“I don’t think rustic means what you think it means,” I said, grabbing a clean towel and tossing it to Violet, who’d just gotten splashed by the sauce.
“You look wiped,” Mom said, giving me a quick once-over.
“Last guest just checked in. Carla March. Lovely. Tired. Henrietta has fans.”
Mom raised an eyebrow, and we laughed, but it felt like a little exhale after a long, slow day. Even in the madness, even with flour on the cabinets, garlic suddenly on my shirt, and something inexplicably sticky on the floor, this was home.
Messy, loud, loving home.
And I loved it.
But oh,was I tired.
“Dinner in twenty,” Mom said, flicking the oven light on. “Go change if you want.”
I nodded, already drifting toward the hallway. “If I fall asleep with my face in a roll, just let me be. I’ve earned it.”
Sienna called after me, “Want me to wake you if you start snoring?”
“Only if it’s scaring the guests!”
The last thing I heard as I climbed the stairs was Mom saying, “She always pushes herself too hard.”
I smiled faintly.
Maybe.
But it was worth it.
Even if I smelled like garlic, exhaustion, and goat dust.
There’s a particular kind of peace that can only be found in your parents’ guest bathroom, preferably after being pecked by poultry, chased by a goat, and emotionally bamboozled by a man who looks like he wrestles pine trees for fun.
I sighed and let the hot water rinse over my shoulders, tilting my head back against the tile. The pressure wasn’t amazing, but my dad swore he’d fix it four years ago, yet it was dependable. Comforting. Like a warm hug that smelled faintly of eucalyptus and lemon verbena.
This wasn’t my shower.
Myrealshower was in my place, an 800-square-foot cottage near Main Street, with creaky floorboards, questionable plumbing, and wallpaper that peeled at the corners as if it were trying to escape. It was mine. It was home.
But sometimes, especially after a close encounter of the feathered kind or one of the rescue goats mistaking my pant leg for a chew toy, I needed the heavy artillery.
And that meant a shower at the lodge before I headed home.
My parents lived right on the property, tucked in the old farmhouse-style wing that wrapped around the back of the Honey Leaf.
Mom had filled this guest bath with every kind of soap imaginable. Little bottles in sea glass blues and lavender purples. Shampoo that smelled like elderflower and shampoo that smelled like hope. A dozen washcloths, neatly folded, and one rogue loofah shaped like a hedgehog.
I used the elderflower and felt fancy as I leaned against the wall, breathing in the steam and solitude.
Today had beena lot.
The early check-in scramble. The rogue chicken incident. My accidental flirtation via toiletry delivery with Ben Jensen, who apparently didn’t believe in smiling unless it was paired with mild judgment and an even milder smirk.
And still… There was something about him. Something steady. Quiet. Watchful. As if he were taking in the whole room and filing it away under mild threats and mild distractions to be destroyed.
I didn’t want to think about his forearms.
Or how his voice sounded when he said my name like it wasn’t made of sunshine and awkward energy, but something solid and real.
