Chapter One
Fifi
I’ve always said there’s no better therapy than changing sheets in a sunlit room.
Sure, some people do yoga. Some meditate. Some journal their way to inner peace with a lavender candle and a mug of existential dread.
Me?
I beat my stress out with a fitted sheet and a spritz of linen spray.
“Ha!” I grunted as I wrestled the elastic corner over the mattress. “You thought you could escape me, didn’t you, you crinkled demon?”
The sheet didn’t answer, mostly because inanimate objects know better than to sass me at the Honey Leaf Lodge. This was my domain. And today, everything felt like it was humming in harmony.
The birds chirped, the lemon oil was extra lemony, and the coffee from this morning still had me operating at a low-level vibrational frequency just shy of astral projection.
I smoothed the top sheet, gave the comforter a satisfying fluff, and plopped a decorative pillow into place with a flourish worthy of Olympic commentary.
Perfect.
The sun spilled across the room like honey, which was exactly what I wanted every guest to feel when they arrived. The room was bathed in golden comfort and subtle hospitality manipulation.
The first check-in of the new season was today, and I was determined to make it the coziest spring welcome in lodge history. Which, okay, might not sound like fierce competition, but I take my charm offensive very seriously. I even perfumed the welcome card. And who does that to a welcome card?
Fifi Harper did.
I paused by the window, looking out across the property. Maple trees were budding, the lake glittered in the distance, and my sisters were probably off somewhere living their best effortlessly adorable lives in between stopping by the lodge to lend a hand.
Well, that wasn’t completely true. Violet still shot most of her blog content and continued to help with meals, but Sienna tended to wander off on hiking adventures across the Upper Peninsula, also known as the UP, and would suddenly appear to lend a helping hand when we least expected it.
Meanwhile, I had a collection of novelty mugs and a passionate relationship with my label maker.
I let out a long, theatrical sigh and made my way to the bathroom to clean and refresh everything.
I’ve always said you can tell a lot about a person by how they leave their towels.
Neat little stack with the edges aligned? Kind soul. Probably the type to rescue earthworms off the sidewalk after it rains.
Towels flung like confetti and the tiny shampoo bottle caps screwed on halfway? Chaotic gremlin energy. Maybe artistic. Definitely not punctual.
“Guess it’s just me and Beck now,” I muttered, adding a few washcloths to the stack. “Two perfectly lovable weirdos fated to be single until sixty, running the family lodge. Or until one of us marries a cryptid.”
Although, if we’re being honest, Beck had more game than he let on. All flannel and freckles and guitar-playing charm. He just hadn’tpickedanyone yet. Whereas I, queen of optimism and sprinkle cupcakes, somehow managed to repel every date like I was cursed with a reverse rom-com spell.
Still, I wasn’t bitter. Just occasionally… reflective. And maybe a little jealous when Violet’s partner massaged her shoulders in that I-built-you-a-greenhouse way that felt like an indie film montage.
And how did my mind go from towels to being eternally single?
No, it didn’t bother me. Not at all.
A knock at the open door startled me out of my thoughts.
“Hey, honey,” my mom called, leaning against the frame with her usual cheerful presence and a clipboard tucked under one arm. “The first guest just called from the airport. Said his flightgot in early. Hoped he could check in, oh,” she glanced at her watch, “now-ish?”
I blinked. “Oh! Yeah, that’s fine. This room’s all done, actually.”
“Perfect. He’ll be here any minute.” She gave me a curious look. “You okay?”
