Page 2 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“They’re for the welcome baskets.”
“Which Ana or I could’ve handled.”
“You were busy.”
“Because someone booked a ghost guest who doesn’t exist in our system, and now I have nowhere to put her.”
Edie arches a brow at me, the way only she can. “I suppose the linen closet’s out of the question?”
I groan. “Don’t make me laugh. The inn has five-star glowing reviews on Yelp. We didn’t get that by putting guests up in the linen closet.”
“Breathe, darling. You’ll figure it out.” She pats my shoulder and starts heading back up, slow but determined, like a woman who’s made peace with ignoring medical advice.
I watch her go, clutching the railing like it’s dignity and refusing to accept that she needs help.
Then I turn back to the guest list, heart sinking.
There it is.
Room: Rose Suite.
Guest: Chambers, Elise.
Not in the system. No record of payment. No email confirmation sent. Just a woman with a phone, a reservation, and no intention of leaving.
Moments later, I figure out the problem: a rare glitch in the booking software. The room was released by mistake and then reassigned without flagging the conflict. Happens once every never. Of course it happens today.
What I haven’t figured out is a solution.
These are the things that keep me up at night. These slips that I can’t control.
I can deal with the rowdy and rude guests, I can deal with the triple-stacked to-do lists or the always-broken sugar jar or the porch board that creaks louder than cymbals.
But moments like these, where I’m racking my brain and nothing is coming up, make me want to pull out my hair, crawl into a hole, and hide. I hate cracks that I can’t patch fast enough.
I left Bardstown—where I carefully curated my life—to come home. I gave up my entire career—my apartment, my schedule, my paycheck—to come back and keep this place running and hold it together. Because no one else could. Because Aunt Edie needed someone. Because someone always has to step up.
And that someone is always me.
But now, I feel my control slipping between my fingers as I panic in front of the stairway, the tray of jam jars abandoned on the side table.
What am I going to do? Ms. Chambers only has an hour until her Zoom call. I have to do something, even if it means conjuring my fairy godmother.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and whisper a prayer I’m not even sure is coherent. I am about three minutes away from either a meltdown or a miracle.
Then I hear voices. Soft, happy ones.
I look up the stairs—and there they are. Jamie and Jane. Our honeymooners. Coming down with their luggage, hand in hand, moving in that slow, floaty way that only people who’ve just vowed forever can manage. They’re staring at each other like they invented love. They don’t even notice me standing at the bottom of the staircase, panic in my throat and my hair half pinned.
I straighten as they reach the landing.
“Where are you two going with all that?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
Jane beams, her face lit with that sunshine-glow kind of happiness that makes you believe in good men and clean sheets. She grabs my hand like we’re old friends.
“I told Jamie last night I was craving my favorite ice cream from Mariette’s,” she says, giggling. “It’s this little place in Michigan I used to go to when I was a kid. He booked us a flight. We’re going today!”
She squeals and clutches his arm. Jamie just smiles like he’d fly her to the moon if she asked.
