Page 11 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Fifi

If I didn’t want to bury my sister somewhere on the slopes of Kilimanjaro, I might’ve actually hugged her.

Because Mr. Cranky Pants?

Mr. Brood-By-the-Lake?

He was almost smiling , not quite.

Not fully.

But there was a twitch at the corner of his mouth that hadn’t been there, and a softness around his eyes. A flash of amusement even surfaced when Sienna had flounced out of the dining room like a matchmaking tornado wrapped in fleece.

And now he was looking at me, really looking.

And I was not prepared.

Because the look on his face?

That wasn’t a casual, ‘oh hey, innkeeper’ glance.

This look was a panty-dropping look.

I felt it like a zap, low and warm, right behind my navel. My heart stuttered, and my stomach twisted, while my brain, formerly full of helpful words like biscuits , schedules , and do not flirt with guests , had officially left the building.

Retreating now would just confirm how flustered I was, and I wasn’t about to let a handsome guest and one misplaced backpack be my downfall.

So, I pulled out the chair, sat down across from him, and said the first thing that came to mind.

Which, in retrospect, was a mistake.

“I swear, I’m always stripping over her stuff.”

Pause.

Silence.

I blinked.

His eyebrow arched.

My face caught fire.

“I meant tripping, ” I blurted. “I swear I meant tripping, not stripping. I—I don’t—strip, at least not around backpacks. Oh my God. No, I don’t strip at all. Anywhere. Well, in my bedroom, but who doesn’t?”

Ben set down his coffee slowly, like he didn’t want to scare me, but also didn’t want to miss a second of the trainwreck currently happening across the table.

“Good to know,” he said, his voice calm but undeniably amused. “I’d hate for a backpack to be your undoing and lead you to a life you were uncomfortable with.”

I buried my face in my hands.

“No,” I moaned into my palms. “You don’t understand. This is why I’m banned from professional interviews. My mouth just bypasses the filter. It’s not even my mouth’s fault. It’s like my thoughts come out before I’ve officially approved them for public consumption.”

“I noticed,” he said.

I peeked through my fingers at him.

He was smirking.

Smirking.

It wasn’t a full smile, but it was the most expressive I’d seen him look in all the days he’d been here. A little crooked, a little dangerous, and so completely illegal it should’ve come with a warning label and a side of emergency chocolate.

Good thing that I packed my own.

“Well,” I said, trying to recover, “at least you’re smiling. That’s new. Should I alert the lodge that a miracle’s occurred? Call the Buttercup Gazette?”

Ben leaned back in his chair, his gaze still fixed on me like I was a puzzle he wasn’t sure he wanted to solve but couldn’t quite leave alone.

“That wasn’t a smile,” he said. “That was a twitch.”

“I’ll take it. Progress is progress.”

Another flicker. Another almost-smile. I’d call this one a twitch with ambition.

He took a sip of coffee, watching me over the rim of the mug. “Do you always do that?”

“Trip over things?”

“No.” His voice lowered just slightly, playful and unguarded. “Talk like your brain’s racing to outrun your mouth.”

I rested my chin in my hand and gave him a slow grin. “Only around people who stare like they’re reading my soul and judging my sins.”

He didn’t look away.

Neither did I.

Something unspoken buzzed in the space between us. It wasn’t quite flirty and not quite serious.

I swallowed hard. “Sorry again for the accidental strip show.”

“You realize saying it again doesn’t make it better.”

“Yeah, but I’m already in the deep end. I might as well dog paddle around in humiliation while I’m here.”

He chuckled. Chuckled.

That was new. That was... trouble.

“Your sister mentioned a trail,” he said after a moment. “Around the lake.”

“She mentioned the wildflowers, too?”

He nodded.

“And the espresso at the end?”

“Also that.”

I laughed. “She’s got a one-track brain when it comes to her favorite loop. She thinks the trail fixes everything. Heartbreak, lost keys, hangovers.”

“Does it?”

“I’ve never tried it for hangovers,” I said, tilting my head. “But it does have a weirdly magical effect. By the time you’ve made it around the whole lake, you forget what you were overthinking.”

“I don’t overthink.”

I gave him a look.

He met it.

And then he looked away first, a half-smile ghosting over his mouth.

“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe a little.”

I nudged the basket of extra biscuits toward him. “Food helps, too. Carbs are therapy just with butter. It makes things go down easier.”

“I’ll have to remember that.” Ben reached in and grabbed one, tearing it open and spreading a pat of butter with a casual ease that made my stomach do that weird twisty flip again.

Why was it sexy when men buttered biscuits?

Why was he sexy doing anything ?

My brain was turning to mush, and all I could do was pretend I was cool, collected, and not five seconds away from giggling like a teenager at prom.

“So,” I said, needing to say something, anything, that didn’t involve the word strip, “you think you’ll take the trail?”

He considered me. “If I do, you’ll probably show up halfway through with a fanny pack and an emergency hydration plan.”

I grinned. “Rude. I don’t wear fanny packs.”

“Yet.”

“I do, however, give excellent directions. And I have been known to point out edible berries.”

“That’s not helping your case.”

“Fine.” I leaned back and crossed my arms. “Go alone. Wander. Get attacked by a mildly territorial duck. See if I care. We do have bears, too. What if one gets hungry?”

His lips twitched again.

He was enjoying this.

He was enjoying me.

The thought was almost too much. I stood quickly, trying to regain my footing—emotionally, physically, and verbally.

“Well,” I said, brushing imaginary crumbs off my jeans. “I have towels to fold and flower arrangements to dramatically fluff. If you need anything, just holler. Or grunt. Or scowl in a specific direction. I’ll figure it out.”

Ben didn’t say anything at first.

Then, quietly: “Thanks, Fifi.”

I paused.

The way he said my name, slow, soft, careful, like it meant something more.

My breath caught in my throat.

I turned too quickly and nearly tripped again, this time on my foot.

“Still stripping, apparently,” I muttered.

And behind me, I swear I heard him laugh.