“Totally. Just contemplating my inevitable spinsterhood and battling linens. You know. Normal Tuesday.”
She chuckled and gave the room a once-over. “Looks beautiful, Fifi. Like something out of a magazine shoot. Maybe the kind where they feature innkeepers whoabsolutelyhave their lives together.”
“Tell that to my perpetual upside-down laundry pile and the seven voice memos I left myself this morning because I forgot my actual to-do list at the coffee shop.”
She winked. “Fake it till the next guest arrives. Oh, wait…that’s now.”
My ears perked. “Now-now?”
A car door slammed outside.
Mom tilted her head. “Sounds likenownow.”
Excitement fizzed in my chest like champagne. Ilovedguest arrivals. The nervous energy. The first impressions. The chance to casually recommend the best muffins on the west side of town and slide in a complimentary jar of peach preserves.
“This is going to be great,” I said, practically skipping toward the stairs. “Everything’s going great. We’re gonna have the best spring season yet. Perhaps he’s a sweet old man who writes postcards or a botanist who converses with plants. Maybe he loves puzzles!”
I hit the landing with a bounce in my step, high on lemon oil and optimism. The front door creaked open below me.
“Hello?” a deep voice called out, low and husky in that way that sounds like it’s made from hulk and secrets.
I froze mid-step.
That wasnota botanist's voice.
My heart did a funny little hiccup.
From the staircase, I saw him step fully into the foyer, backlit by the afternoon light.
Tall.
Broad shoulders.
A perfectly trimmed beard.
Wearing a thermal shirt and jeans that looked very, very unfair on someone checking into a lodge alone.
A duffel bag slung over one shoulder.
A face carved by an exquisite hand and probably wielded by angels with a very specific sense of humor.
He was glorious.
“Oh no,” I whispered to myself.
Because standing in my lodge, under the framed sign that saidWelcome to the Honey Leaf Lodge, where Guests Become Family, was the sexiest lumberjack I had ever seen.
And he was absolutely not smiling.
Something wasn’t right about that. How could you come to the sweetest lodge in all of Wisconsin and look mad about it?
I had a plan.
A good one.
It involved a bright smile, a warm greeting, and the kind of professional charm that said,Yes, I run a charming family lodge and am at your service.
But note to self: do not melt into hormonal soup when attractive men show up with duffel bags and cheekbones sharp enough to slice brie.
