Page 24 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)
Ben
I was doing it again.
I could feel it happening like a damn movie reel I’d watched too many times. The tug in my gut, the slow withdrawal, and the tightening of everything good just beneath the surface because it felt easier and safer to put up the wall than admit something was getting under my skin.
And Fifi?
She felt it too.
I didn’t have to look at her to know, but I did.
She was sitting across from me on one of the sleeping bags, knees tucked up to her chest, hands wrapped around her water bottle like it might give her something solid to hold onto. Her smile had dulled. Her shoulders had dropped. She was looking toward the lake now, not at me.
Because I’d pulled away.
Just like always.
It wasn’t her fault. Hell, it wasn’t even about her. But that didn’t make it hurt any less watching her shrink into herself because I’d shut the window she’d just started cracking open.
She didn’t deserve that.
She deserved firelight and open doors and someone who didn’t flinch at the first hint of intimacy.
But I didn’t know how not to flinch. Not when the things that were buried inside me still felt like they could ruin whatever I touched.
I took another bite of my sandwich even though I wasn’t hungry anymore. The food felt like cardboard in my mouth. My jaw worked out of habit, not need. And I knew this wasn’t just some passing dip in mood. This was the old wiring kicking in.
Shut down.
Don’t open.
Keep it casual.
Do not make this real.
“So,” Fifi said after a stretch of silence. “That sandwich changed my life.”
It was light. Playful. Forced.
But I looked up and met her eyes, and she was trying.
Trying to keep us from slipping too far.
“Changed it how?” I asked, making my voice sound as normal as possible. “Are you going to start a fan club for my sandwich stacking skills?”
She gave me a faint smile. “Obviously. You’re president, but I’m head of PR. I’ll make stickers.”
“Great. We’ll go national. Tour the country in Clarabelle. Spread the gospel of turkey and Swiss.”
She let out a laugh, but it faded too quickly. “I think Clarabelle might reject that plan.”
“She’s temperamental.”
“She has boundaries. ”
We both chuckled, and for a second, it was better. Lighter. But there was still a tightness in her smile that hadn’t been there before.
I hated that I’d caused it.
“Thanks for not letting me get eaten by an angry beaver,” she said, brushing crumbs from her hands and rising to her feet.
“Anytime,” I said, standing there and shoving the trash into the cooler. “It’s in the lodge’s fine print, I’m sure.”
She glanced over at me and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes this time. “Guess it’s time to hike back, huh?”
“Yeah,” I said. “It is.”
We packed in silence, rolling up the sleeping bags, zipping up backpacks. Her hands moved fast, methodical. She was doing that thing people do when they don’t want to talk about something, when they’re trying too hard to look like they’re fine.
I recognized it because I lived it.
The walk back up the trail started quiet.
Too quiet.
The birds chirped. The wind rustled through the trees. Gravel crunched under our boots. But no jokes. No sideways glances. No Fifi narrating the inner lives of chipmunks or making up trail trivia just to make me laugh.
And it gutted me.
Because I missed her already, and she was still right here.
About halfway up, I couldn’t take it anymore.
“I suck at this,” I said suddenly.
She looked over at me, confused. “At hiking?”
“At being... open. Normal. Anything that involves being vulnerable without bolting in the opposite direction.”
She walked another few paces before answering. “I know.”
That stopped me cold. “You do?”
She turned to face me. “Ben. I might flirt like it’s a sport, but I’m not stupid. I can feel when someone disappears on me, even if they’re still standing three feet away.”
The words hit like a blow and a balm.
Because she wasn’t accusing, she was just telling the truth.
And she wasn’t wrong.
“I didn’t mean to,” I said.
“I know that, too.”
I rubbed the back of my neck. “It’s not you.”
She smiled gently. “It’s never me. That’s what everyone says. But it still feels like it is.”
That hurt.
More than I expected.
“Back there,” I said, voice rough, “when you asked about my family…”
“You don’t have to explain.”
“No,” I said, meeting her gaze. “I do. They’re not.
.. around. Haven’t been for a while. And it’s not exactly a highlight reel.
I spent a long time putting my life on hold in an attempt to fix things that couldn’t be changed.
So now? I don’t talk about it. Because talking means remembering, and remembering just hurts. ”
She didn’t say anything at first. But then she reached out and took my hand, just for a second.
A squeeze. A pause.
Then she let go.
“We all have something,” she said softly. “But you don’t have to carry it alone.”
And with that, she kept walking, giving me space and permission in the same breath.
And for the first time in a long time, I wanted to try.
Try not to disappear.
Try to let someone in.
Try to believe that whatever this thing was between us, it didn’t have to end when I got in my car in a week.
I just had to stop running from what felt good.
And right now?
Fifi felt like the one thing I didn’t want to run from.
By the time we made it back to the clearing where Clarabelle waited, the sun had shifted into that lazy, late-afternoon glow. The sky was golden and warm, like the world itself had exhaled.
We were both sweaty, windblown, and pleasantly exhausted. I could still feel the imprint of her hand from when she’d squeezed mine on the trail, quick, soft, gone too fast, but it lingered in a way that made everything under my skin hum.
Fifi climbed into the driver’s seat and shot me a smug little look over her shoulder. “Ready to head back, Florida?”
I tossed my backpack in the bed of the truck and slid into the passenger side. “You’re the boss.”
“Music to my ears.” She turned the key.
Clarabelle coughed.
Then wheezed.
Then nothing.
She turned the key again.
A click. Then silence.
She paused, blinked, and tried a third time. I watched her confidence fade like air leaking from a tire.
Clarabelle gave one final sputter of defiance, then died completely.
It wouldn’t turn over.
“No, no, no,” Fifi muttered, cranking the key again. “Don’t you dare.”
I glanced at her. “Is this one of those she-always-does-this moments?”
“She’s never done this.”
We both sat there for a second, the silence inside the truck stretching long enough to hear the breeze through the pines.
“Let me take a look.”
We got out, and I lifted the hood while Fifi stood to the side, arms crossed, clearly trying not to look as panicked as she probably felt.
“Maybe it’s something funky with the battery.”
“She just got a new one. It shouldn’t be that.”
I leaned over the engine and stared at it like it might whisper its secrets to me.
“Alright, Clarabelle,” I muttered. “Talk to me.”
“Unless you speak rust and regret, she’s not going to be very helpful,” Fifi said, peering over my shoulder.
I looked back at her. “Did you plan this?”
Her brows lifted. “Plan what?”
I smirked. “Stranding us out here in the woods. No cell service. One blanket. Suspicious sleeping bags. Don’t think I haven’t noticed.”
She gasped, hand to heart. “Are you accusing me of seduction by sabotage?”
“Just asking the tough questions.”
She grinned. “If I were going to seduce a man, I’d pick someone with fewer emotional walls and more survival skills.”
I laughed and shook my head. “You just called me sexy and emotionally unavailable in one sentence.”
“I multitask.”
I straightened, wiped my hands on my jeans, and looked at the engine again.
“It’s not the battery. Could be the starter.
Or something with the ignition coil. I don’t have the tools to pull anything apart.
It sounds more like the starter to me than anything, but that’s not exactly helpful since the wire is where it should be. ”
“So we’re stuck?”
“For now.”
She looked around, hands on her hips. “I mean… it’s not the worst place to be stranded.”
I raised a brow. “Middle of the woods. No bathroom. No service. One sandwich crust left between us.”
“And me, ” she added, grinning.
“And you.”
That did make it better.
That made it dangerous.
“Okay,” she said, clapping her hands. “Plan B. We set up camp. We’ve got the sleeping bags. We’ve got snacks. We’ve got a thermos of lemon water and one emergency brownie.”
“I forgot about the brownie,” I said.
She smirked. “Everyone always does. Until they need it most.”
I eyed the truck again, then the sky, then her. “You’re actually serious.”
She shrugged. “Unless you want to hike five miles in damp boots just to find out there’s no service up the road either. We’re in it now, lumberjack.”
I exhaled, letting go of the last sliver of resistance I’d been clinging to.
She was right.
And truth be told, part of me, a big part of me , wasn’t mad about it.
Fifi dug into the truck bed, pulling out one of the sleeping bags and flinging it dramatically across the flattest patch of earth near the trees. “Welcome to the Fifi Inn: wilderness edition. No plumbing, but the company’s decent.”
I dropped my bag beside hers, still watching her as she bustled around like she’d done this a dozen times before.
“You really planned this,” I said again, only half teasing now.
She looked up, her grin lazy and unrepentant. “I’ll never tell.”
And the thing was, whether she did or not, I didn’t care.
Because the thought of being here, out in the quiet with her, under the stars, and without the rest of the world barging in?
It sounded a hell of a lot like peace.
Like exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
Like exactly who I didn’t expect to want.
And it scared me, but it also made me feel alive again.
We stood near the truck, both of us staring at it like it might transform into a five-star glamping tent if we wished hard enough.
“So,” I said, arms crossed. “Maybe with the angry beaver running around, we should sleep somewhere elevated?”
“Is that a pun or play on words or…”
Her words knocked the wind out of me, but I couldn’t stop laughing. “No, I literally meant the beaver you pissed off earlier.”
“So you don’t want to sleep where we put the sleeping bags?” Fifi tucked her hands into the back pockets of her jeans, the corners of her mouth twitching like she was trying not to smile too big.
“Not really.”
“What about the truck bed?” she offered, way too casually.
I raised an eyebrow and turned to look at it, the classic, seafoam green Clarabelle with her chipped paint and rusty charm.
It wasn’t exactly roomy.
She followed my gaze. “It’s got the flattest surface. And with the tailgate down, we can stretch out. Kinda. And we’re high enough to avoid most angry animals.”
I gave her a sidelong look. “It’s… pretty small for two people.”
Her eyes glinted.
“Not if we spoon.”
I coughed, actually coughed, like I’d swallowed a damn pinecone.
She said it as if she were talking about cloud cover or trail mix, like, spooning with me would be just another Tuesday on the Honey Leaf calendar.
My brain tried to do math and reason, and logic, but all it managed was:
Fifi.
Spoon.
Fifi, spooning me.
I turned slowly, locking eyes with her.
She just grinned.
Like a woman who knew exactly what she was doing.
“You serious?” I asked, voice low.
Her lashes fluttered once. “You’ll never know.”
“Can I at least put my shirt back on?”
“Nope.”
And that’s when she winked.
Winked.
And turned away, sauntering to grab one of the sleeping bags from the ground, hips swaying like this was all part of her master plan to turn me into a shell of a man who dreamed of campfire cuddling.
I stared after her, pulse thudding in my neck.
If she was kidding, she was evil.
And if she wasn’t?
I was in so much trouble.