The moment the man in question stepped fully into the lobby, I forgot how to use syllables.
He was… a lot.
A lot of height. A lot of flannel. A lot of beard.
And a whole lot ofglowering.
“Hi!” I said, possibly too loudly. “Welcome to the Honey Leaf Lodge! You must be our early arrival. I’m Fifi.”
My shout must have caused ringing in his ears as he turned and stared.
All he did was nod once. Just once, as if his head was unionized and had a strict motion budget.
“Ben Jensen,” he said, voice low and gravelly.
Of course, he had a name like Ben Jensen. Probably broke limbs with his bare hands. Probably hated indoor lighting. Probably…
“Reservation should be under Jensen,” he added, clearly unaware that my brain had already turned his name into a dramatic 12-part romance miniseries.
“Right, yes, of course, Jensen,” I said, fumbling with the check-in tablet. “Two weeks, Maple Room. Lovely. Cozy. Slight risk of excessive hospitality.”
His brow ticked up. “I don’t do small talk.”
“Oh, good,” I said, tapping away. “I do enough for both of us.”
His mouth didn’t smile, but something in his eyes almost twitched.
Victory?
I slid the guest form across the desk. “Standard paperwork. Don’t worry, it’s only your soul and a promise to love the complimentary muffins.”
He picked up the pen like it offended him. “You always this... enthusiastic?”
“Only before noon,” I said brightly. “After that I switch to wine and interpretive dance.”
A beat.
Was that asmirk?
No, impossible. It was probably nothing more than a muscle spasm.
I cleared my throat, trying not to watch his hands as he signed. Big hands. Veiny hands. The kind of hands that should be illegal in flannel.
Because my mind suddenly imagined them running along my body.
Wait. What? I bit my lip and forced my mind to do a reset.
“You’re in room four,” I said. “Second floor, lake-facing, private balcony, local honey soaps, and, oh!” I flashed an even bigger grin. “I put out lemon shortbread as a welcome treat.”
He gave me a look. The kind that suggestedlemon shortbreadwas suspicious and possibly treacherous.
“You’re serious about this whole… lodge cheer thing.”
I leaned one elbow on the counter, smiling. “Absolutely. It’s an art form. You don’t survive three generations of hospitality and six separateBest Stay in the Pinesawards without committing to the bit. Not to mention my degree was in hospitality.”
Ben didn’t respond. Just stared like he wasn’t sure if I was real or the product of reverse altitude sickness.
Because Wisconsin’s idea of altitude was the size of a gentle hill that the Rockies would laugh at.
