I gave him a look.
He met it.
And then he looked away first, a half-smile ghosting over his mouth.
“Okay,” he admitted. “Maybe a little.”
I nudged the basket of extra biscuits toward him. “Food helps, too. Carbs are therapy just with butter. It makes things go down easier.”
“I’ll have to remember that.” Ben reached in and grabbed one, tearing it open and spreading a pat of butter with a casual ease that made my stomach do that weird twisty flip again.
Why was it sexy when men buttered biscuits?
Why washesexy doinganything?
My brain was turning to mush, and all I could do was pretend I was cool, collected, and not five seconds away from giggling like a teenager at prom.
“So,” I said, needing to say something, anything, that didn’t involve the wordstrip,“you think you’ll take the trail?”
He considered me. “If I do, you’ll probably show up halfway through with a fanny pack and an emergency hydration plan.”
I grinned. “Rude. I don’t wear fanny packs.”
“Yet.”
“Ido,however, give excellent directions. And I have been known to point out edible berries.”
“That’s not helping your case.”
“Fine.” I leaned back and crossed my arms. “Go alone. Wander. Get attacked by a mildly territorial duck. See if I care. We do have bears, too. What if one gets hungry?”
His lips twitched again.
He was enjoying this.
He was enjoying me.
The thought was almost too much. I stood quickly, trying to regain my footing—emotionally, physically, and verbally.
“Well,” I said, brushing imaginary crumbs off my jeans. “I have towels to fold and flower arrangements to dramatically fluff. If you need anything, just holler. Or grunt. Or scowl in a specific direction. I’ll figure it out.”
Ben didn’t say anything at first.
Then, quietly: “Thanks, Fifi.”
I paused.
The way he said my name,slow, soft, careful,like it meant something more.
My breath caught in my throat.
I turned too quickly and nearly tripped again, this time on my foot.
“Still stripping, apparently,” I muttered.
And behind me, I swear I heard him laugh.
Chapter Twelve
