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

Fifi

There’s nothing quite like the smell of pine trees, sun-warmed earth, and mild poultry chaos to start your morning right.

I stepped out the side door of the Honey Leaf Lodge, the screen door creaking with just enough rustic charm to make me ignore oiling it. The late-morning light painted the field in shades of honey and gold, a low mist curling like whipped cream over the grass.

And just beyond the fence, I spotted them. Our beloved and slightly unhinged collection of barnyard misfits roamed their home. They weren’t actually misfits, but they were rescues that we prided ourselves on rehabbing and spoiling.

“Good morning, my babies!” I called out, waving as I crossed the gravel path toward the paddock. “Did you sleep well? Did you dream of overthrowing the patriarchy? My brothers Liam and Beck are trying to man cave the place, so any pecks or clucks or hooves on a toe is fine by me.”

Misty, the new miniature donkey, gave a hearty bray, which I chose to interpret as “Absolutely.”

I was halfway to the chicken coop when I realized something was off.

Too quiet.

No clucks. No peeps. No Mariah clucking dramatically from the top of the nesting box like she was auditioning for Chicken Idol.

I slowed my steps.

“Guys?”

Then, like a feathery torpedo, one of the hens launched herself at the wire fence.

“Oh, no.” I stumbled back, nearly losing a shoe, as Henrietta, and yes, I had named her before realizing she was part velociraptor, darted through the open gate I had definitely closed the day before.

She was fluffing feathers, puffing her chest, and stomping toward me like I owed her rent, even though it was the other way around.

“Henrietta,” I said slowly, hands raised, “we’ve talked about boundaries.”

She squawked loudly.

Then, charged.

“Nope. Not today.” I ran.

I ran harder.

Over the fence.

In my boots.

Through the grass and across the field like a woman pursued by poultry justice.

“I give you organic feed, you gremlin,” I hollered over my shoulder.

Henrietta flapped after me with the determination of a chicken who had not forgiven me for last month’s apron costume incident. I may or may not have dressed her up in a mini Honey Leaf Lodge apron and taken some photos for our social media.

To be fair, the little red gingham number was adorable, but clearly not appreciated.

I veered toward the goat pen, gasping, “Archie! Backup! Take her down!”

Archie, our laziest goat at the rescue farm, lifted his head, blinked once, and went right back to chewing on the lilac bush outside the pen.

“You are useless,” I squealed as Henrietta gained on me.

I could feel the swish of her wings, the indignant wrath radiating off her tiny, rage-filled body.

I darted around the compost bin, grabbed a plastic watering can, and turned to face her like a very determined gladiator in a reboot of 300.

“This ends now.”

Henrietta stopped.

Stared at me.

Pecked at the ground.

Then, with great disdain, fluffed her feathers and walked away.

Just like that.

Like I wasn’t worth the chase.

I stood there panting, holding the watering can like a weapon of war and questioning every life choice that had led me to this moment.

“Okay,” I wheezed. “That’s fine. That’s totally fine. I didn’t want to feel respected today anyway.”

Maza, the male llama, sauntered over, nosed my hair gently, and sighed into my shoulder.

“Thank you,” I muttered. “At least someone here gets me.”

I patted his muzzle and surveyed the paddock, noting that the other animals had gone about their morning as if their leader hadn’t just reenacted a scene from The Bourne Identity: Coop Edition.

The goats were chewing something they definitely weren’t supposed to. The ducks were floating in their kiddie pool like aristocrats. And the pigs…well, they were currently digging a hole that looked suspiciously like a planned escape tunnel.

Honestly, it was impressive.

I set the watering can down and made the rounds with fresh feed, triple-checking that every latch was secure, especially the chicken gate. Henrietta gave me a side-eye from the shadows, one talon slowly scratching the ground like a threat.

“Don’t test me,” I warned. “I’m wearing waterproof mascara and I’m emotionally unstable.”

Macy, our escape artist zebra, eyed me as I filled her trough. Usually, Liam or Beck did the outside stuff, but both of them were in town for a city meeting.

After the chores were done, I sat on the edge of the raised garden bed, wiping my hands on my jeans and letting the early sun warm my back. The breeze was light, and birds’ chirps trickled through the trees. But despite the brief trauma, I felt better.

Grounded.

Happy.

This was my version of a morning routine. No spin classes. No meditation apps. Just me and my tiny farm of opinionated animals who loved me when they weren’t plotting mutiny.

Even more guests would arrive soon, but the thought of Ben Jensen flickered across my brain like a stubborn spark.

I immediately shoved it aside.

Nope. No, thank you.

No thinking about husky-voiced men with intense blue eyes and forearms carved by ancient gods and dark locks that fell across his forehead.

No replaying the way he looked at me when I fumbled the words, I’ll be in your room later , like I was auditioning for an HR training video of what not to do.

And certainly no analyzing the moment at the end, when he smirked and shut the door with a smug little sparkle in his eye like he had won.

Ugh.

I flopped backward onto the grass with a dramatic groan and stared up at the sky.

“Universe,” I said aloud. “Please let me get through today without humiliating myself again.”

A twig snapped.

I sat up quickly, scanning the tree line.

But it wasn’t a person.

It was Henrietta.

Back again.

Standing just outside the fence. Watching.

Plotting.

I pointed a warning finger.

“I see you. Don’t try anything. I’ve got a watering can and zero shame.”

She blinked.

Then pecked the ground and turned away, her fluffy butt shaking in clear chicken dismissal.

I exhaled. Picked myself up. Brushed off my jeans.

This day was already trying to kill me, and it wasn’t even ten o’clock.

Time to help make cookies and pretend I hadn’t just been chased by a bird with a vendetta and emotionally destabilized by a man who looked like he’d stepped out of a lumberjack romance cover shoot.

It's a totally normal morning.

I was halfway back to the lodge, straw in my hair, dirt on my jeans, and at least forty-seven percent sure a goat had sneezed on me when I heard that telltale crunch of gravel behind me.

I turned around, assuming it was Beck or maybe a guest needing directions to the breakfast room.

And instead?

Ben Jensen.

Walking toward me like he’d just strolled off the cover of Rustic Lumberjack Quarterly .

A flannel shirt, rolled up to the elbows, revealing strong forearms and lightly tanned skin. Dark jeans. Work boots. That beard. That face. That whole I’m brooding but probably smell like cedar and mystery thing he had going on without even trying.

And me?

I was covered in hay, chaos, and the distinct scent of betrayal-by-chicken.

“Great,” I muttered under my breath. “The one morning I don’t spritz on perfume or attempt a personality.”

Ben stopped a few feet away, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes scanning me in that quiet, unreadable way he had, like he was taking stock of the entire moment, grass-stained knees and all.

“You okay?” he asked, voice gravelly and not nearly as judgmental as I’d feared. “Heard shouting.”

“Oh. That. Yep,” I said, overly peppy. “Just me, fighting for my life. You know as one does. Rural setting. Feathered enemies. Very common.”

He raised an eyebrow.

I realized, with growing horror, that my shirt was askew and my boot was untied. Also, there was hay in my hair. Possibly a twig.

“I was visiting our rescue animals,” I said, as if that explained everything. “It’s part of the charm. A hands-on, behind-the-scenes, eco-wholesome experience. We call it Farm and Flee.”

Ben blinked. “Farm and what?”

“Nothing,” I said quickly. “I meant Farm and Fleet. It’s a Midwest thing. Very normal. Nothing dramatic happened.”

A beat.

Then he tilted his head just slightly. “So… you weren’t being chased by a chicken?”

“I was tactically retreating.”

Another beat. This time, his lips twitched , with the smallest, briefest flicker of amusement. A blink-and-you’ll miss it micro-smirk.

It should have annoyed me. It didn’t.

It flustered me.

I cleared my throat and straightened my spine, which was a bold move considering I was standing in a pile of my own shoe’s dignity.

“What do you need?” I asked, trying to keep my voice even. “You’re not due for your fluffing session until later.”

Ben’s brows pulled together, confused. “My what?”

“Room refresh,” I amended. “Towels. Soap. I brought soap. You were there. It was a whole thing.”

He studied me for a moment longer, then said, “Didn’t come looking for soap.”

“Oh?” I shifted on my feet. “Then what brings you out here to the animal kingdom? Lost? Stalking me? Moved by the powerful scent of hay and goat breath?”

He looked down at his boots, then back up at me, calm and unreadable again.

“I went for a walk.”

“Sure.”

“And I heard screaming.”

“Exaggerated yelling.”

“And I saw a small bird try to murder you.”

“She’s medium-sized,” I mumbled.

“I figured I’d check you weren’t being pecked into the afterlife.”

My heart betrayed me with a flutter.

He came to check on me.

Which meant on some level, he cared whether I lived or died by poultry. That was practically intimacy, in my book.

“Well,” I said, suddenly all thumbs and zero brain cells, “I’m alive. Just mildly traumatized and a little dusty. Which, for the record, is a very natural, wholesome aesthetic. Like… dirty cottagecore.”

His lips twitched again. “Is that a genre now?”

I was already spiraling. “Probably. It’s like cottagecore, but more… feral. Less artisanal honey, more wrestling compost bins.”

Ben huffed something that might’ve been a laugh.

I was seconds away from trying to explain the personality of each goat when I caught a whiff of myself and froze.

“Oh no,” I whispered.

“What?”

I sniffed the air, then grimaced. “I smell .”

Ben didn’t say anything.

Which somehow made it worse .

“Like, not metaphorically,” I rushed to explain, waving my hands around like I could dispel the scent with jazz fingers. “I mean, maybe metaphorically too, because I’m slowly rotting from shame, but mostly I smell like a barnyard.”

Still nothing from him.

I stared.

He blinked.

Was he trying not to laugh? Or had he already disassociated from the conversation?

“Look,” I said, lifting my hands in surrender, “I didn’t think my first full conversation with you outside the lodge would involve barn animal aftermath, but here we are. You got the real behind-the-scenes tour. The real me. Covered in hay and hoping the soap from earlier wasn’t symbolic.”

There was a long pause.

And then Ben said, very simply, “You don’t smell that bad.”

My brain short-circuited.

“Wow,” I said flatly. “Be still, my heart. That’s the sexiest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”

“Wasn’t trying to be sexy.”

“Don’t worry. Nailed it anyway.”

We stared at each other.

The breeze shifted.

The goats bleated from the distance like background singers who knew drama when they heard it.

“Well,” I said, stepping back a pace, trying not to trip over my dignity. “This has been humbling.”

Ben nodded once. “Guess I’ll let you get back to… whatever this is.”

“Farm diplomacy,” I offered.

He turned to go.

I watched him walk away, tall and broad and entirely unaffected by the chaos he left in his wake.

And then, just as he reached the path, he glanced back over his shoulder.

“Thanks for the… farm tour.”

Then he disappeared into the trees.

I stood there another minute, soaking it all in, sunshine, embarrassment, and whatever weird gravitational pull existed between me and the least vacation-y man I’d ever met.

And then I spoke to the animals.

“Oh no. I’m in trouble.”