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Page 33 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Ben

I didn’t do this kind of thing.

Surprises. Picnics. Sentimental gestures that required coordination and timing, and someone’s sister to stall long enough to keep her out of the kitchen.

But for Fifi?

I’d risk an ambush by her moody chickens again if it meant making her smile.

The sun was already warm, climbing steadily toward a late-summer high, and the lake shimmered just beyond the tree line like it knew we were coming. I adjusted the grip on the wicker basket in my hand and scanned the path leading from the lodge.

Any second now—

“There you are,” Fifi’s voice rang out, followed by the familiar thud of her boots on the wooden steps. “You’ve been suspiciously quiet all morning.”

I turned, grinning as she came into view—messy bun, cutoff shorts, oversized T-shirt knotted at her hip, and a slight smudge of flour on her cheek. She slowed when she spotted me holding the picnic basket and looked past me toward the trail.

Her eyes narrowed.

“What did you do?”

I feigned innocence. “Is that how you greet a man offering carbs and fresh air?”

She folded her arms. “Sienna wouldn't let me near the guest picnic baskets this morning. Said I was banned from the kitchen.”

I nodded toward the trees. “Now you know why.”

She laughed, bright and unexpected. “You coordinated with Sienna ?”

“I bribed her with hiking boots of her choice.”

“Okay, now I’m impressed.”

“Come on,” I said, holding out my hand.

She hesitated a beat, then slipped her fingers into mine like she’d been doing it for years. We followed the trail together, sunlight dappling through the trees overhead, the lake coming into full view with every step.

When we broke through the clearing, she stopped cold.

The canoe sat nestled along the shoreline, half in the water, bright red life jackets draped over one side. The picnic blanket was already laid out nearby, a checkered blue and white design, with the basket set neatly in the middle and two cold lemonades sweating in mason jars.

Fifi blinked. “Are you trying to kill me with wholesomeness?”

“Too much?”

“It’s dangerously effective.”

She leaned into my shoulder briefly, soft and warm. “I really needed this.”

“I know,” I said quietly. “That’s why I arranged it.”

Five minutes later, we were drifting across Buttercup Lake.

The canoe glided smoothly through the water, Fifi up front, with one hand lazily trailing in the glassy surface. The picnic basket was stashed safely behind her, and the quiet of the lake wrapped around us like a balm.

“You know,” she said, glancing back, “this is wildly romantic for someone who claims to be emotionally unavailable.”

“I never claimed that,” I replied, dipping the paddle again.

“No, but your general air of mystery kind of implied it.”

She twisted around a little more to look at me. “So what’s the deal? What do you do when you’re not fending off Midwestern women and their flying chickens?”

I smirked. “I’m an attorney. I told you that.”

Fifi let out a low whistle. “That explains the wrinkle in your forehead, but you didn’t say what you do.”

“Where do you practice?”

“Florida,” I said. “Downtown Miami.”

“Big firm?”

I hesitated. “Yeah. I made partner two years ago.”

Fifi sat up straighter. “Ben! That’s huge.”

“It was,” I said. “I worked for it. Years. Late nights. Weekends. Sacrificed a lot.”

She picked up on it immediately. “You say that like you’re not happy about it.”

I stared out at the water. “It came with costs.”

There was a pause. A quiet ripple of wind through the trees. Fifi didn’t push right away, but I could feel the question waiting there between us, thick with implication.

“What kind of costs?” she finally asked.

I opened my mouth.

Then, I closed it.

Because I wanted to tell her everything. The long nights. The missed calls. The way my last relationship collapsed under the weight of prioritizing clients over connection. Success turned out to be lonelier than I ever thought it would be.

But I couldn’t get the words out.

Not here.

Not yet.

I forced a smile instead. “The usual ones.”

She looked at me carefully. “You’re good at dodging.”

“Comes with the job.”

She didn’t laugh.

Not this time.

And I hated the way her smile dimmed, just a little.

“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to put a cloud over the day.”

She shrugged, pulling her fingers from the water and flicking droplets back toward me. “You didn’t. I just… like knowing what makes people tick.”

“Dangerous hobby.”

“My favorite,” she said. “Besides eating sweets.”

I chuckled, relieved to feel the lightness return. “Then I guess I owe you a scone and a little vulnerability.”

“And don’t think I won’t enforce that.”

We drifted for a while in silence after the work talk faded, the kind of quiet that wasn’t awkward or heavy, just… loaded.

The paddle dipped into the water with a soft splash.

Her fingers skimmed the surface again, trailing lazy arcs as she stared up at the clouds.

The sun made her skin glow, catching on the tiny flecks of glitter still stuck near her collarbone from the festival.

And I was trying very hard not to think about kissing that exact spot.

Again.

“Tell me about growing up here,” I said, voice low and a little rough. “In this town. The lodge. All of it.”

She raised an eyebrow. “You want the Hallmark Channel version or the real one?”

“Definitely the real one,” I said. “I’ve seen you wield a rake and a muffin tin. I know better than to expect small-town sweetness.”

That earned me a smile.

“Okay,” she said, tucking one knee up in the canoe and facing me. “Well, imagine being one of three girls and two boys, growing up in a lodge that always smelled like bacon grease and lavender oil, where everyone from school knew your business before you even did.”

“Sounds intense.”

“It was,” she said. “But it was also magic. My dad used to sing in the kitchen while he flipped pancakes. My mom had a thing about decorating every hallway for every season, even the obscure ones. I swear, I saw a Groundhog Day garland once.”

I laughed. “That feels aggressively festive.”

“Oh, it was. And the guests became our extended family. I had a twenty surrogate grandmas and got more birthday cards from strangers than people in my class.”

I watched her talk, watched the way her hands moved when she got into a story, and how her lips curled like she was half-living the memory while she spoke it aloud.

“Still sounds like the Hallmark version,” I pointed out.

“I suppose.”

“And were you?” I asked, leaning a little closer. “Were you a wild child?”

Her smile turned coy. “Define wild.”

“I don’t know,” I said. “Skipping class? Making out behind the fudge stand at the fall festival?”

“Okay, rude —that happened once. ”

I grinned. “Knew it.”

Her laugh bubbled up, and she shoved my shoulder lightly. “I was mostly well-behaved. Until I hit seventeen and decided I was destined to be a rock star.”

I raised an eyebrow. “You’re joking.”

“I had a keyboard. I wrote angry breakup songs about boys I’d never even kissed.”

“Please tell me there are recordings.”

“There were ,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Sienna may or may not have burned them.”

I shook my head. “Tragedy. The world was robbed.”

“Oh, trust me, it was a mercy killing. But yeah, I was a dreamer. Thought I’d leave town, tour the country, and come back famous.”

“And instead?”

She looked at me, softer now. “Instead, I stayed because life happened. Because the lodge needed someone. Because… maybe I loved it here more than I realized.”

That last part hung in the air between us.

“Once I went to college, I knew I wanted to come back here.”

Her eyes locked on mine, and something shifted again, deeper and heavier.

Because everything about her was pulling me in, from the pink flush on her cheeks to the way her legs stretched out beside the picnic basket, and the memory of her body pressed to mine in the back of that truck made my jaw tense all over again.

“I can’t picture you anywhere else,” I said honestly. “You belong here.”

“I don’t always feel like I do.”

“You do to me.”

That stopped her.

Just for a second.

Then she said, “You’re trouble, Florida.”

I leaned forward, not breaking eye contact. “You started it, Wisconsin.”

Her breath caught just enough for me to notice.

And when her gaze dropped, just briefly, to my mouth before flicking back up again, I felt that unmistakable current of we’re about to do something dumb and delicious.

“Ben,” she said slowly, her voice lower now, a whisper curled in heat. “We’re in a canoe.”

“Very observant.”

“Just pointing out that I’m not jumping you in open water.”

“Good to know.” I leaned back, smirking. “So what I’m hearing is, I have to get you to shore first.”

She rolled her eyes, but a smile spread across her face.

I should’ve waited.

Should’ve paddled to shore, given us the safety of stable ground and the illusion of distance before doing what I knew I was about to do.

But Fifi was right there, with sunlight dancing off the freckles on her shoulder, eyes full of mischief, legs stretched out casually like she wasn’t rearranging the tectonic plates of my restraint just by existing.

And I couldn’t not kiss her.

“Don’t move,” I said.

Her smile faltered, just barely, and her brows knit with curiosity. “Why?”

“Because if you tip this canoe,” I murmured, carefully shifting my weight, “you’re not getting another sandwich.”

“Reverse Bribery?” she asked, a smirk forming. “How romantic.”

I leaned forward, slow and steady, the boat rocking beneath me with the kind of exaggerated drama only canoe physics could deliver. My hand brushed her knee, just enough to ground me, to brace against the unsteadiness.

Her breath quickened. I felt it.

Heard it.

It echoed in my chest.

“I mean it,” I whispered. “Don’t move.”

She didn’t… didn’t blink…didn’t flinch.

Fifi watched me like she knew exactly what I was about to do and had been waiting for it.

And then I kissed her.

Soft at first.

Her lips parted with a confidence that left me dizzy, tasting like lemonade and heat and something that felt dangerously close to falling in love.

The canoe rocked gently beneath us, the breeze stirring her hair, the lake surrounding us like the universe had shrunk down to just this—just us.

When I finally pulled back, it wasn’t because I wanted to.

It was because I had to take a breath.

Her eyes were still closed for a beat, lips parted slightly, her whole expression soft and stunned in a way that nearly made me lean back in.

Then she blinked, and a slow smile curved her mouth.

“Well,” she said breathlessly, “I guess the canoe kiss lives up to the hype.”

I grinned. “Was it hyped?”

“In my mind, it’s been in development since the truck-bed incident.”

“Should I be worried about future installments?” I handed her a sandwich, which she happily took.

“Oh, absolutely. You’ve set a very high bar now.”

I leaned back, trying not to gloat too visibly. “Maybe we’ll get to volume three later. I’ve got strong ideas involving pie and questionable plaid.”

Fifi laughed, a bright, uninhibited sound that carried across the lake.

She sat up straighter and tapped my knee with her bare foot. “We are paddling to shore eventually, right? Or is this a floating makeout hostage situation?”

“I mean, now that you say it out loud…”

“Ben.”

“Yes?”

“If you dump us both in this lake, you’re never getting another one of our muffins again.”

I made a solemn face. “Understood. Muffins are sacred.”

She smirked. “Exactly.”

We drifted a little more, the paddle untouched, the lake holding us like a secret.

And I thought, if this is what danger looks like, I might just be ready to risk everything.