Page 21 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Ana exhales in relief. “Got it. I’ll make sure to invite him to Kettle Hour.”
“Please do.”
I step outside into the warm late-afternoon air, the scent of maple and fresh scones trailing me as I head toward the side path that leads to the garden-level unit. Thea’s place. It’stechnically still part of the inn, but it feels like its own little fortress of solitude.
I knock twice, then again. No response. I wait, about to give up and turn around, when the door opens with a soft creak, and Thea nearly stumbles out, blinking like she hasn’t seen daylight in a week.
Her hair is a mess, her hoodie wrinkled, and there are deep smudges under her eyes like bruised shadows. She looks at me, dazed. “Oh, hello.” She attempts to hug me. “I haven’t seen you in four days. I miss you.”
“What’s wrong with you?! You look like a haunted Victorian orphan.”
She squints, lifting a hand to her forehead. “I’ve been writing code for two days straight. I finally hit the last breakpoint, and I was about to crash for, like, ten hours.”
“Please do.”
She frowns like she’s trying to puzzle something out. “Wait… did you come to ask me for something?”
I did. I was going to ask if she could help with Kettle Hour. But I also have eyes—and she looks like she could keel over any second.
I smile gently. “Never mind, Thea. Seriously, get some sleep. You look like a ghost who needs a nap.”
She nods, already swaying back toward the darkness of her lair. “Okay. Thanks, Marge.”
I turn and walk away, back toward the inn, adjusting my bag on my shoulder. One sister down. One to go. I text Hazel:
Please tell me you’re not elbow-deep in paint and chaos. I need backup at Kettle Hour.
Three dots pop up almost immediately. Then:
Define chaos.
I don’t even hesitate. I define chaos in Hazel’s language.
Three unfinished canvases, a playlist of sad French jazz, and a mug of cold tea you’ve reheated four times but never actually drank.
Three laughing emojis come back.
You know me too well. Sure, I’ll help out. I need an hour, though.
I breathe out a long sigh of relief.
Bless her paint-splattered heart.
I climb into my old, rattling truck, toss my bag into the passenger seat, and head out toward town for the supply run. There’s still flour to buy, a lightbulb to replace in Room 2, and if I don’t get more coffee, Aunt Edie will have my head.
Everfield is the kind of town that looks like a postcard but moves like molasses. Which is sweet in theory—until you’re trying to knock out ten errands before sunset.
I start at Keller’s Market for flour, baking soda, and the fancy sugar Clara Mendoza swears makes her scones “feel like Paris.”Then it’s off to Joyner’s for candles and linen napkins—because apparently, the plum ones are “too winter” for June, and someone decided we’re a cream-and-sage establishment now. I’m 90% sure that someone was me.
Then it’s Petal & Thorn for fresh eucalyptus (Aunt Edie swears it calms guests), McCall’s for more printer paper, and finally the tiny antique store where Ana saw those delicate glass sugar dishes last week. I buy three.
I don’t know how long I run around town for, buying things, making inquiries, and doing everything that needs to be done. But by the time I wrestle everything into the truck, my hands smell like dust. I check the clock. Nearly seven.
I pull into the gravel lot behind the inn; the sky’s gone soft and indigo, and I’m running on fumes and prayers. My wrists ache. My head aches. Even my ankles are staging a quiet rebellion.
I kill the engine but stay in the truck for a few more seconds, fingers clenched around the steering wheel. Just… breathing. Centering. Practicing the deep inhale Aunt Edie taught me once after a particularly brutal family meeting. I think she called it “four-count grace.”
The porch glows like a welcome mat as I finally drag myself up the steps. The front parlor is quiet now, Kettle Hour long over. I hear voices and soft clinking coming from the kitchen, and I follow the sound like it’s a lifeline.
