She nodded. “Go home. Put on your weird pajamas. Watch that reality show where everyone’s trying to decide if love is blind. Just… take a night.”
I smiled slowly. “You know me too well.”
“Unfortunately,” she said, bumping her shoulder against mine. “Now get out of here before Mom ropes you into vacuuming the ceiling or alphabetizing the herbal teas again.”
As if summoned, Mom appeared with her hands full of coffee mugs and a gleam in her eye.
“I was just going to ask…”
“She’s off-duty,” Sienna said firmly, intercepting the dishes and guiding Mom back toward the kitchen like a seasoned social worker handling a well-meaning tornado.
I didn’t argue.
Instead, I slipped through the back hallway, pausing just long enough to grab my coat from the hook and snag a half-eaten roll from the bread basket as a reward.
Outside, the air was unusually crisp for a summer evening. Early summer clung to the breeze, cool and earthy and laced with pine.
My truck sat in its usual spot beneath the birch tree. I climbed in, tossed the coat on the passenger seat, and let the silence settle.
No music. No podcast. Just me.
And the ghost of an empty chair.
I didn’t know why it bugged me.
Ben didn’t owe me anything. He was a guest. A verytemporaryguest.
But something about the way he looked at me in that quiet, searching way, like he didn’t trust the way the world fit around him, had gotten under my skin. And yeah, maybe I liked the challenge. Maybe I felt something spark. I just refused to believe a person could come to a lodge like ours grumpy, stay grumpy, and leave grumpy. It was…baffling, and it was hard not to take it personally.
And maybe I was disappointed he didn’t come back tonight.
I sighed, letting my forehead rest on the steering wheel for a beat.
“You’ve got to stop doing this,” I whispered to myself. “Letting people get to you when they haven’t even said a word.”
Because that’s the thing about hoping.
The darn stuff sneaks in through cracks you thought were sealed, and it sits quietly.
Patiently.
Waiting for you to admit it’s still there and then…
Bam!
I sat back, turned the key, and let the engine hum to life.
Then I drove home.
Back to my tiny house near Main Street, where the porch light flickered even though I’d replaced the bulb four times, and the cat next door had adopted me as its emotional support human, even though I’m allergic to cats.
I made a cup of tea I wouldn’t finish, put on my softest socks, and curled up on the couch with a blanket that smelled like lemon and wool.
Outside, the stars were coming out.
And somewhere, maybe, Ben Jensen was still awake in room four, wondering if anyone noticed he didn’t show.
He didn’t know it, but I had.
