Page 34 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)
Fifi
The canoe had barely touched shore before my mind had turned it into a cinematic masterpiece. The soft ripple of the lake, the heat of the sun warming our arms, the impossibly perfect kiss that had made my toes curl even as I tried not to tip us both into the water.
It was… ridiculous.
And wonderful.
And now, twenty-four hours later, I was still mentally floating.
I sat at my tiny kitchen table, tucked into the corner of my cozy 800-square-foot house near the center of town, cradling a mug of coffee that had long gone lukewarm.
My hair was still messy from sleep, and I was in my oldest I Run on Caffeine and Sarcasm T-shirt, but none of that stopped me from staring dreamily out the window like a woman deep in the third act of falling for a guy.
Ben kissed me like I was the most dangerous and delicious thing he’d ever tasted.
In a canoe.
And I liked it way too much.
I mean, it wasn’t just the kiss.
It was the fact that Ben— grumpy, reluctant, edge-of-broody Ben —had planned it. The picnic. The surprise. The soft-spoken sweetness had all but cracked open a very well-defended part of my heart.
I took another sip of my now-cold coffee.
What was it about that man?
Was it the challenge of his resting scowl? The thrill of coaxing out that quiet, crooked grin? The absolute rush of seeing him choose me, even in small, careful ways?
I sighed into the rim of my mug.
“I have a type,” I muttered. “Mysterious and gruff with secret soft centers.”
But this wasn’t just an attraction. This wasn’t even just the thrill of the chase. This was more complicated, terrifying, and a little too fast.
I had no business catching feelings for someone who lived on the other half of the country.
And yet, here I was, daydreaming about his flannel shirts and canoe kisses and wondering if I could ship muffins to Florida without them going stale.
I heard the knock at the door and blinked out of my reverie.
“Sienna, if you’re here to tell me my chickens are plotting again, I need a full hour of coffee first,” I called out, rising with my mug still in hand.
I pulled open the front door and nearly dropped the mug.
Ben stood on my porch, in a fitted black T-shirt, jeans, and a crooked smile that did awful things to my composure. In his hands?
A bouquet.
Wildflowers. Sunflowers. Sprigs of lavender and Queen Anne’s lace tied up in twine and wrapped in brown paper.
“Good morning,” he said, offering them up like this was a perfectly normal morning occurrence and not a romantic fever dream come to life.
I stared at the flowers. Then at him.
Then back to the flowers.
“Should I be concerned that you know where I live?” I asked, arching a brow.
Ben’s smile deepened. “Every single member of your family gave me your address.”
My jaw dropped. “You’re joking.”
“Nope,” he said. “Your mom drew me a map. Sienna sent a pin to my phone. Violet offered to walk me here personally. Beck…”
“I get it. I get it.” I groaned. “That is… horrifying.”
“It was surprisingly efficient,” he added.
“Let me guess,” I muttered. “It was payback from when we did it to her with Owen.”
Ben’s brows lifted. “She mentioned that, yeah. Something about a welcome committee involving fresh-baked scones and veiled threats.”
“Sounds right.”
He held out the bouquet again. “These are for you. As a thank-you. And also a bribe.”
I took them carefully, brushing a hand across the petals. “A bribe?”
“For more time.”
I looked up at him.
And I knew.
Whatever this was, however fast it had taken root, it was real.
It was happening.
And I wasn’t ready to let it go.
“You’re just going to hand-deliver flowers and expect to be let inside?” I asked, standing in my doorway with my arms crossed and the bouquet still in hand.
Ben grinned. “I was hoping you’d be too flattered to say no.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, but my smile gave me away. “It’s working. Don’t get used to it.”
I stepped aside and let him in.
The moment he crossed the threshold of my little house, something shifted.
It wasn’t a mansion. It wasn’t even a particularly organized 800 square feet, but it was mine.
Bright yellow curtains. Stacks of books on every end table.
A gallery wall of old photos, mismatched frames, and one very crooked watercolor I’d painted during a self-care phase that involved more wine than artistic skill.
He stopped in the middle of the living room and looked around like he was absorbing it all slowly.
“This place is…” he trailed off, then smiled at me over his shoulder, “very you.”
“Messy with a good heart?”
He chuckled. “It’s warm, cozy, and smells like cinnamon and dreams.”
“That’s literally my candle,” I said, sniffing. “Cinnamon Dreams. It was on sale.”
He turned and wandered toward my small kitchen, peering at the fridge plastered in magnets from places I’d never been, gifts from guests over the years, and a grocery list I’d forgotten to remove that had batteries, cheese, and emergency wine scrawled in my handwriting.
I suddenly felt weirdly exposed.
It wasn’t in a bad way, just in a he’s-seeing-my-unfiltered-life way. But I wasn’t used to that.
“Do you always keep three loaves of banana bread on the counter?” he asked, peeking over at the ceramic tray.
I crossed my arms. “You never know when an emotional breakdown might require baked goods. I was about to put them in the freezer.”
He nodded solemnly. “Smart. Strategic.”
I shrugged. “It’s part of my charm.”
He turned back to me, resting his hip against the counter, eyes sweeping the space with what looked like real appreciation. “You’ve got good taste.”
“Careful,” I warned. “You keep being complimentary, and I’ll start thinking you like me.”
He stepped toward me, gaze soft but teasing. “Would that be such a bad thing?”
My cheeks warmed. “Debatable.”
Ben laughed again, the sound easy and deep and far too comfortable for a man who had his return flight booked in a few days.
I led him into the cozy living room, gesturing to the wide old couch with its dip in the middle and the colorful quilt thrown over the back. “This is where I eat too much popcorn and pretend I’m going to do yoga during commercials.”
He sat down, his large frame somehow fitting just right, and pulled one of the quilt corners over his lap like he’d done it a dozen times before.
“You have a good life,” he said quietly, looking around again.
“I do,” I agreed. “Even if it includes rogue chickens and glitter in my shampoo.”
He smiled.
We talked for a while about funny guests who once tried to milk a goat that wasn’t a goat, and the time I accidentally hosted a bachelor party of illusionists instead of strippers. Light stuff. Fun stuff. The kind of stuff that didn’t make my chest ache.
But even while I laughed and snuck glances at the way his eyes creased when he smiled, I couldn’t stop the creeping thought in the back of my mind.
He’s leaving.
Every second, every sweet little moment was borrowed time.
He was a whole life in Florida, and I was a woman with dirt on her jeans and her heart tied to a lodge that couldn’t fit anyone else’s dreams.
“You just made a face,” he said suddenly, breaking the moment.
I blinked. “What?”
“You made a face. That look you get when your brain is saying something your mouth isn’t.”
“I do not have a look.”
“You absolutely do.”
I stood up, crossing to the flowers and fussing with them in a vase like they hadn’t already been perfectly arranged. “It’s nothing.”
“Fifi,” he said gently.
I turned, hands on the counter, leaning back like it would put space between his words and my thoughts.
“I just—” I exhaled. “I keep wondering if this is just… summer magic.”
He tilted his head.
“Like, maybe you’re the guy who kissed me in a canoe, and I’m the quirky girl who made you banana bread, and that’s it. That’s the story. A sweet one. But short.”
He didn’t speak for a moment. Then he stood and walked over, sliding a hand gently against my arm.
“Is that what you want it to be?”
I looked up at him and swallowed.
“I don’t know what I want,” I said honestly. “But I know I’m scared to want more. Because I’ve done that before, and it doesn’t usually end with surprise flowers and picnics.”
His fingers brushed mine, and even though the room was warm, I felt the chill of everything I hadn’t dared to say.
He didn’t pull away, but he didn’t promise anything either.
And somehow, for the first time, that might’ve been exactly what I needed.
“What are your dreams, Wisconsin?” His eyes fastened on mine, and a flutter ran through me.
Dreams?
He was still looking at me.
Not just looking , but waiting.
The kind of quiet that left no room for performance. No place to hide behind sarcasm or a quippy one-liner. And I hated that my first instinct was to joke my way out of it.
Instead, I leaned against the edge of the kitchen counter and stared down at my bare feet.
“Sorry,” I said. “That just kind of... caught me off guard.”
“What did?” Ben’s voice was gentle, low.
“You asked about my dreams,” I said, lifting my gaze to his. “And it hit me that no one’s ever actually done that before.”
His brows drew together. “Really?”
“Not in a real way,” I said, voice a little softer now. “People ask me about the lodge. Or what’s next for the harvest festival? Or what new cookie recipe I’m testing. But not... this.”
“What you want,” he said, his words landing like a breath in the middle of my chest.
I nodded, and he stepped closer, leaning his hip against the counter beside me. He didn’t touch me, didn’t interrupt. Just let the silence settle around us like a warm blanket waiting to be filled with words.
So I tried.
“I want kids,” I said. “I know that’s not revolutionary, and I know there’s probably some obnoxious think piece somewhere about how cliché that is, but it’s true.”
His eyes never left mine.
“I want kids who grow up knowing what it means to work with their hands,” I continued. “Who run around the lodge barefoot, sneak cookies out of the kitchen, and name chickens things like Captain Feathertail and Susan the Supreme.”
Ben’s lips twitched.
“I want to run the Honey Leaf the way my parents did. With joy. With family. I want to enjoy holiday festivals and themed brunches, and teach my daughter how to make my sister’s cinnamon rolls with my special additions.
I want to watch my son help me scoop feed into the buckets for the alpacas and then laugh when one of them spits on him. ”
I laughed then, a small thing, surprised it cracked through the tightness in my throat.
“I want muddy boots and messy hair and laughter echoing down the halls,” I said, pressing my hand flat against my chest, as if to keep my voice steady.
“I want to fall asleep next to someone who doesn’t mind that I snore sometimes or talk in my sleep.
Someone who remembers the way I like my tea and doesn’t think it’s weird that I name all my vehicles, kitchen appliances, and trees. ”
Ben let out a soft breath, something almost like reverence in the air between us.
“I want a life that’s full,” I finished. “Not perfect. Not shiny. Just... mine. Something I built from the things I love.”
He still didn’t speak.
Just looked at me like I was a lightning strike he hadn’t seen coming and wasn’t sure how to survive.
I ducked my head, suddenly overwhelmed. “Sorry, that’s probably a lot.”
“It’s not.”
When I looked up, he was closer, still not touching, but his presence felt like gravity, gentle yet undeniable.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever said it out loud like that to me,” he murmured. “What it looks like, the picture of a life you want. It’s beautiful, Fifi. It was like a painting.”
I blinked fast, trying not to let my throat close up.
“And it’s not too much?” I asked, needing to hear it.
“No,” he said, voice steady. “It’s real. ”
I leaned back slightly, heart pounding. “You say that like it doesn’t scare you.”
Ben’s eyes softened. “It scares the hell out of me.”
That made me laugh. “Well, good. At least we’re on the same page.”
And somehow, that moment, standing there in my tiny kitchen, flowers on the table and emotional honesty hanging in the air, felt like the most intimate one we’d ever had.
No kisses.
No hands under clothes.
Just truth.
And the terrifying hope that someone might want the same kind of messy, full life I’d always dreamed of.