Page 19 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)
Fifi
He said he’d come.
He said he’d come.
I smiled to the kitchen, and then I reached the back hallway and promptly had a full-blown internal breakdown by the mop closet.
What had I done?
I was not emotionally equipped for this level of potential. There were marshmallows at stake. There was eye contact at stake. There were feelings at stake.
I had crossed the line from being a cute innkeeper with a harmless crush to a woman arranging social encounters like a strategic field commander, armed with snacks and optimism.
And the problem?
He’d agreed.
Which meant I had to go through with it.
Which meant—oh God—I had to see him.
And talk to him.
And possibly sit near him in the flickering light of a fire like some overly enthusiastic Hallmark heroine trying not to accidentally fall in love.
I opened the fridge and stared at a block of cheddar.
I closed the fridge and opened it again.
The cheese offered no answers.
Dang it.
I ran through the checklist: s’mores? Check. Drinks? Check. Paper napkins with little cartoon pine trees? Check. Emotional preparedness? Unconfirmed.
I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and told myself to chill out. Just breathe. It wasn’t a date. It wasn’t anything.
“Just chill like an ice cube.”
“Always good advice,” Sienna said, walking into the kitchen.
“Not you again.” I stared at her, and she chuckled.
“I just came to see if I could offer any help, advice, or extra hands for your big night.”
“This is not a big night. It’s a regular night. Just me doing what I do to ensure our little lodge gets the good ratings.”
Sienna’s brows lifted. “I didn’t know we’d started offering those services. Do Mom and Dad know?”
My arms folded over my chest, and I shook my head. “If Dad were here…”
“Well, he’s not. He’s up gallivanting in Alaska with his seventy-year-old brother.” She stuck out her tongue. “So, I can torture you all I want.”
“You just wait until you can’t stop thinking about a guy, Sienna, and then…oh, it’s on.”
She flashed a wicked grin. “That will never happen. Mark my words. But peace out.”
My sister wandered out of the kitchen as quickly as she’d entered, and now I was even more frazzled.
It was a casual hangout with a guest who happened to look like he’d been carved by a team of brooding forest elves and sent to test my ability to form coherent sentences.
No big deal.
Nothing was on fire.
Except, possibly, my dignity.
I rounded everything up and put it in a small wagon and pulled it to the fire pit.
I set everything up exactly as planned. The fire pit glowed gently, flames dancing.
The sky above melted from deep blue into indigo, stars beginning to blink awake.
I added a few lanterns, set the drinks in a cooler, fluffed the seat cushions twice , and then moved a log because I suddenly thought it looked too intentional.
Then I moved it back.
And forth.
And back again.
And then I threw a marshmallow at it because I was spiraling and the log was giving me judgmental energy.
I forced myself to sit. Breathe.
“You are calm,” I muttered, adjusting my ponytail. “You are confident. You are absolutely not about to trip over your own emotional shoelaces in front of a man who probably doesn't even own shoelaces because he’s too cool for them and just has boots that lace themselves.”
Crunch.
My spine straightened.
The gravel.
Footsteps.
I turned, heart doing a cartwheel in my chest.
And there he was.
Ben Jensen. All broad shoulders and blue eyes and that ever-present expression of mild disbelief at my entire existence.
He wore a grey flannel button-down that should’ve been outlawed and jeans that were probably just accidentally fitted in a way that made me reconsider the sanctity of personal space. His hands were in his pockets. His eyes were locked on me.
He looked good.
Too good.
And I, being the very picture of grace and poise, stood up too fast.
My toe caught the edge of the firewood rack.
And I tripped.
I did not fall, thankfully , but it was a close enough call that I stumbled, pinwheeled my arms, and made a noise that could only be described as startled goose meets off-brand yodel.
Ben blinked and reached for me, but I straightened, smoothed my hair, and cleared my throat.
“That was intentional. A... dance move. Rustic firepit interpretive stumble.”
“The striptease you’d mentioned a while back?” He looked like he was trying very hard not to laugh. His mouth twitched, but it was there.
Progress.
I shook my head and held out my hand.
“Hi,” I said brightly, stepping forward. “Glad you made it, Mr. Jensen.”
“Oddly formal, but I’ll roll with it. You okay?” he asked, eyes sweeping from my still-standing, but wobbly legs, to my slightly disheveled ponytail as we shook hands.
“Yep! No injuries. Just my pride. But she’s used to taking hits. I’m sure you’re aware of that by now.”
He chuckled under his breath, and I swore it warmed me more than the fire.
I gestured to the setup. “So. Casual. Totally spontaneous. No luring involved.”
He arched a brow. “I do see snacks.”
“Tragic coincidence.”
“Right.”
He stepped closer, hands back in his pockets. The firelight cast amber shadows across his face, softening the edges, catching in his eyes.
I suddenly forgot every word I’d ever learned.
“Want to sit?” I asked. “Or stand. Or… hover mysteriously like a sexy wraith. Your choice.”
He snorted. “Sitting sounds safer.”
“If I’m around, yes…probably so.”
We settled into the chairs, not too close, not too far. I passed him a marshmallow stick, trying not to overanalyze every blink, breath, and body angle.
He leaned in slightly. “So… rustic dance move?”
“Oh yeah,” I said, nodding sagely. “Part of my performance routine. I usually follow it up with interpretive stripping—”
Silence.
Dead silence.
Ben looked at me.
I looked at Ben.
My soul exited my body.
“I meant— tripping! ” I blurted. “I trip! Over things. Objects. Furniture. Emotions. Not strip. Definitely not strip. I keep my clothes on. Religiously.”
His lips twitched.
I buried my face in my hands. “I’m going to walk into the lake now.”
He was laughing. Quietly, but it was real.
And I couldn’t help it. I peeked through my fingers and laughed, too.
Because if I were going to be a disaster, at least I was a committed one.
And somehow, despite everything, he hadn’t walked away.
The fire crackled softly, sending little sparks up into the night, as if it were showing off. The stars were out in full force, scattered across the dark canvas above us, and for a moment, the world felt like it had tilted into something still . Gentle. Perfectly suspended.
Ben sat with his long legs stretched out toward the fire, marshmallow stick in hand, and the barest shadow of a smile ghosting his lips. Real, unforced. Quiet, but there.
I was so distracted by it that I nearly burned my marshmallow.
He caught it immediately. “That one’s a goner.”
“Sacrificial,” I said, blowing on the charred blob. “For the marshmallow gods.”
His smile twitched higher. “Very noble of you.”
“I’m brave like that.”
We worked in silence for a minute, poking and toasting, the smell of smoke and sugar wrapping around us like a blanket.
My nerves had quieted, mostly. Every now and then, I remembered the tripping, the accidental stripping comment, the whole planner incident, and a flush would crawl back up my neck like a stubborn rash.
But then I’d glance at him, and he wasn’t looking at me like I’d mortified myself beyond repair.
He was just looking.
Like he didn’t mind being here.
Like he was… present.
And that alone made my chest ache in the best, most complicated way.
I licked chocolate off my thumb, trying not to feel completely aware of the way he watched me do it.
“You know,” I said, “for someone who claims to be anti-social and emotionally unavailable, you’re dangerously close to enjoying yourself.”
He raised a brow. “Dangerously close?”
“You might even, dare I say, like being here.”
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Oh, I’m going to push it.”
He glanced sideways at me, lips curving slowly. “You always this persistent?”
“I’m a professional hospitality expert. Relentlessness is in the job description.”
“Right.” He leaned forward, carefully sandwiching his marshmallow. “Well, you’re good at it.”
“Flattery,” I said, mock-serious. “Unprompted. That’s suspicious.”
“Just calling it like I see it.”
I tore my eyes away from him, tried to focus on my s’more, and failed miserably. The heat from the fire had nothing on the electricity building between us.
It was like something had shifted in the space and melted down just enough to blur the lines between guest and host, between teasing and wondering.
I cleared my throat and leaned a little closer, half an inch, maybe less. “So... you don’t hate me, then?”
He tilted his head. “Do I seem like I hate you?”
“You seem like you’re constantly trying not to be charmed by me.”
He gave me a dry look. “Trying and failing, apparently.”
That stole the breath from my lungs.
His voice wasn’t teasing anymore. It was lower. More serious. More… there.
I blinked. “Oh.”
His eyes met mine, steady and unreadable, but not cold. Never cold.
And that was when I realized how close I’d leaned in.
I could feel the fire at my front, but the heat in my chest had nothing to do with it.
I could feel him .
Not touching. Not quite.
But the air between us was charged. Sparking. Like static right before it snaps.
And then he leaned in.
No rush. No pretense.
Just a slow, deliberate shift forward that made my pulse stutter.
His gaze dropped to my lips. Mine to his.
And then—
His mouth was on mine.
Warm.
Confident.
Like he had been waiting for the right moment and had finally found my lips.
It wasn’t the kind of kiss that made fireworks explode in the background.
It was the kind that made the world stop .
The air stilled, and the fire intensified as the stars drew a little closer.
My heart thudded wildly as my hand found the edge of his sleeve, fingers curling slightly into the fabric.
Ben kissed me like I wasn’t a question he needed to answer, but like I was already what he’d been looking for.
When he pulled back, barely an inch, I didn’t move. Didn’t breathe.
His forehead hovered near mine, our noses brushing faintly.
“Still think I hate you?” he murmured.
I let out a breathless laugh. “Undecided.”
He smiled.
Really smiled.
I stared at him, stunned, and a little afraid to blink.
The fire crackled, casting light over the small spread I’d assembled. S’mores fixings, cider, a few tealights flickering in glass jars, and two chairs pulled close.
Ben sat back
“Want another?” I asked.
His eyes dropped to my lips again, and my heart fluttered.
“I meant a s’more,” I teased.
He gave the smallest nod and a wry smile. “Sure.”
His voice was lower than usual and rougher. His was the kind of voice that curled around my skin like heat, and I wasn’t even sure if he wanted the marshmallow or was just trying to keep the quiet from swallowing us whole.
I handed him the skewer and tried not to watch too intently as he turned it slowly in the flame, the firelight painting warm hues across his face.
“You know,” I said, “for someone who claims to be allergic to fun, you’re not half-bad at this whole hanging-out-by-a-fire thing.”
“Don’t let that get around,” he said, rotating the marshmallow with a little flick of his wrist. “I have a reputation.”
“For glowering?”
“For solitude.”
“Well,” I said, leaning forward slightly, “you’re doing suspiciously well for someone who acts like proximity is a crime.”
He looked at me then, really looked, and for a moment, neither of us smiled.
The silence didn’t feel awkward. It felt taut and suspended as if we were standing on the edge of something sharp and shiny.
“You always talk like that?” he asked, quiet, amused.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re trying to distract someone from reality.”
I blinked. “I—maybe. Sometimes.”
“And is it working?”
My heart thumped hard enough that I was sure the marshmallows could hear it. “I don’t know. You’re hard to read. You tell me.”
He didn’t respond, but he set the stick aside, the perfectly toasted marshmallow forgotten.
Then, slowly, deliberately, he stood.
I followed suit before I could stop myself.
He took a step toward me.
I took one too.
Now we were close. Too close to pretend this wasn’t something. Not anymore.
“I’m not great at this,” he said, voice rough. “But I’ve wanted to do this for days.”
“I thought we just did.”
“That wasn’t my best.”
I opened my mouth to say something that was witty, charming, anything , but nothing came out.
Then his hand brushed my cheek, and his thumb skimmed just below my jaw.
And then he kissed me again.
It wasn’t tentative.
It was deep. Focused. Like he’d been holding himself back for days and finally let go.
His other hand found my waist, pulling me closer with an urgency that left my head spinning. The contact was electric—skin to fabric, breath to breath. My fingers gripped the edge of his shirt, needing something to hold onto, because my knees suddenly felt like melted marshmallow.
He angled his mouth against mine, lips parting mine, tasting, exploring. There was nothing slow about it now. It was heat and softness and tension, every inch of my body suddenly aware of his—how warm he was, how firm, how good he smelled, how easily I could lose myself in the pull of his gravity.
He kissed like a man starved and like he’d waited too long and couldn’t afford to be gentle.
And I matched him, kiss for kiss, until we were both breathing harder, hearts hammering, the fire crackling at our backs like it knew this was a moment worth lighting the sky for.
When he finally pulled back, he didn’t step away.
He stayed close with his forehead to mine, and his hands still on my waist.
Ben’s breath mingled with mine.
“I’m not going to apologize,” he murmured. “But if that wasn’t okay…”
My lips brushed his again, softer this time. “It was okay.”
His blue eyes darkened. “Good.”
I couldn’t stop touching him. My hand drifted from his chest to his shoulder, needing to anchor myself to something solid.
He was solid.
And real.
And here.
I didn’t know what it meant.
Not yet.
But the way he looked at me, like I wasn’t just a distraction but something he’d needed , that meant something.
And tonight?
That was enough.
And for once, I let myself have it.
Even if it meant catching fire.