She kept worming her way in like sunlight through blinds you forgot to close.
Fifi.
The way she said my name, as if it had weight and fizz. The way her hands fluttered like punctuation when she talked too fast. Thatlookon her face when she realized what she said about being in my room later. The immediate panic. The full-body cringe. The thumbs-up.
It should’ve made me roll my eyes.
Instead, it made me grin.
Andthatwas the problem.
I didn’t grin. Not at strangers. Not at all. But somehow that chaos tornado with the shiny eyes and aggressive domestic energy had tripped some kind of switch in me I hadn’t realized was still operational.
I pulled on a flannel, shook my head, and turned toward the nightstand. Maybe a cookie would help me reset. Sugar as emotional shock therapy.
The knock at the door made me flinch.
I wasn’t expecting anyone.
Obviously,whispered a traitorous part of my brain.You know who it is.
I opened the door cautiously.
There she was.
Fifi.
Standing in the hallway with a small wicker basket in both hands. Wearing jeans and a button-down knotted at her waist. Where the hell did the apron vanish to?
Her dark hair was pulled up, and there was a smudge of something near her temple.
Flour? Dust? Whimsy? Unclear.
“Oh,” she said, blinking likeIwas the surprise. “Hi.”
I arched a brow. “You knocked.”
“Right. Yes. I do that. It’s a thing I do. Boundaries and whatnot.” She paused, then held up the basket. “Soap.”
I looked at the basket. Then back at her.
“I realized I might’ve forgotten to refresh your toiletries,” she said quickly. “Which would be, like, a full-scale violation of the Honey Leaf Code of Hospitality Conduct. Not that it’s arealcode. We’re not legally bound. But spiritually, emotionally, you know? We strive for excellence here.”
I stepped back wordlessly and opened the door wider. She hesitated for a split second, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to cross the threshold, then tiptoed in as if she were entering a sacred space and not a man’s room with socks already trying to escape the bottom drawer.
“I brought chamomile, cedarwood, and this one that smells like fresh-baked cinnamon rolls,” she said, holding up tiny amber bottles. “Not to brag, but the cinnamon one has started at least two failed romances and one short-lived engagement.”
I blinked. “That’s… a lot of pressure for soap.”
She grinned and set the basket on the dresser.
I crossed my arms. “You always barge into guest rooms armed with mood-altering toiletries?”
“No,” she said cheerfully, arranging the bottles like they were part of a sacred altar. “Just yours.”
My brain misfired.
“Because I messed up,” she added quickly, straightening. “With the soap, and I rarely mess up. Plus, the whole… I’ll be in your room later debacle. Which I swear sounded way less like an invitation in my head.”
