“I don’tknowwhat you’re doing!” I blurted. “You said you couldn’t get a room anywhere else, and I just…God, Ben, that gutted me. Like all this—me, the lodge,us—was some backup plan.”
He was silent for a beat. Then: “It wasn’t.”
“Then why say it?”
“Because I panicked,” he said. “I said it without thinking. I didn’t realize it would sound like that until I saw your face.”
I turned away, biting the inside of my cheek.
“You want the truth?” he asked, voice low now. Closer. “I only looked at other placesafterI booked at the Honey Leaf and met you.”
I turned, surprised. “What? That’s supposed to make me feel better?”
“I thought about leaving,” he admitted. “Right after I got there. You were—” He ran a hand through his hair. “Too much. All at once. Bright. Loud. Stubborn. Gorgeous. You made me feel things I haven’t let myself feel in years, and I knew that was dangerous. So, I panicked and looked at places around here to move to, but they were booked. Well, one place wasn’t, but I wasn’t about to stage my demise in the hotel of horrors.”
My heart stuttered. “So you wanted to run from me.”
“I thought if I moved hotels, maybe I’d reset. Pull back. Remind myself I was here torest, not have a full-blown heart malfunction over the lodge owner's daughter.”
“I’m part owner.” I stared at him.
He took a step closer and smiled. “But I didn’t leave. I couldn’t. You made me laugh. You made me feel at home. And the night in the truck, when you looked at me like I wasn’t a screw-up or a burden or some emotionally constipated recluse…” His voice dropped. “I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.”
My throat tightened.
“And I’m sorry,” he added. “For what I said. For how it sounded. You were never the fallback. You were the reason I stayed, but the lodge has felt like home the moment I arrived. You have felt like home.”
I looked at him, Macy still chewing loudly in the background, and wondered how the hell I’d gotten here—barefoot and clammy in barn boots, sunburned from the festival, and seconds away from possibly forgiving the man who’d made me feel both lightning-struck and foolish in the same breath.
“I hated that I let myself care,” I said quietly.
He raised an eyebrow. “I can’t imagine not being with you, and I care so much about you. Why is it bad to care about me?”
“Because Idid.And I shouldn’t have. I know better. You’re here as a hotel guest. I know better than to catch feelings for someone who’s leaving.”
“I never said I was leaving.”
“You didn’t have to,” I whispered. “The clock’s been ticking since the moment you checked in.”
He looked at me for a long time. Then exhaled. “Maybe we should stop putting pressure on it.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I don’t mean ignore it,” he said quickly. “I mean… we don’t have to figure it all out right now. What if we just stop panicking andfeelit? Enjoy it. Let it grow without demanding it be something it’s not ready to be?”
I looked at him, really looked, and saw it—the fear under the steadiness, the vulnerability behind the gravel-voiced confidence. He was just as unmoored as I was.
And somehow, that made it a little easier to breathe.
“So… you want to keep this going, but without expectations?” I asked, trying not to sound completely unhinged.
“I want tobewith you, Fifi,” he said, stepping even closer. “But I don’t want to ruin it by rushing or running. I want to stay or come back. I want more time. With you.”
I blinked fast. “You’re saying all the right things.”
“I mean every word.”
“Even the part about my stubbornness?”
