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Page 13 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Fifi

To my great and eternal relief, Millie had errands.

Errands, of all things. Like her caffeine-fueled matchmaking radar hadn’t just locked in on Ben like a guided missile.

But apparently she had somewhere to be…a quilting supply run, she said, although I was willing to bet it involved a detour to the bookstore and some casual eavesdropping at the diner. The woman got around.

Regardless, she bustled off in a flurry of lavender and pearls, leaving Ben and me alone in the cozy glow of Buttercup Java .

The place was warm and smelled like cinnamon, espresso, and a hint of vanilla. A jazz cover of something vaguely familiar played overhead. I cradled my mug of honey oat milk latte like it was the only thing tethering me to reality.

We’d snagged a window booth, tucked into the corner, away from the eyes of the occasional familiar face. Ben sat across from me, quiet as ever, sipping his black coffee like it was something to endure instead of enjoy.

I couldn’t help it, so I exhaled dramatically.

Ben glanced up, one eyebrow quirking in a silent question.

“I love Millie,” I said, lowering my voice in case she was hiding behind a scone display, “but she is a lot. ”

He gave a small huff, amused, maybe? Hard to tell with him, and I took another sip.

“She’s harmless,” he said.

“Harmless?” I repeated, my eyes widening. “Millie heads up a covert matchmaking society disguised as a book club. She has spreadsheets. Color coding. She keeps actual files on people.”

“She didn’t seem that threatening.”

“That’s the trap,” I said solemnly. “She looks like she bakes you cookies and then next thing you know, she’s giving a full dossier of your ‘romantic potential’ to your mother during brunch.”

Ben leaned back slightly, a ghost of a smile flickering at the edge of his mouth. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Oh, you have no idea.”

I took a long sip of my latte and looked at him over the rim.

He was watching me again.

Not staring. Not in a creepy way. Just… watching.

His blue eyes were steady and focused on me like I was a riddle he was trying to figure out, or maybe something that didn’t make sense in his carefully constructed world.

I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He didn’t look away. “Nothing.”

“No, no, you’ve got that look. That internal monologue face.”

His mouth quirked. “I don’t have an internal monologue face.”

“You absolutely do,” I said, setting my cup down. “And I know I’m not supposed to ask because, guest/host boundaries or whatever, but I’m gonna risk it.”

He gave a little tilt of his head, curiosity sharpening.

“What’s the deal,” I asked lightly, “with the bad attitude all the time?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

“You heard me.” I prayed this wouldn’t get my family a dreaded bad review, but my curiosity was killing me.

His eyes widened slightly. “I don’t have a bad attitude.”

I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand, smiling. “Oh, you definitely do. You frown like it's a job, you scowl at muffins, and the other day I caught you glaring at the lodge’s welcome mat like it personally offended you.”

He shook his head slowly, a little stunned, like no one had ever actually called him on it before.

“I’m not…I don’t scowl at muffins.”

I pointed at him. “Deflection. Classic sign of a bad attitude.”

Ben stared at me. And for a second, I worried I’d gone too far.

He looked away, silent, fingers wrapping around his coffee cup like he needed something solid to hold on to.

Immediately, guilt twisted in my chest. Maybe it wasn’t my business, and I had gone too far.

Okay, obviously it wasn’t my business, but his scowl turned into my business because he was staying at my lodge. People didn’t scowl when they stayed at a place with the word honey in it.

I winced. “Okay, that was probably too blunt. I was kidding. Mostly. I just meant—”

“No,” he said quietly, cutting me off. “It’s a fair question.”

I sat back, surprised.

He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he looked out the window, with brows drawn like he was searching for the right words in the sway of the tree branches or the swirl of heat rising off the pavement from the afternoon sun.

I sipped my latte, wishing I hadn’t pushed. I was supposed to be the hostess, not the interrogator. I wasn’t here to dig into the souls of our guests, especially not the ones I kept daydreaming about kissing.

Finally, after a long pause, he said, “I’ve always been... reflective. Reserved. Contemplative.”

His voice was lower than usual.

Steadier.

He didn’t look at me, but he stared out the window like he needed to say it to the glass first.

“I’ve never been the life of the party. I think too much. Sit too still. I’ve been told I’m intense. Hard to read. Brooding.”

“That’s a polite way to say ‘bad attitude,’” I offered gently.

His mouth twitched. “Exactly.”

He looked down at his hands.

“But it’s not anger. Not really. It’s just... how I process things, especially lately.”

I studied him for a moment and noticed the tension in his shoulders and the lines around his eyes, which looked more like weariness than age.

“You don’t have to explain,” I said softly.

“I know.”

“But thank you for doing it anyway.”

He finally looked at me then, and it was like standing too close to a fire. His gaze was quiet but intense, like he saw something in me I didn’t even know I’d left uncovered.

I swallowed.

He looked away first, exhaling a laugh that didn’t reach his eyes.

“I guess I’m not what people expect at a lodge like this.”

“You mean a lodge that’s charming, whimsical, full of joy and muffins?”

“Exactly.”

“Well,” I said, smiling again, “you’re doing better than you think.”

“Oh?”

“You haven’t glared at your coffee once since we sat down.”

He chuckled, finally real and warm and surprising.

“I’m making progress.”

“You are.” I tapped his mug with mine. “Soon you’ll be leading s’mores night.”

He groaned. “I knew there’d be s’mores night.”

“There’s always s’mores night.”

He stared at me like I was the most complicated puzzle he'd ever half-solved and wasn’t sure whether to finish or frame.

I tried not to squirm under the pressure, but something about the quiet between us felt different now. I might even say it was less awkward and more like a choice and a pause we were both leaning into instead of trying to escape with sarcastic quips.

And I had to wonder if this was what he looked like when he let the walls come down just a little, what would it look like if they came down all the way?

The air between us buzzed like static.

Ben sat across from me, hands curled around his mug, and for the life of me, I couldn’t figure out what was going on behind those smoldering blue eyes of his.

Every now and then, he glanced up at me like he was almost about to say something, as if the thought sat heavy on the tip of his tongue.

But then it passed, and he’d look away again, quiet and unreadable, like always.

He’d softened a little, yes…there was less frown and more focus, possibly less suspicion, and more curiosity. He laughed occasionally. He met my eyes now, which was something.

But the walls?

They were still there, reinforced and completely bulletproof.

I wasn’t even sure why I wanted to peer over them.

He was a guest. Temporary. Passing through like a muddled Midwest weather system.

Ben was someone I’d likely never see again after the two weeks were up, so why was I leaning closer?

Why did it feel like something big lived in the quiet between his words?

I told myself not to read into it. Not to get attached. But the chemistry? It was palpable.

Every time he looked at me, really looked, my chest got tight in a way that was both exciting and a little terrifying. Like I’d forgotten what it felt like to be seen, and now that I remembered, I couldn’t un-need it.

Still.

I knew better.

Men like Ben didn’t come to Honey Leaf Lodge for flirtation and breakfast muffins. They came to disappear.

I watched him for a second, his gaze fixed somewhere past the front window. His profile was sharp in the morning light, all strong lines and quiet edges.

What was he seeing out there?

What was he avoiding ?

I stirred my coffee to keep my hands busy and tried to sound breezy. “So… two weeks is a pretty long stay.”

He glanced at me.

I kept stirring. “Most folks do a weekend. Maybe a long one if they’re trying to recover from tax season or too much time with their in-laws.”

He didn’t say anything. He just lifted his mug and took a sip.

I let the silence stretch just a little, then added, “You planning to stay put the whole time? Or just using the lodge as a basecamp for some kind of low-key forest soul-searching?”

His brow twitched. “Something like that.”

I waited.

He didn’t elaborate.

At all.

He set his mug down and looked away again, jaw tight. He wasn’t angry, just… sealed and all locked back up.

I felt the shift immediately.

The warmth that had bloomed in the middle of our playful banter shrank like a sun ducking behind a cloud.

I’d crossed the invisible line.

And I’d done it without meaning to.

I forced a smile and tapped my fingers against the ceramic rim of my cup.

“Sorry,” I said lightly. “Didn’t mean to pry.”

“You didn’t,” he said quickly, too quickly.

Which meant yes, I had.

I took a long sip of my latte to fill the awkward space now stretching between us like a rubber band.

Ben leaned back, staring out the window again. He wasn’t stiff or cold exactly, just... gone. Retreating. Back into the place where I couldn’t follow.

And I got it. I did.

Some people needed space.

Some people weren’t ready to talk.

Some people came to Buttercup Lake to breathe , not to have their innkeeper play accidental therapist with a side of espresso.

I swallowed down my curiosity, let the air settle, and smiled through the ache that pinched at the edges of my heart.

“Well,” I said, cheerful again, “if you do decide you want something to do with your remaining hours of daylight, aside from long brooding walks and terrifying wildflowers with your intensity, I can offer suggestions.”

He glanced at me, a little wary, but listening.

“There’s a canoe rental down by the dock,” I said, “if you want to fully commit to the quiet-loner-on-the-lake vibe. Or there’s a farm stand out on Old Sycamore Road.

Good jam. Runny pie. And then, of course, you could always visit the knitting shop, where you will absolutely be asked if you’ve found your purpose yet. ”

That earned a small smile that was barely there, but enough.

“I’ll keep that in mind,” he said.

I stood, brushing crumbs from my jeans, and grabbed my tote bag off the floor. “Anyway, I should get back. Towels don’t fold themselves, and someone keeps moving the welcome mat so it’s slightly crooked.”

He raised an eyebrow. “Are you implying I did that?”

“I didn’t say it. You said it.”

He actually chuckled, low and short, but it hit me square in the chest.

Dangerously attractive man.

I slipped my hand through the strap of my bag and hesitated for just a second. A part of me wanted to say something more or ask something more.

But he’d made it clear where the boundary was, and I wasn’t going to be the girl who pushed past it just because someone looked good in flannel and made her laugh in the middle of the week.

Instead, I gave him a soft smile. “Thanks for the coffee.”

“You paid.”

“Thanks for drinking it with me, then.” I smiled and nodded. “Technically, the lodge paid.”

He inclined his head in that subtle, unreadable way of his.

I turned toward the door, the bell above it chiming gently as I pushed it open. The warm afternoon air hit my cheeks as I stepped out onto the sidewalk.

I didn’t look back, but as I walked down Main Street toward the place I called home, I felt the echo of his gaze on my back.

And I told myself it didn’t matter.

Even if it did.