Page 6 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Ben

I stared at the hand-painted sign just outside the dining room.

There was a doodle of a smiling fork in the corner, which looked somehow accusatory as if it knew I wasn’t in the best of moods.

I crossed my arms and leaned against the wall, weighing my options like it was a matter of national security.

On one hand: dinner at the lodge. No reservations, no cold waitstaff, no pressure to make conversation. A warm, home-cooked meal made by people who probably used real butter and not some industrial oil blend. Probably something with gravy. Possibly pie.

On the other hand, town.

I didn’t know much about the town. I’d driven through Main Street on the way in and caught glimpses of a bakery, a few diners, and a place called The Rusty Acorn that looked like it specialized in deep-fried regrets.

I could probably find a burger. Or a subpar salad and a watery beer. And I’d have the gift of solitude.

But solitude wasn’t the issue, was it?

No. The issue was Fifi.

Or rather, the possibility of Fifi.

There was a solid chance she’d be here. That she’d eat with the guests, flitting from guest to guest, offering refills and warm chatter, and that laugh that had lodged itself somewhere in the base of my spine.

I wasn’t sure I could handle that.

It had been one thing to check in, exchange a few witty jabs, and witness her mid-chicken chase. But sitting down to dinner? In the same room? With eye contact and appetizers ?

Dangerous territory.

She was too bright, too unpredictable, and too much of something I wasn’t ready to name.

But still...

It had been a long day. I’d hiked, written two emails that had taken me thirty minutes each because I kept getting distracted by the view, and, okay, maybe also by imagining her scolding that chicken like it owed her money.

I was hungry, soul-tired hungry.

And if I was being honest with myself, the idea of walking into a restaurant alone, eating alone, and trudging back through town just to avoid one woman felt… pathetic.

I wasn’t here to hide.

I was here to figure out how to live again.

That included dinner, even if it meant a few awkward minutes of small talk and, possibly, the world’s most disarming innkeeper.

Decision made, I walked into the dining room.

The space was warm and welcoming, all amber light and soft laughter. A long wooden table had mismatched ceramic plates and cloth napkins, folded as if someone cared. The air smelled like garlic, fresh thyme, and melted butter.

It smelled like a home should.

I stepped inside and scanned the room instinctively. Several guests dotted the table, but there was no Fifi.

“Where’s Fifi?”

I frowned before I could stop myself.

Maybe she was in the kitchen. Or late. Or—

A woman in her sixties, petite and round with cropped gray hair and a warm smile, stepped up to me with a pitcher of iced tea.

“You must be Mr. Jensen,” she said. “I’m one of the owners here.”

That explained a lot. The warmth. The twinkle. The unmistakable hint of I know everything that’s going on, and I could ruin you gently if I wanted to.

“Nice to meet you,” I said, shaking her hand. “Dinner smells great.”

“It’ll taste even better,” she said, beaming. “Everything’s from scratch. Two of my daughters helped, Violet and Sienna. You’ll meet them in a minute. They’re both in the kitchen arguing over roll-browning time.”

I wanted to ask about Fifi, but bit my tongue.

She gestured to the table. “Sit anywhere you like. We’ve got pasta that’ll make you believe in second chances.”

I smirked. “That’s a bold claim for noodles.”

“You haven’t tried mine yet.”

She started to walk away, then turned back. “Oh, and just so you know. Fifi won’t be joining us tonight. She’s eating later with family. Tonight’s dinner is just for guests.”

Wait. How did she know? Did I talk to myself and didn’t know it?

My stomach dropped

But it was ridiculous how disappointed I felt.

“Didn’t you ask where Fifi is ?”

Had I? Did I?

“Oh, right. I…just remember her from checking in.”

Her brow lifted, and she smiled. “I bet you did.”

I nodded, covering whatever expression was trying to leak out of my face. “Anyway, nice lodge.”

Her gaze lingered for a second, sharp and knowing. Then she smiled, gave a little nod, and moved on.

I found a seat by the window and poured myself a glass of water.

A couple sat two tables over, murmuring about their hike earlier.

A young woman in yoga pants scrolled her phone while sipping tea.

Everyone looked relaxed, like they’d stepped out of real life for a few days and remembered how to breathe.

I should’ve felt content.

I should’ve been relieved.

No Fifi meant no distractions, no complicated moments, no chance of getting pulled further into something I didn’t have the bandwidth, or the bravery, for.

And yet.

I kept catching myself glancing toward the kitchen, hoping for a flash of her hair, the sound of her laugh, even just a glimpse.

Nothing.

Dinner arrived, perfectly cooked, buttery, and rich; every bite was the kind of comfort food that made you rethink life.

I ate in silence, listened to the hum of conversation around me, and pretended that the tightness in my chest was just from the travel.

But the truth was simple.

Some part of me had walked into this room hoping to see her, and I wasn’t sure what that meant.

Or what it would mean if it were to continue happening.

I was halfway through the pasta. She hadn’t lied. It was dangerously close to life-changing when the chair across from me scraped back.

“Mind if I join you?” a female voice asked.

I glanced up and found a woman with a googly expression and too much hope for one dinner.

She seemed chatty and dangerous.

I motioned to the empty seat with a polite nod. “Go ahead.”

She slid into the chair and exhaled like she’d just climbed a hill. “God, it smells like heaven in here. I swear, if that roll basket gets any closer, I might propose to it.”

I gave a polite chuckle and took another bite of chicken, hoping it was enough to signal not in the mood for small talk without veering into actively rude.

Carla, unfortunately, did not take the hint.

“I love these little places,” she said, spreading her napkin on her lap with a satisfied sigh. “You know? Family-run inns. You can’t find this kind of character at a chain hotel.”

I nodded slightly, chewing slower than necessary.

“Last month I stayed at a bed and breakfast in Vermont that had an actual harpist play during brunch,” she continued. “And the month before that, there was this lodge in Utah that let you feed deer at sunrise. I’ve got a list of fifty more.”

I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Ambitious.”

“I call it my Inn-Quest,” she said proudly, like she’d trademarked the pun. “I blog about them. Well, casually. You should see the one I stayed at in New Mexico. There was a parrot that could say your room number and curse words. My kind of place.”

“Sounds... lively,” I said.

I kept my eyes trained on my plate, silently willing her to lose interest. But she was just getting started.

“What about you? Are you doing the rustic inn tour too?” she asked, breaking open a biscuit with dramatic flair.

“No,” I said. “Just needed a break.”

“From work?”

I nodded.

She leaned in conspiratorially. “From a breakup?”

I looked up, deadpan. “From the city.”

“Ah. Mysterious. I like it.”

I took a long sip of water and stared at the window like it held the answers to escaping a conversation you never signed up for.

Honestly? I should’ve gone into town. Eaten a greasy burger in solitude, listened to bad bar music, and avoided this exact scenario. Small talk over pasta. Questions from strangers. Strangers who might blog about me and give me some nickname like “The Brooding One in room four.”

I glanced once more at the kitchen doors.

Still no Fifi.

And now I was trapped in garlic pasta purgatory with someone who might ask for my Myers-Briggs score next.

I missed the chicken.

Hell, I missed the goat.

Next time, I will bring a decoy book.

Or earplugs.

Or both.

I made it through Carla’s monologue about a haunted bed-and-breakfast in Georgia and a full five-minute tangent on sheet thread counts before finally, mercifully, she excused herself to go check on dessert.

I nodded, shoved the last bite of chicken into my mouth, and stood up so fast my chair nearly squeaked in protest. I needed air. Real air. Cool air. Preferably, the kind that didn’t come with conversation or parrot anecdotes.

The sun had just started its slow descent behind the pines, casting everything in that syrupy golden light that made even gravel look poetic. I stepped outside onto the wide wraparound porch, the quiet pressing in like a balm. No voices. No obligations.

Just pine trees, fading light, and the buzz of something unnameable in my chest drifted through my evening, but then I saw her.

Fifi.

She was walking briskly from the side door of the lodge toward the gravel lot, her arms full of keys in hand, a canvas tote over one shoulder, her dark hair catching the light like something out of a dream sequence I hadn’t meant to be watching.

She didn’t see me. Or if she did, she didn’t show it.

She was wearing jeans and a loose sweater, boots that scuffed the dirt, and an unreadable expression—focused, maybe, determined. Perhaps a little tired. Not her usual blazing smile, but something quieter and real radiated from her.

She climbed into a huge old truck with a bumper sticker that said SUPPORT LOCAL BEES and pulled the door closed with a soft thunk. A second later, the engine started, headlights flickered on, and she backed out slowly, tires crunching over gravel.

And then she was gone as the taillights disappeared down the drive that curved past the trees and into town.

I stood there a long moment, watching the space where her car had been.

And then something even stranger happened.

I wanted to follow.

Not in a creepy way. Not in a run-her-off-the-road-with-emotion kind of way. Just… a pull. A curiosity. A sudden urge to be somewhere else.

I didn’t want to go back inside and pretend I was bonding with Carla over cranberry compote.

I didn’t want to sit in my room scrolling through emails. I wasn’t ready to answer them.

I wanted to be in town.

Wherever she was going.

Not to talk. Not even to be near her, necessarily.

I just wanted to feel that ripple of warmth again that erupted around her and that flicker of something unsteady and good.

Longing. That’s what it was.

A weird, inconvenient longing I hadn’t asked for and didn’t know what to do with.

I shoved my hands into my pockets and turned, heading for my rental car.

Maybe the town had a bar.

Maybe it had a bookstore.

Or maybe, if I was being honest, I just didn’t want to spend one more hour in this quiet lodge wondering where she went and why it mattered so damn much.