

Once.

Slowly.

Like his system had gone into diagnostic mode.

I handed him the key in complete defeat.

“Here. Just take this before I say something about folding your underwear or grooming your beard with artisanal conditioner.”

He took it. His fingers brushed mine.

I died again.

Another moment passed. Then, then , he exhaled, and I swear there was something in that breath. Something suspiciously adjacent to amusement.

“See you later then,” he said, deadpan. “I’ll try to be fully fluffed by the time you arrive.”

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Considered moving to Peru.

Instead, I plastered on my best business-owner smile and gave him a thumbs-up. A thumbs-up , like a camp counselor who just accidentally walked into the wrong cabin.

“Enjoy your stay,” I managed.

Ben Jensen, lumberjack, beard menace, apparent sarcasm connoisseur, headed for the stairs without another word.

I waited until I heard the door to r oom four click shut, then collapsed behind the counter and covered my face with both hands.

“Fully fluffed,” I whispered. “Oh my God, Fifi, what have you done?”