Page 5 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Fifi

The last guest of the day was twenty minutes late, which in lodge time is roughly equivalent to a month and a half.

My feet were protesting. My back had filed for divorce. And my hair, which had started the morning in a tidy ponytail, had now… exploded.

I slumped slightly against the front desk, mentally calculating how many steps it would take to get from here to the nearest chocolate stash. It was either six steps and a sharp left into the supply closet, or five if I was willing to vault the counter.

Tempting.

Behind me, the kitchen sounded like a symphony of culinary chaos with my sisters and my mom.

“ No, Sienna, not that spoon! ” my mom shouted, her voice rising over the simmering of something aromatic. “That’s the display spoon!”

“Why do we have a display spoon?” Sienna called back.

“Because we are women of standards!” Violet answered. “Now move, I need to drain this pasta before it turns into wallpaper glue!”

I heard a clang, a shriek, and then the sound of a pot lid bouncing off something ceramic.

Yep. Business as usual.

“Display spoon,” I muttered under my breath. “Honestly.”

The front door creaked open with a gust of pine-scented air, and I straightened, pasting on my most welcoming smile, which wasn’t tired or forced. The Honey Leaf Lodge didn’t check anyone in with anything less than mildly aggressive warmth.

A woman in her forties stepped inside, dragging a suitcase with a broken wheel and wearing the expression of someone who’d been stuck behind a very chatty seatmate on her flight.

“Hi there!” I said, even as my ankles wept. “Welcome to the Honey Leaf Lodge. You must be Carla March?”

She blinked like she wasn’t sure where she was, then nodded slowly. “Sorry, I’m late. There was a delay, and then the rental car place gave me something that smelled like beef jerky, and I hit a pothole the size of a Smart car—”

“Say no more,” I said, already reaching for the room key and her welcome folder. “You’re here, you’re safe, and if you give me three minutes, I’ll bring you a hot towel, a cup of tea, and possibly a legally binding hug.”

She gave me a tired smile. “That… sounds perfect.”

I handed her the room key and did the rundown as quickly as I could without sounding like an auctioneer.

“Room six, second floor, faces the lake. There’s lavender on the pillows, local honey on the nightstand, and probably a goat looking at you through the window if you open it at the wrong time of day. If anything’s missing, we replace it. If anything squeaks, we oil it. If anything bites—”

“It’s probably the chicken,” Carla said dryly.

I blinked. “You heard about Henrietta?”

“There was a thread on the travel forum. She has fans.”

I stared. “She’s a chicken. ”

“An influencer chicken,” Carla said, already wheeling her bag toward the stairs. “Don’t fight it.”

I stood there in stunned silence for a moment after she left, unsure whether to laugh or take a nap standing up.

Henrietta. Internet fame.

Of course.

The sound of a metal mixing bowl clattering to the ground shook me out of my daze.

“Everything okay in there?” I called out to the kitchen.

“No!” came Violet’s cheerful response.

“Yes!” Sienna added at the same time.

“We're fine!” Mom shouted. “Mostly! Where's the oregano?”

I sighed and walked toward the kitchen.

The scene inside was, as expected, slightly apocalyptic.

Violet stood at the stove, trying to wrangle a sauce that was bubbling like it had thoughts of its own.

Sienna was balancing a bowl in one arm and using her elbow to open a drawer.

And Mom had jam on her apron, a wooden spoon in her hand, and the intense look of a general orchestrating a meal-based battle.

“Smells amazing,” I said, because I figured they deserved a morale boost. “What are we burning, I mean, serving , tonight?”

“Lemon thyme chicken,” Mom replied. “With creamy garlic pasta and those little rolls you like.”

“The ones with the sea salt?” I perked up.

“If we don’t overbake them,” Violet muttered.

Violet rarely overbaked anything. She was our in-house blogger, covering all things food, and her recipes were truly divine.

Sienna dumped a handful of herbs into a pan with dramatic flair. “We’re aiming for rustic. Rustic allows for chaos.”

“I don’t think rustic means what you think it means,” I said, grabbing a clean towel and tossing it to Violet, who’d just gotten splashed by the sauce.

“You look wiped,” Mom said, giving me a quick once-over.

“Last guest just checked in. Carla March. Lovely. Tired. Henrietta has fans.”

Mom raised an eyebrow, and we laughed, but it felt like a little exhale after a long, slow day. Even in the madness, even with flour on the cabinets, garlic suddenly on my shirt, and something inexplicably sticky on the floor, this was home.

Messy, loud, loving home.

And I loved it.

But oh, was I tired.

“Dinner in twenty,” Mom said, flicking the oven light on. “Go change if you want.”

I nodded, already drifting toward the hallway. “If I fall asleep with my face in a roll, just let me be. I’ve earned it.”

Sienna called after me, “Want me to wake you if you start snoring?”

“Only if it’s scaring the guests!”

The last thing I heard as I climbed the stairs was Mom saying, “She always pushes herself too hard.”

I smiled faintly.

Maybe.

But it was worth it.

Even if I smelled like garlic, exhaustion, and goat dust.

There’s a particular kind of peace that can only be found in your parents’ guest bathroom, preferably after being pecked by poultry, chased by a goat, and emotionally bamboozled by a man who looks like he wrestles pine trees for fun.

I sighed and let the hot water rinse over my shoulders, tilting my head back against the tile. The pressure wasn’t amazing, but my dad swore he’d fix it four years ago, yet it was dependable. Comforting. Like a warm hug that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and lemon verbena.

This wasn’t my shower.

My real shower was in my place, an 800-square-foot cottage near Main Street, with creaky floorboards, questionable plumbing, and wallpaper that peeled at the corners as if it were trying to escape. It was mine. It was home.

But sometimes, especially after a close encounter of the feathered kind or one of the rescue goats mistaking my pant leg for a chew toy, I needed the heavy artillery.

And that meant a shower at the lodge before I headed home.

My parents lived right on the property, tucked in the old farmhouse-style wing that wrapped around the back of the Honey Leaf.

Mom had filled this guest bath with every kind of soap imaginable. Little bottles in sea glass blues and lavender purples. Shampoo that smelled like elderflower and shampoo that smelled like hope. A dozen washcloths, neatly folded, and one rogue loofah shaped like a hedgehog.

I used the elderflower and felt fancy as I leaned against the wall, breathing in the steam and solitude.

Today had been a lot.

The early check-in scramble. The rogue chicken incident. My accidental flirtation via toiletry delivery with Ben Jensen, who apparently didn’t believe in smiling unless it was paired with mild judgment and an even milder smirk.

And still… There was something about him. Something steady. Quiet. Watchful. As if he were taking in the whole room and filing it away under mild threats and mild distractions to be destroyed.

I didn’t want to think about his forearms.

Or how his voice sounded when he said my name like it wasn’t made of sunshine and awkward energy, but something solid and real.

Nope.

Not going there.

I scrubbed shampoo into my hair with extra determination.

I’d made a whole life for myself here. Sure, it wasn’t Pinterest-perfect.

Sure, I ran more on caffeine and chaos than a long-term plan.

But I had friends, a home I’d decorated with mismatched thrift store finds, and a community that knew me well enough to bring me soup when I got the flu and not judge me when I wore banana pajamas to the gas station.

I didn’t need someone to come along and mess that up with flannel and brooding and confusing glances across the porch.

And the beard? Ugh.

It could be the downfall of me.

Even if he did check off every box in the secretly soft under the grumpy exterior trope I loved reading about in book club.

And speaking of book clubs, I hoped that the Sunshine Breakfast Club had no intel on this guest, or they’d be forcing us together in one awkward encounter after another.

A cold chill ran over me, and I cranked up the shower heat.

Rinsing the suds out of my hair, I let my mind wander. To Violet’s steady hands chopping garlic, to Sienna’s mismatched socks and beautiful chaos, to Mom humming in the kitchen as she stirred pasta sauce like it was a spell.

I loved them. Loudly, deeply, inconveniently.

But sometimes… sometimes I felt like the spinning top in the middle of everyone’s steadiness. The unpredictable one. The one who kept the ship sailing with glitter and homemade muffins while quietly wondering what it might feel like to be chosen .

And I didn’t mean because I was the funny one or the helper or the girl who always smiled first, but because someone looked at me, mess and all, and thought, Yeah. That one.

I shut off the water and stepped out into the steam, wrapping myself in one of Mom’s aggressively plush towels that could double as a comforter.

There was something about standing in this bathroom, hair dripping, skin still warm, that made me feel thirteen again.

Like I’d just come in from sledding and Mom was about to hand me hot cocoa and tell me I was enough, even if the neighbor boy never noticed me.

There was a knock on the outer door, and I startled.

“Ten-minute warning!” Violet’s voice called. “Dinner’s almost up!”

“I’m emerging in five,” I called back.

“Wear something cute. You look like you’ve been wrestling livestock all day.”

“That’s because I was! ”

“No excuses!”

I grinned and wrapped the towel tighter, as I padded across the warm tile floor and into the guest bedroom adjacent to the bath.

My spare clothes were folded on the bed: jeans, a soft sweater, and my favorite pair of boots that made me feel like I could conquer awkward conversations and suspiciously attractive guests.

I dried off quickly, trying not to let my hair frizz into frazzled rebellion, and pulled on my clothes with the speed of a woman who knew her family was one shortbread cookie away from dinner mutiny.

Still, I took a moment before heading downstairs. Just a moment. I glanced at myself in the mirror above the dresser.

A little flushed.

A little tired.

But not bad.

Maybe even, dare I say, cute?

“Alright,” I whispered to my reflection. “Time to go smile at strangers and not trip over my words when the hot lumberjack is within ten feet.”

I opened the door.

Dinner, family, and possibly more flustered chaos awaited.

But for now?

I felt clean.

Centered.

Ready.

Or at least, mostly dry.

And in this house, that was good enough.