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Page 17 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Fifi

War had been declared.

Not a violent war. Not even one with raised voices or passive-aggressive sticky notes.

No, this was a war of wills .

A battle of scowls versus sunshine.

And the battleground? My home turf.

The Honey Leaf Lodge.

Because apparently Ben Jensen, the tall, flannel-wrapped enigma with the emotional availability of a decorative pinecone, had decided to double down on the grumpiness. And I?

I had decided that was unacceptable.

“Nobody,” I muttered to myself, stomping back toward the lodge, “nobody comes to the Honey Leaf Lodge grumpy and leaves grumpier. That’s not how this works.”

Behind me, Sienna’s voice rose, delighted. “Oh no. Has he resisted the Fifi Effect ? Is your magic finally wearing off?”

I whipped around and gave her my best glare. Which, granted, wasn’t all that intimidating considering I was still slightly damp, hair puffed from the humidity, and had grass clippings stuck to my shoes.

She leaned casually against the fence, arms crossed, grinning like she had front-row tickets to a doomed romance she was narrating in real-time.

“I’m serious,” I said. “He’s like… like if someone crossbred a thundercloud with a very intense alligator.”

Sienna snorted. “What does that even mean?”

“I don’t know. But his eyes practically shoot darts at me.”

“Maybe he’s flirting.”

“That man does not flirt. He broods. He glowers. He grimaces like it’s an Olympic sport and he’s going for gold.”

“Well,” she said with a shrug, “maybe that’s just his way.”

“Of saying what? I hate you, but in a meaningful way?”

She laughed again, pushing off the fence. “You’re in deep.”

“I am not,” I huffed, spinning back toward the lodge. “I am annoyed. There’s a difference.”

“Sure.”

I didn’t dignify that with a response.

My shoes hit the porch with just enough stomp to feel satisfying.

The screen door creaked as I stepped inside, the cool air and smell of cinnamon welcoming me back like the world hadn’t just thrown me into yet another accidental run-in with a man who looked at me like I’d personally ruined his vacation.

Ben Jensen was the kind of sexy that should come with a warning label or a liability waiver.

Tall, broad-shouldered, and built like he’d spent the last decade chopping firewood shirtless in slow motion.

His scowl alone could start a thunderstorm, and don’t even get me started on the way his flannel sleeves hugged his forearms. It was criminal, really.

And the worst part? He wasn’t even trying.

Just existing, breathing, standing there , and my brain short-circuited like a toaster in a rainstorm.

I didn’t believe in love at first sight, but apparently I did believe in wildly inappropriate hallway fantasies.

I was halfway to the front hallway when I nearly collided with my mom.

She had a laundry basket full of sheets balanced on one hip and a knowing smile tucked in the corner of her mouth.

“Someone’s marching,” she said. “That usually means you’ve encountered a grumpy guest, an escaped chicken, or a shortage of clean dish towels.”

I raised a hand. “Option one.”

“Ah,” she said, setting the basket on a bench. “Mr. Jensen again?”

“Don’t even get me started.”

“Too late.”

I sighed. “He’s just… impossible. And somehow more attractive when he’s difficult, which is very inconvenient for my whole personality.”

She chuckled, tucking a piece of my hair behind my ear like I was still twelve. “Well, you’ll be pleased to know that Mr. Jensen, grump or not, happened to ask about you early this morning.”

I blinked. “Wait, what?”

She tilted her head. “Mm-hmm. Said something about whether you were working today. I told him you usually don’t rest until you’ve personally fluffed every pillow and interrogated each towel for softness.”

Before Sienna set me up. Interesting.

I laughed, stunned. “That’s… a surprise. Considering he shoots darts at me with his gaze.”

Mom shrugged. “Sometimes darts are just misplaced attention.”

“Or laser beams of disapproval.”

She patted my arm. “Sweetheart, men like that, they don’t know what to do with people like you.”

I snorted. “You mean people who talk too much and fall into duck ponds?”

“I mean, people who shine. You make noise. You laugh. You connect. That can be terrifying to someone who’s spent a long time convincing himself he’s safer alone with dulled emotions.”

I bit my lip because she wasn’t wrong, but still...

“Whatever’s going on with him, it’s none of my business,” I said, squaring my shoulders. “But if he thinks he’s going to win the Sad Sack Olympics while he’s under my roof, he’s in for a rude awakening.”

She smiled. “There’s the daughter I raised.”

“Now, if you’ll excuse me,” I added, adjusting my damp shirt and smoothing my hair, “I have a grumpy man to accidentally bump into while pretending it’s completely coincidental.”

“Don’t forget to smile like it’s not personal.”

“Oh, it’s absolutely personal.”

I marched off, half-infuriated, half-something else I didn’t want to name.

Because here’s the thing…

Ben Jensen could glower all he wanted. He could scowl and sigh and respond to my jokes with the emotional depth of a brick wall. But he hadn’t left. He hadn’t asked to switch lodges. He hadn’t, despite every opportunity, actually walked away.

And that meant something, even if I didn’t know what yet.

By the time I made it back to the front office and plopped into my rolling chair, I knew exactly two things:

One, I was completely and irrationally obsessed with Ben Jensen’s scowl.

And two, I was going to destroy it.

Not in a mean way. No, no. I didn’t want to hurt the man. I just wanted to knock that eternal storm cloud right off his handsome lumberjack shoulders. For the sake of the lodge. For the vibe. And okay, maybe for my own slightly selfish amusement.

He’d officially survived longer than any other grump who’d walked through our doors. Most turned to mush within 48 hours of complimentary lemon bars and sunshine-infused hospitality. Not Ben. No, he had that I don’t do joy energy down to an art form.

But you know what I had?

A clipboard, access to the linen closet, the kitchen, and a mission.

Operation De-Funk the Grump had officially begun.

I spun in my chair once, purely for inspiration, then flipped open my planner.

Phase One: Lower Expectations.

Nothing extravagant. If he even suspected I was plotting, he’d retreat faster than a cat from a cucumber. This needed to look casual and spontaneous. Like it just… happened to be the world’s most adorably perfect evening.

Phase Two: Location, location, location.

The fire pit, since it was (a) Simple. (b) Safe. (c) Charming in that rustic wine commercial kind of way.

Plus, we already had string lights in place and Adirondack chairs ready. All I needed was a little cleanup, a few snacks, and a solid exit strategy in case it went south, and he left me emotionally drained.

Phase Three: Lure the man.

This was the trickiest part. Ben wasn’t the let’s all hang out by the fire and swap feelings type. But he was the kind of person who appreciated solitude. If I made it seem like it was already set up, for everyone, he might wander over on his own, especially if there were s’mores.

Which brought me to...

Phase Four: The Snacks.

No one can resist s’mores. No one. If he were immune to Graham crackers, melted chocolate, and toasted marshmallows, I’d have to call the FBI and report him as a national security threat.

Not to mention, if he preferred savory to sweet, I’d invented a brie cheese and cracker version that was dynamite, so I’d be sure to have both types of ‘smores.

I grabbed a pen and scribbled a short shopping list:

Marshmallows

Chocolate (dark, obviously—he gives dark chocolate energy )

Graham crackers

Apples, cheese (for “sophistication,” aka bait)

Brie

Sea salt crackers

I stood up and paced the tiny office, plotting angles. Ben was a puzzle, but he wasn’t unsolvable. I just needed the right combination of comfort, quiet, and ‘ ope, fancy meeting you here’. And yes, I would say ope because I was a Wisconsin girl, not a Floridian. It’s what we did.

I wasn’t even trying to flirt, not really. Okay. Maybe a little. But mostly, I wanted to know what he looked like without the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. I wanted to know what it would sound like if he were to really laugh .

He was carrying something. That much was obvious. He didn’t wear it openly, but you could see it in the way he stood, the way he held back every time someone came close.

And maybe I was foolish, but I believed a few well-placed gestures, a sparkly fire, and a little gentle ambush could crack through even the most fortified walls.

I reached for my phone and sent a quick message to Sienna.

Me: Do NOT tell Ben anything. But also, don’t schedule anything for the fire pit tonight.

Sienna: What are you planning?

Me: A vibe.

Sienna: Oh God. That sounds romantic.

Me: It’s not.

Sienna: Liar.

Me: If he runs, it’s your fault.

Sienna: He won’t.

Me: How do you know??

Sienna: Millie called. She’s been watching him like a hawk. She says he’s twitchy in the interested way.

I dropped the phone on the desk and covered my face with both hands.

Great. Fantastic. I was planning a subtle-not-subtle lakeside date for a man who may or may not have the emotional availability of a dry eraser, while our town’s resident matchmaking grandma watched from the shadows like a benevolent stalker.

Totally normal.

Totally fine.

I peeked through my fingers at the planner still sitting open, and I smiled. Whether it worked or not, at least I’d tried.

And if nothing else, I’d get roasted marshmallows out of it.

Win-win.

I had exactly twenty minutes of daylight left and one mission on my mind as I grabbed my keys, slung my canvas tote over my shoulder, and bolted out the door.

Buttercup Market was only a five-minute drive, maybe four if I hit the one blinking light at the right moment. I was halfway down the gravel driveway before I realized I hadn’t even changed out of my lodge apron. Whatever. If anyone asked, I was embracing a chic small-town hustle aesthetic.

I rolled down the windows, letting the early evening breeze tangle through my hair as I hummed along to the oldies station. The plan was simple. Okay, relatively simple. It involved food, light, a touch of ambiance, and the slightest hint of subterfuge.

But halfway through the produce section, staring down a very suspicious pile of lumpy apples, it hit me.

I froze.

Mouth parted.

Heart sinking.

“I left the list,” I whispered.

Right there. On the counter. In my planner. The one with the pink cover and three hundred sticky notes.

I had made a very detailed list.

S’mores ingredients, maybe cheese, maybe wine. Apples. Something with caramel. Napkins. I’d even drawn tiny little doodles of marshmallows next to the items, for emotional support.

And now? Nothing.

I spun my cart around slowly, trying to jog my memory as I moved. Crackers? Definitely. Marshmallows? Obviously. Chocolate? Yes—dark, preferably. The rest? Debatable. Possibly invented by a fever-dream version of myself who thought mood lighting was critical to happiness.

Still, I couldn’t help it.

My steps got lighter as I walked.

Because even without the list, the idea was still there, buzzing in the back of my brain like a firefly that refused to be caught.

It didn’t have to be perfect.

It just had to feel like a moment filled with something real and something that might make him pause.

And if I could pull it off without tripping over my own ambition, maybe I’d see the corners of Ben Jensen’s mouth twitch upward in something resembling a smile.

The thought alone gave me a jolt of energy as I rounded into the snack aisle.

No list?

No problem.

I had instinct.

Optimism.

And the burning desire to gently dismantle a man’s grumpy emotional armor with the strategic deployment of chocolate and charm.

Game on.