“What’s the deal,” I asked lightly, “with the bad attitude all the time?”
He blinked. “Excuse me?”
“You heard me.” I prayed this wouldn’t get my family a dreaded bad review, but my curiosity was killing me.
His eyes widened slightly. “I don’t have a bad attitude.”
I leaned forward, resting my chin on my hand, smiling. “Oh, youdefinitelydo. You frown like it's a job, you scowl at muffins, and the other day I caught you glaring at the lodge’s welcome mat like it personally offended you.”
He shook his head slowly, a little stunned, like no one had ever actually called him on it before.
“I’m not…I don’t scowl at muffins.”
I pointed at him. “Deflection. Classic sign of a bad attitude.”
Ben stared at me. And for a second, I worried I’d gone too far.
He looked away, silent, fingers wrapping around his coffee cup like he needed something solid to hold on to.
Immediately, guilt twisted in my chest. Maybe it wasn’t my business, and I had gone too far.
Okay,obviouslyit wasn’t my business, but his scowl turned into my business because he was staying at my lodge. Peopledidn’t scowl when they stayed at a place with the wordhoneyin it.
I winced. “Okay, that was probably too blunt. I was kidding. Mostly. I just meant—”
“No,” he said quietly, cutting me off. “It’s a fair question.”
I sat back, surprised.
He didn’t speak right away. Instead, he looked out the window, with brows drawn like he was searching for the right words in the sway of the tree branches or the swirl of heat rising off the pavement from the afternoon sun.
I sipped my latte, wishing I hadn’t pushed. I was supposed to be the hostess, not the interrogator. I wasn’t here to dig into the souls of our guests, especially not the ones I kept daydreaming about kissing.
Finally, after a long pause, he said, “I’ve always been... reflective. Reserved. Contemplative.”
His voice was lower than usual.
Steadier.
He didn’t look at me, but he stared out the window like he needed to say it to the glass first.
“I’ve never been the life of the party. I think too much. Sit too still. I’ve been told I’m intense. Hard to read. Brooding.”
“That’s a polite way to say ‘bad attitude,’” I offered gently.
His mouth twitched. “Exactly.”
He looked down at his hands.
“But it’s not anger. Not really. It’s just... how I process things, especially lately.”
I studied him for a moment and noticed the tension in his shoulders and the lines around his eyes, which looked more like weariness than age.
“You don’t have to explain,” I said softly.
“I know.”
“But thank you for doing it anyway.”
