“Flannel time?”
“You know,” I said with an overly casual shrug, “alone time. Man time. Sulking by the window with a book you pretend not to like.”
Another flicker of something crossed his face.
Amusement?
Curiosity?
Murder?
Unclear.
“I’m good,” he said finally. “Go ahead.”
He stepped aside and let me in.
The room was tidy, naturally. He had a shirt on the chair and a single paperback by the window. It wasOf Mice and Menbecause, of course, he’d read Steinbeck and make it look noble, and a mug with traces of coffee still inside.
I moved efficiently, swapping towels, fluffing pillows, and replacing the tiny soap on the counter with a new bar that smelled like cedar and citrus.
He leaned against the wall near the window, watching me like I was a puzzle that didn’t come with instructions.
“You always this…” he gestured vaguely, “bright?”
I looked up. “Is that a compliment or a concern?”
“Haven’t decided.”
I gave him my most dazzling smile. “Let me know when you do. I’ll add it to the memory guestbook.”
He didn’t smile back, but his eyes softened.
Just a little.
It was enough.
As I headed toward the door, he said, “Thanks. For the soap. And… whatever that was.”
I paused, hand on the knob. “Anytime. I’m a full-service ray of sunshine.”
And then, before I could say something evenmoreembarrassing, I slipped out the door and back into the hallway, cheeks warm and heart doing something inconvenient behind my ribs.
Maybe he didn’t smile, but he hadn’t stopped me.
And somehow, that felt like progress.
Chapter Eight
Ben
I hadn’t even closed the door all the way before I opened my laptop and typedhotels near Buttercup Lake.
It wasn’t even subtle. My fingers moved like I was looking up how to escape a country, not a lodge with floral pillows and small soaps that smelled like something a woodland nymph would wear.
But I needed options.
Because whatever this was, the situation with Fifi was not relaxing. It was not calm. It was notme sipping coffee in peace by the lake while pondering the meaning of life in blessed solitude.
