Page 9 of Falling for Him (Honey Leaf Lodge #3)

Fifi

I knew the moment the basket of warm dinner rolls hit the table that he wasn’t coming.

I’d made peace with it somewhere between folding napkins and checking the water pitchers, but still, I kept glancing at the door like I expected him to burst in last minute, flannel-clad and brooding, muttering something about how the garlic chicken smelled “fine, I guess.”

But no Ben Jensen.

Room four’s chair remained empty.

And I’d even gone and put out the good butter, too, with garlic and rosemary.

Tragic.

Sienna nudged me as she passed by with a tray full of salad bowls.

“Let me guess,” she whispered, eyes twinkling, “your mysterious guest of rugged charm and emotional constipation didn’t show.”

I gave her a look. “That’s not his official lodge profile.”

“Did you scare him off yet?”

“Probably,” I said with a little shrug. “I like to get that out of the way first thing. Saves time and headaches.”

Sienna snorted. “Yeah, that tracks.”

We moved through the dining room with practiced ease, topping off drinks, answering questions, and complimenting haircuts that were maybe not great but definitely intentional.

It was a full house tonight, and the chatter bounced cheerfully off the walls.

I laughed, smiled, and played the part of warm and sparkling innkeeper.

But in the quiet spaces between the motion, when I reached for an empty plate or folded a napkin, I noticed the empty chair.

And I hated that I noticed.

Dinner wound down by seven-thirty. Dessert was a maple bread pudding my mom had whipped up on a whim to give Violet a break, and it had been devoured in minutes. Guests slowly wandered off to their rooms or the porch for stargazing and herbal tea.

I started to gather plates from the last table when Sienna reappeared, hair pulled into a messy bun, cheeks flushed from the kitchen heat.

“Hey,” she said, reaching for the tray in my hands. “I’ve got this.”

I blinked. “It’s okay. I’m almost…”

“Nope. Not arguing. You’ve covered for me nonstop this year while I’ve been off gallivanting on hiking trails and pretending to be at one with nature. It’s your turn to go.”

I hesitated. “Are you sure?”

She nodded. “Go home. Put on your weird pajamas. Watch that reality show where everyone’s trying to decide if love is blind. Just… take a night.”

I smiled slowly. “You know me too well.”

“Unfortunately,” she said, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Now get out of here before Mom ropes you into vacuuming the ceiling or alphabetizing the herbal teas again.”

As if summoned, Mom appeared with her hands full of coffee mugs and a gleam in her eye.

“I was just going to ask…”

“She’s off-duty,” Sienna said firmly, intercepting the dishes and guiding Mom back toward the kitchen like a seasoned social worker handling a well-meaning tornado.

I didn’t argue.

Instead, I slipped through the back hallway, pausing just long enough to grab my coat from the hook and snag a half-eaten roll from the bread basket as a reward.

Outside, the air was unusually crisp for a summer evening. Early summer clung to the breeze, cool and earthy and laced with pine.

My truck sat in its usual spot beneath the birch tree. I climbed in, tossed the coat on the passenger seat, and let the silence settle.

No music. No podcast. Just me.

And the ghost of an empty chair.

I didn’t know why it bugged me.

Ben didn’t owe me anything. He was a guest. A very temporary guest.

But something about the way he looked at me in that quiet, searching way, like he didn’t trust the way the world fit around him, had gotten under my skin.

And yeah, maybe I liked the challenge. Maybe I felt something spark.

I just refused to believe a person could come to a lodge like ours grumpy, stay grumpy, and leave grumpy.

It was…baffling, and it was hard not to take it personally.

And maybe I was disappointed he didn’t come back tonight.

I sighed, letting my forehead rest on the steering wheel for a beat.

“You’ve got to stop doing this,” I whispered to myself. “Letting people get to you when they haven’t even said a word.”

Because that’s the thing about hoping.

The darn stuff sneaks in through cracks you thought were sealed, and it sits quietly.

Patiently.

Waiting for you to admit it’s still there and then…

Bam!

I sat back, turned the key, and let the engine hum to life.

Then I drove home.

Back to my tiny house near Main Street, where the porch light flickered even though I’d replaced the bulb four times, and the cat next door had adopted me as its emotional support human, even though I’m allergic to cats.

I made a cup of tea I wouldn’t finish, put on my softest socks, and curled up on the couch with a blanket that smelled like lemon and wool.

Outside, the stars were coming out.

And somewhere, maybe, Ben Jensen was still awake in room four, wondering if anyone noticed he didn’t show.

He didn’t know it, but I had.

And maybe that was enough for tonight. I trudged to my bedroom and glanced around the small room that I’d decorated to look like a garden exploded and slid under the blankets.

I tossed, and I turned. I kicked off the covers, pulled them back up, and flipped my pillow more times than I could count. Somewhere around 2:00 a.m., I realized I’d been lying still for ten whole minutes and got excited. Maybe sleep was finally, finally coming.

But nope.

My brain decided that was the perfect time to start replaying every awkward interaction I’d had since the third grade.

Including, but not limited to, every single encounter with Ben Jensen.

His voice. His brooding glances. The way he said thanks like it hurt his throat. The way he didn’t show up to dinner, and how that bothered me more than it had any right to.

He was a guest. A two-week blip. A handsome, emotionally barricaded man who looked like he split logs for fun and glared at sunlight on principle.

So why was he living rent-free in my brain like a moody lumberjack squatter?

I groaned and rolled over again, staring at the cracked ceiling in my tiny bedroom like it might offer answers.

It didn’t.

By 4:30, I gave up. I slipped out of bed, pulling on my oversized sweatshirt with the honeybee print that made me feel mildly functional, and padded barefoot into the kitchen.

The house was quiet, the kind of quiet that usually soothed me, but not tonight.

Or should I say this morning?

I filled the kettle, turned on the stove, and waited for the whistle like it might give me something to focus on besides the low hum of restlessness in my chest.

Outside, the early hours blanketed the world in silver. Streetlamps glowed softly and sleepily. The tree outside my kitchen window swayed gently in the breeze, its branches clicking lightly against the eaves.

I wrapped my hands around a chipped mug and stood at the window, watching the town hold its breath before morning.

And even here, even now, he crept back in.

Ben.

Doggone it.

Room four.

The guest who somehow made ‘ pass the butter’ sound like a challenge. Who barely spoke but somehow said everything with a glance.

What was it about him?

It wasn’t just the looks, though, let’s be honest, those didn’t hurt.

It was the way he held himself, as if he were waiting for someone to disappoint him. The way he noticed things without reacting. The way he seemed almost surprised when I showed up with fresh towels, like kindness was a currency he hadn’t used in years.

I told myself it didn’t matter, and that I didn’t care.

But the ache in my chest told a different story.

Maybe I just wanted him to like it here, to smile, and to see the lodge not as some quirky pit stop, but as a place that could wrap you up and remind you that the world hadn’t completely gone to hell.

The sun broke over the horizon before I realized I’d been standing there for almost an hour, tea gone cold in my hands.

I blinked.

And then the panic hit.

“Oh no,” I whispered. “Oh, no. ”

I dashed back to my room, flinging open the closet, yanking off my sweatshirt as I went.

I had twenty minutes to be at the lodge. Twenty. Which might’ve been enough if I didn’t currently look like I’d just escaped from a sleep-deprivation experiment.

Shower. Fast.

I jumped in, letting the water shock me awake. Shampooed, conditioned, rinsed, and danced through my usual routine like I was being scored on speed.

And then, of course, a wave of exhaustion hit me like a ton of bricks because that was just how it worked.

I threw on jeans and a soft sage green oversized sweatshirt that made me feel somewhat pulled together, though it was maybe a little tighter than I remembered. Whatever. Close enough.

I stood in front of the mirror and stared at the under-eye circles that had bloomed like bruises overnight.

“Okay,” I told my reflection. “We’re going full concealer mode. You’ve trained for this.”

I dabbed, blended, powdered, and slapped on a touch of blush, followed by a swipe of lip gloss. I smiled, frowned, and smiled again.

Passable.

Exhausted, but passable.

Outside, the birds were in the middle of their morning chorus.

The town stirred as a delivery truck rumbled past and someone down the street walked a golden retriever with a spring in its step that felt personally offensive.

Oh, no! I sounded like room number four.

I gathered my tote bag, double-checked for my phone, keys, and emergency chocolate, and headed out the door.

The air was cooler than expected, a whisper of mist hovering low over the road as I pulled out of the driveway. The homes were still sleepy, but I could feel the town waking up.

The Honey Leaf Lodge came into view like a painting; its rustic log porch glowing in the soft light, windows catching the rising sun, with the smell of cinnamon and pine already drifting on the breeze. Well, maybe not that particular part, but I could imagine I sniffed it.

Despite everything, the overthinking, the lack of sleep, the frustration buzzing just under my skin, I smiled.

This place was my heart, even when I didn’t have it all together.

I parked beneath the big birch tree, grabbed my bag, and took a deep breath before stepping inside.

And immediately began mentally bracing myself.

Because there was always a chance, however small, that I’d turn the corner and see him.

Ben.

And I wasn’t ready for that.

Not today.

Not when I couldn’t stop hoping he’d stayed to get some chow.

Or worse…hoping he hadn’t left because of me.