No Fifi meant no distractions, no complicated moments, no chance of getting pulled further into something I didn’t have the bandwidth, or the bravery, for.
And yet.
I kept catching myself glancing toward the kitchen, hoping for a flash of her hair, the sound of her laugh, even just a glimpse.
Nothing.
Dinner arrived, perfectly cooked, buttery, and rich; every bite was the kind of comfort food that made you rethink life.
I ate in silence, listened to the hum of conversation around me, and pretended that the tightness in my chest was just from the travel.
But the truth was simple.
Some part of me had walked into this room hoping to see her, and I wasn’t sure what that meant.
Or what it would mean if it were to continue happening.
I was halfway through the pasta. She hadn’t lied. Itwasdangerously close to life-changing when the chair across from me scraped back.
“Mind if I join you?” a female voice asked.
I glanced up and found a woman with a googly expression and too much hope for one dinner.
She seemed chatty and dangerous.
I motioned to the empty seat with a polite nod. “Go ahead.”
She slid into the chair and exhaled like she’d just climbed a hill. “God, it smells like heaven in here. I swear, if that roll basket gets any closer, I might propose to it.”
I gave a polite chuckle and took another bite of chicken, hoping it was enough to signalnot in the mood for small talkwithout veering intoactively rude.
Carla, unfortunately, did not take the hint.
“I love these little places,” she said, spreading her napkin on her lap with a satisfied sigh. “You know? Family-run inns. You can’t find this kind of character at a chain hotel.”
I nodded slightly, chewing slower than necessary.
“Last month I stayed at a bed and breakfast in Vermont that had anactual harpistplay during brunch,” she continued. “And the month before that, there was this lodge in Utah that let you feed deer at sunrise. I’ve got a list of fifty more.”
I gave her a tight-lipped smile. “Ambitious.”
“I call it my Inn-Quest,” she said proudly, like she’d trademarked the pun. “I blog about them. Well, casually. You should see the one I stayed at in New Mexico. There was a parrot that could say your room number and curse words. My kind of place.”
“Sounds... lively,” I said.
I kept my eyes trained on my plate, silently willing her to lose interest. But she was just getting started.
“What about you? Are you doing the rustic inn tour too?” she asked, breaking open a biscuit with dramatic flair.
“No,” I said. “Just needed a break.”
“From work?”
I nodded.
She leaned in conspiratorially. “From a breakup?”
I looked up, deadpan. “From the city.”
