Font Size
Line Height

Page 37 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Ben

I stared at my laptop screen as if it had slapped me right in the face, which, to be fair, it kind of had.

I came here for a chance to breathe and recalibrate. Get a little perspective before my job turned me into a full-blown cautionary tale for burnout and corporate dependency.

So why, why , had my inbox tripled in size the second I clicked Out of Office?

You’d think I’d set fire to the entire company with the way they were reacting.

Subject line after subject line glared up at me with subtle variations of panic:

URGENT: Need Decision on Client Draft

Timeline Shift – Please Advise ASAP

I rubbed the bridge of my nose and leaned back in the too-soft lodge room chair, the wood creaking under me like it had commentary.

“This was supposed to be a vacation, ” I muttered.

No one back home got that memo.

And the worst part?

I’d brought it on myself.

Because I was that guy. The guy who always responded. Who always fixed things. Who couldn’t stand the idea of letting someone else drop the ball, even if it meant carrying the entire damn team on his back.

So now I was here, in a beautiful town, with a woman who’d somehow managed to short-circuit my brain and get under my skin, and I was still tethered to the inbox like it was an extension of my soul.

And because I’d let the stress creep back in…

I turned her down.

Dinner with Fifi.

A night with her smile. Her wit. Her easy, infectious laughter made it impossible not to smile back, even when I was in my worst mood.

And instead of saying yes, I shut her down.

Like an idiot.

Because all I could think about at the time was the pressure. The voices in my ear. The quiet terror that if I let my attention slip for even a second, the life I’d built would cave in on itself.

But now?

Now all I could think about was her face when I told her I couldn’t.

The small shift in her eyes. That split second before she masked it. The way she stood a little straighter, smiled a little too smoothly, and walked away like she hadn’t just been quietly gutted.

I hated myself for that.

She didn’t deserve it.

Not after everything.

Not after what we shared so many times.

I’d never felt anything like that. Not even close. The way she touched me, kissed me, teased me, saw me . It was like she cracked something open that I didn’t even know was sealed shut.

And now I was trying to shove it back inside and pretend it hadn’t happened.

Idiot.

I slammed the laptop shut and stood too fast, pacing the room like that would solve something. The sunlight filtered through the curtains in soft golden streaks, the kind of glow that should’ve made me feel calm.

It didn’t.

All I felt was stuck.

I didn’t want to lose the life I’d worked for. The career I’d clawed my way up for. But lately it felt more like a prison I’d voluntarily locked myself inside.

And Fifi?

She was freedom, messy, unpredictable, sugar-and-fire freedom.

But how do you reach for something that could upend your entire identity?

Maybe… you just do it.

I stopped pacing and stared at the door.

I could find her.

Apologize.

Fix it.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I was always trying to fix things, but this wasn’t just a mess I made.

It was a choice I still had time to undo.

I grabbed my hoodie, shoved the laptop onto the desk, and paused just long enough to shoot off one final text to the office:

Set everything on hold. I’ll respond Friday. Until then, it can wait.

Then I turned off my phone.

For real this time.

If the world burned down, someone else could call the fire department.

Right now?

I needed to find Fifi, and hope to God she hadn’t already decided I wasn’t worth the risk.

The phone was off. The laptop closed. My hands felt weirdly empty without either, but in the best possible way, like I’d finally set down a weight I’d been pretending wasn’t breaking my back.

I left my room before I could talk myself out of it.

The hallway was quiet, soft with early afternoon light filtering through the lodge’s tall windows.

I walked past the welcome desk, down the stairs, past the reading nook where someone had left a half-drunk cup of tea and a novel with a floral bookmark hanging out of the side.

Everything about this place was a gentle exhale.

Except my chest hadn’t quite loosened yet.

Not until I found her.

I turned the corner near the back entrance and saw her through the screen door.

Fifi.

She didn’t see me.

She was sitting on the back porch steps, her legs tucked up to her chest, arms wrapped loosely around her knees.

Her hair was up in a messy bun that looked like it had been thrown together without thinking, and she was wearing one of those oversized lodge sweatshirts I’d seen her in once before—faded, soft, worn with memory.

She wasn’t smiling.

There was no quip on her lips, no easy joke, no teasing glint in her eye. Just her, quiet and still, staring out at the trees like she was trying to find something in them she couldn’t name.

Something cracked inside me because I’d seen a hundred versions of her already, bright, bossy, chaotic, charming, but this one?

This one was real in a way that made my throat tighten.

I pushed the door open gently. It creaked, just enough to make her look up.

She blinked when she saw me, her mouth parting slightly, surprise flickering across her face.

“Oh,” she said. “Hi.”

“Hi,” I said back, stepping onto the porch and letting the door swing closed behind me.

I didn’t sit right away. I gave her space. But my eyes never left her face.

“Mind some company?”

She hesitated, then patted the step beside her.

I took it.

We sat in silence for a moment. A breeze rustled the trees beyond the yard. Somewhere, a bird called out. The world was still moving, soft and steady.

“I didn’t expect to see you again today,” she said quietly.

“I know.”

“I figured you’d be halfway through drafting a five-year plan or fighting off another crisis email.”

I smiled faintly. “I turned everything off.”

Her head turned. “Everything?”

I nodded. “No more laptop. No more texts. No more pretending I’m still chained to a life I’m not sure I even want anymore.”

That made her go still.

I let the words settle.

“I’m sorry,” I added after a moment. “For this morning. For how I said it. You didn’t deserve that.”

She let out a soft laugh, one without much humor. “I’ve been trying not to overthink it.”

“Have you succeeded?”

“Not even a little.”

“Me neither.”

She exhaled slowly, resting her chin on her knee. “I didn’t want to make a big deal out of things, Ben. I just thought maybe... You wanted to have dinner with me.”

“I did. I do. ”

She looked at me then, and for the first time since I met her, she looked unsure. Not in that flustered, I-tripped-over-a-chicken way, but in a quiet, careful way. As if she were waiting to be told that what she hoped for was too much.

“I got a call from work,” I said. “And it sent me right back into that place I’ve been trying to escape.”

She nodded slowly. “And I reminded you of that place?”

“No. You reminded me I wanted out. That maybe there’s something more than living for deadlines.”

She didn’t say anything, but her eyes didn’t leave mine.

“I panicked,” I admitted. “Because this, you, you’re real. And I didn’t come here expecting real.”

“Neither did I,” she whispered.

I reached for her hand, slow and careful.

She let me take it.

Her fingers curled around mine like they belonged there.

“I can’t promise anything,” I said, the words burning a little as they left me. “I don’t have all the answers. But I know I don’t want to leave this place without knowing if there’s more to find here.”

She smiled then. Soft. Hopeful.

“You’re not the only one scared,” she said. “But I think I’d regret not finding out, too.”

And just like that, the air between us shifted again.

We sat there for another minute, hands still tangled, as the breeze played with the loose strands of her hair. She had that smile again, the one that came with teeth and dimples and a raised brow, but something about it didn’t feel right.

It was too perfect.

Polished, practiced.

“Want to help me restock the s’mores bin?” she asked suddenly, pulling her hand away gently and pushing to her feet. “You look like a man who knows his way around a Graham cracker.”

I blinked, caught off guard. “I… I guess?”

She grinned and reached down to haul me up. “That’s the spirit. Come on, Florida. We’ve got chocolate to organize.”

We walked toward the lodge, her steps quick, her laugh too light.

And I couldn’t ignore it.

She was doing the thing I’d seen her do with guests all week: filling the space with energy, jokes, and noise so that no one noticed the silence hiding underneath.

“You always like to sprint when things get serious?” I asked as we stepped through the back door into the storage hallway.

“Sprint?” she echoed, already yanking open the cabinet marked Campfire Treats .

I leaned against the wall. “You were quiet five minutes ago. Now I’m being recruited for marshmallow duty like we’re in a lodge-themed relay race.”

She gave me a tight-lipped smile, but didn’t meet my eyes. “You were being sulky and apologetic. I figured sugar would help.”

“I wasn’t that morose.”

“You were half an inch from delivering a monologue to the trees.”

“I don’t do monologues.”

She arched a brow, still not looking at me. “You don’t usually unplug either. A lot of firsts lately.”

I crossed my arms. “You’re deflecting.”

“Am not.”

“You absolutely are.”

She paused, holding a bag of jumbo marshmallows in both hands like they were going to shield her.

And then she shrugged. “Maybe I’m just trying not to get my hopes up.”

That stopped me.

She said it quietly, tossing the bag into the bin and avoiding my eyes again, and suddenly I wasn’t thinking about Graham crackers, Florida, or emails.

I was thinking about the way her shoulders had hunched just slightly. The way her mouth tightened like she didn’t mean to say that out loud.

Whatever weight I’d put on her that morning, it was still there.

And I wasn’t sure how to fix it yet.

But I was damn sure going to try.