I exhaled slowly. “Look, I get it. You’re enthusiastic.”
“Is that code for unhinged?”
I shrugged. “Time will tell.”
She laughed, bright and unfiltered.
“Youarefunny,” she said, as if she hadn’t meant to say it out loud.
I raised a brow. “You expected me not to be?”
“Well, no offense, but you kind of give off brooding forest exile vibes. I figured your main personality trait was frowning while getting lost in the woods.”
“I don’t frown,” I muttered. “And I can find my way around a forest just fine.”
“If you say so.”
“I do.”
“Of course you do! But in a way that suggests you’re contemplating the futility of joy or that you once lost a bet with a woodland creature and they may want you to suffer.”
That earned a half-smile from me. She saw it. Iknowshe saw it. Her eyes lit up like she’d cracked a code.
“Ah-ha,” she said softly.
“Don’t read into it.”
“Too late. I’m going to record it in the lodge’s guestbook of emotional breakthroughs.”
I looked at the basket again, now full of soap and optimism.
“So,” I said, quieter now, “was this really about toiletries? Or were you worried I was going to leave a bad Yelp review because you forgot conditioner?”
She hesitated, just for a second, and then, “Honestly? I just didn’t want your first impression of this place to be missing anything.”
“Mission accomplished,” I said before I could stop myself.
Our eyes met.
She tilted her head. “That sounded friendlier than I think you intended.”
“It really wasn’t.” I shrugged.
“Mm-hmm.”
She stepped back toward the door. “Well. You’re officially toiletry-fied. If you need anything else, like emotional counseling or a pine-scented bath bomb, I’ll be downstairs.”
She opened the door but then turned.
“Oh, and Ben?”
“Yeah?”
She smiled. “Thanks for not making me feel like a total idiot.”
I shrugged. “You did that all on your own.”
Her jaw dropped.
