Page 32 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)
Fifi
Macy the zebra was giving me attitude again.
She had this way of turning her head just slightly to the left, blinking those ridiculously long lashes, and letting out a huff that said, I see your emotional damage, and frankly, I’m disappointed.
I leaned on the fence, arms folded, forehead resting on the warm wood. “I know, I know. I shouldn’t have said anything. But he looked at me like I’d just told him I spit in his coffee.”
Macy blinked slowly. Then, she took a step closer and began aggressively chewing on the post next to my elbow.
“Are you trying to deconstruct the entire emotional metaphor, or are you just bored again?” I asked.
“I’m gonna be honest,” a deep voice said behind me. “I didn’t expect the zebra to be named Macy.”
I closed my eyes.
Ben.
Of course.
Because nothing screams grace and emotional closure like having your accidental not-boyfriend find you gossiping to a disgruntled rescue zebra.
I turned slowly, keeping my expression light. “Would you believe me if I said she picked the name herself?”
He gave me that slow grin, the one that crinkled the corners of his eyes and made my stomach feel like a tangled strand of fairy lights. “I might. Macy has some serious personality issues. She’s a little flighty.”
“She was voted most likely to escape the enclosure with style.”
Ben stepped closer, stopping just on the other side of the fence. He looked too good for someone who'd unknowingly body-slammed my heart six hours ago, with a rumpled T-shirt, scruffy beard, that pensive furrow to his brow like he was already halfway through an apology he wasn’t sure I’d accept.
“Fifi,” he said softly.
I waved him off, smiling a little too brightly. “Don’t worry. No need to do the whole walk of emotional shame. I’m fine. Promise.”
His brow lifted. “You’re standing next to a zebra and fake-laughing like you’re auditioning for a sitcom.”
I let out a huff. “Some of us cope through humor, Ben.”
He leaned on the fence now, too, watching me. “You’re allowed to be upset.”
“I’m not upset.”
“You’re deflecting.”
I scowled. “No, I’m compartmentalizing.”
“You’re flailing.”
“I’m flirting, actually,” I snapped, before I could stop myself.
That made him laugh. And that made me mad.
“I told myself not to fall for the hot guest with the tragic eyes and the forearms of doom,” I said, pacing away from the fence now, flinging my arms around like I was rehearsing for a one-woman play.
“But nooo, Fifi, let’s just go ahead and roll the emotional dice on a man who’s clearly about to return to Florida, where he has probably ten palm trees and an ex with better hair. ”
Ben followed me around the enclosure, slowly, like I was a spooked animal. “You think I’m going back to someone?”
“I don’t know what you’re doing!” I blurted. “You said you couldn’t get a room anywhere else, and I just…God, Ben, that gutted me. Like all this—me, the lodge, us —was some backup plan.”
He was silent for a beat. Then: “It wasn’t.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because I panicked,” he said. “I said it without thinking. I didn’t realize it would sound like that until I saw your face.”
I turned away, biting the inside of my cheek.
“You want the truth?” he asked, voice low now. Closer. “I only looked at other places after I booked at the Honey Leaf and met you.”
I turned, surprised. “What? That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“I thought about leaving,” he admitted. “Right after I got there. You were—” He ran a hand through his hair.
“Too much. All at once. Bright. Loud. Stubborn. Gorgeous. You made me feel things I haven’t let myself feel in years, and I knew that was dangerous.
So, I panicked and looked at places around here to move to, but they were booked.
Well, one place wasn’t, but I wasn’t about to stage my demise in the hotel of horrors. ”
My heart stuttered. “So you wanted to run from me.”
“I thought if I moved hotels, maybe I’d reset. Pull back. Remind myself I was here to rest , not have a full-blown heart malfunction over the lodge owner's daughter.”
“I’m part owner.” I stared at him.
He took a step closer and smiled. “But I didn’t leave.
I couldn’t. You made me laugh. You made me feel at home.
And the night in the truck, when you looked at me like I wasn’t a screw-up or a burden or some emotionally constipated recluse…
” His voice dropped. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since. ”
My throat tightened.
“And I’m sorry,” he added. “For what I said. For how it sounded. You were never the fallback. You were the reason I stayed, but the lodge has felt like home the moment I arrived. You have felt like home.”
I looked at him, Macy still chewing loudly in the background, and wondered how the hell I’d gotten here—barefoot and clammy in barn boots, sunburned from the festival, and seconds away from possibly forgiving the man who’d made me feel both lightning-struck and foolish in the same breath.
“I hated that I let myself care,” I said quietly.
He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine not being with you, and I care so much about you. Why is it bad to care about me?”
“Because I did. And I shouldn’t have. I know better. You’re here as a hotel guest. I know better than to catch feelings for someone who’s leaving.”
“I never said I was leaving.”
“You didn’t have to,” I whispered. “The clock’s been ticking since the moment you checked in.”
He looked at me for a long time. Then exhaled. “Maybe we should stop putting pressure on it.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean ignore it,” he said quickly. “I mean… we don’t have to figure it all out right now. What if we just stop panicking and feel it? Enjoy it. Let it grow without demanding it be something it’s not ready to be?”
I looked at him, really looked, and saw it—the fear under the steadiness, the vulnerability behind the gravel-voiced confidence. He was just as unmoored as I was.
And somehow, that made it a little easier to breathe.
“So… you want to keep this going, but without expectations?” I asked, trying not to sound completely unhinged.
“I want to be with you, Fifi,” he said, stepping even closer. “But I don’t want to ruin it by rushing or running. I want to stay or come back. I want more time. With you.”
I blinked fast. “You’re saying all the right things.”
“I mean every word.”
“Even the part about my stubbornness?”
He grinned. “Especially that part.”
I let out a long breath, feeling my heart hammer. “Okay.”
“Okay?”
I nodded slowly, realizing I was as scared as he was. It was why I got so mad at him, why I wanted to stay mad at him, to protect myself.
“Fifi?”
I nodded, knowing I had to give this a shot and quit trying to find excuses. “Okay.”
He smiled, slow and wide, and so real it cracked something open in my chest.
And just like that, something between us clicked back into place, not perfectly or seamlessly, but like a door being gently nudged open again.
I reached out, elbowing his arm with mine. “But just so we’re clear, you’re helping me clean the coop.”
He groaned. “I knew there was a catch.”
I smirked. “Only fair. I’ve had to emotionally wrangle a zebra and a man in flannel this week.”
Ben leaned down, brushed his lips over my cheek, and murmured, “You make it look easy.”
And somehow, in that moment, it did feel easy.
Messy, yes. Terrifying, sure.
But easy.
Because maybe falling didn’t always have to feel like crashing.
Maybe it could feel like choosing.
“I’m just saying,” I told Ben as we stood side-by-side, staring at the chicken coop like it was the entrance to an escape room designed by chaotic gremlins, “no matter what happens in the next thirty minutes, there will be no hard feelings.”
He squinted at me. “That sounds like something someone says before they commit a felony.”
“No, no. This is more like a social contract. A chicken-based non-disclosure agreement.”
Ben crossed his arms. “What is about to happen?”
“I’m just mentally preparing you for the fact that our chickens are slightly feral and very dramatic. They don’t like change, loud noises, or men who smell like cologne and out-of-town emotional baggage.”
Ben gave me a flat look. “That’s very specific.”
“They can sense things,” I whispered, stepping toward the coop.
To his credit, Ben followed.
The coop itself was an architectural triumph of janky carpentry and stubbornness, built by my dad in 2004, reinforced by every sibling since, and still somehow standing despite a roof that sagged like it needed a therapy session.
I opened the hatch door and immediately regretted all my life choices.
Lottie, our fluffiest hen, stood in the doorway like a gatekeeper to Henrietta, fluffed up to twice her size and glaring like I’d interrupted a secret ritual.
“Hi, girls,” I said sweetly. “This is Ben. He’s here to help clean.”
One of the chickens hissed.
Ben took half a step back. “Did it just hiss at me?”
“Yep. That’s Charlene. She’s got a flair for the dramatic.”
“Do chickens usually have teeth in their eyes?”
“They do not, and please don’t speak evil into the universe.”
I handed him a rake, a bucket, and an old feed scoop. “Just scrape out the old bedding, toss it into the compost bin, and try not to let Charlene draw blood.”
“What is considered bedding?” Ben took the tools slowly, like I’d just handed him the instructions for defusing a bomb. “And what will you be doing?”
I held up a small sack of cracked corn like a bribe. “I’ll be the distraction.”
Ben exhaled. “Pray for me.”
“Always,” I said cheerfully.
It went downhill quickly.
Charlene staged a revolt in under three minutes, leaping from the top roost and dive-bombing Ben’s shoulder like a winged menace sent straight from poultry purgatory.
He grunted, not a full scream, but definitely an undignified shout, and stumbled into a water bucket, which promptly tipped over and soaked the hem of his jeans.
“Oh no,” I gasped, covering my mouth. “You okay?”
He stared at me, wild-eyed. “Did that one just growl ?”
“That’s Gertrude. She’s menopausal.”
Ben shook his head. “I can’t believe you life-cycled them.”
“You’re talking to a woman who chats with a zebra named Macy. This surprises you?”
Suddenly, there was a sharp cluck and the soft thud of something wet hitting flesh.
Ben went very still.
“Did I just get hit with an egg?”
I peered around the coop door. “Technically, it’s not a fresh egg. That one’s been in the corner for a week. I meant to grab it yesterday.”
Ben looked down at the globby yolk sliding down the front of his shirt.
“I hate everything.”
“Okay, but your arms still look amazing holding that rake,” I offered.
He gave me a deadpan glare. “I am covered in straw, water, and expired breakfast.”
I grinned. “But in a manly way.”
And then, like some twisted cherry on top, a chicken squawked, flapped its wings with the force of a small tornado, and flew directly into Ben’s face.
That was when Sienna chose to appear.
She paused at the fence, sunglasses perched on her head, holding a basket of fresh linens, and a look of ‘Oh, this is rich’ glee.
“Wow,” she said, blinking. “Is this a date? Have you two made up?”
Ben, flailing slightly, finally peeled the chicken off his shoulder.
I cleared my throat. “Hi, Sienna.”
“You made him go into the coop?” she asked, delighted.
“It was his idea.”
Ben groaned. “Lies.”
I stepped forward, brushing some feathers from his shirt. “He was trying to be helpful.”
Sienna smirked. “I don’t know whether to be impressed or call animal control.”
Ben straightened up, rake still in hand, feathers in his hair, and egg slowly crusting on his collar. “I feel like I took some unspoken test and failed it spectacularly.”
I leaned in and whispered, “You still passed. You just need a debriefing, a tetanus shot, and maybe a drink.”
Sienna nodded slowly, backing away like she’d just witnessed a strange but oddly romantic wildlife documentary.
“I’ll leave you to it. But Fifi?” she called as she walked off.
“Yes?”
“If he proposes, definitely get the chickens in the engagement photos.”
Ben muttered something about “never trusting hens again,” and I was laughing so hard I almost dropped the corn sack.
It wasn’t pretty.
But somehow, it felt perfect.