Page 22 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Inside, the warm scent of tea and butter lingers in the air, but the scene nearly stops me in my tracks.
Aunt Edie is elbow-deep in a tray of handmade place cards—she’s cutting new ones with gold-trimmed edges, her fingers moving precisely with a calligraphy pen. There’s a spreadsheetopen beside her, and little vials of pressed flowers she’s deciding between. Ana is drying dishes. My mom, Jo, is at the stove, stirring something that smells suspiciously like pear-cardamom jam.
“Aunt Edie,” I say, dropping my bags harder than I mean to. “You’re supposed to be resting.”
“I am resting,” she replies without looking up. “I’m sitting. See?”
“Calligraphy and flower-vial triage is not resting.”
Ana snorts under her breath, which doesn’t help. Jo hums like she didn’t hear me. I stare at Aunt Edie, and something inside me frays.
“You need to stop,” I say, sharper now. “You just had a heart attack three months ago. We’ve talked about this. You can’t keep throwing yourself into these tasks when the doctor was very clear on you doing nothing for at least a year.”
Aunt Edie finally looks up at me. Calm. Elegant. That maddening, unshakable grace. But there’s a flicker of something behind her eyes—fatigue, maybe, or quiet defiance. The kitchen is quiet now. From the corner of my eye, I see Ana leave the kitchen.
“Margot,” Aunt Edie says slowly, “I’ve run this place for decades. If I’m not allowed to touch the details, I’ll fade.”
“You’re not fading. You’re recovering.” I fold my arms across my chest, my voice taut. “You hired me to take things off your plate, remember?”
Tension shimmers through the kitchen like steam off the stove.
No one moves. No one speaks.
I instantly regret the bite in my tone—but not enough to take it back. I’m tired. She’s stubborn. And this place is endless. There’s always something to do.
Someone has to say it. And apparently, that someone’s always me.
Aunt Edie walks out of the kitchen without a word, slow and quiet, even when she’s clearly upset. She doesn’t slam a single thing. Just glides out, tea towel in hand, like she’s disappearing into mist.
That leaves just me and my mom.
I let out a shaky breath and lean on the counter, pressing my palms against the cool tile like it might absorb the heat of my frustration.
Mom doesn’t say anything right away. She just walks over and wraps her arms around me. It’s the kind of hug only a mother can give—soft and firm all at once, as if she knows exactly how much of me is holding on by a thread.
“It’s okay, darling,” she says softly. “I know you’re tired. But Edith has always been stubborn.”
I close my eyes. “I’m just… worried. She shouldn’t be overworking herself.”
“I know,” she says, pulling back just enough to hold me at arm’s length. “But she’s an adult, sweetheart. We’re all worried about her, but Edith is capable of caring for herself.”
“But Mom?—”
“Margot,” she says gently, “you have this heart that wants to carry everyone’s burden. But sometimes, even with the best intentions, it can feel like control instead of care.”
That makes me wince. Because she’s not wrong.
“Just… let things be sometimes,” she continues, smoothing a strand of hair off my face. “Let people figure it out. Everyone will be okay. And I don’t want to see you crumble under the weight of everyone else’s cross.”
She kisses my cheek and gives me a soft smile that carries decades of knowing. Then she walks out, leaving me standing there with a full heart, a lump in my throat, and the smell of jam around me.
The kitchen door creaks open, and I look up to see Hazel leaning against the frame, one brow arched and arms folded like she’s been watching from the shadows.
“What just happened?” she asks.
“Nothing,” I say too quickly, brushing my palms against my jeans. “I need help offloading the supplies in the truck.”
“Forget the supplies,” Hazel scoffs. “Who’s the new guest? He showed up for like five minutes during Kettle Hour, and no one’s stopped talking about him. He puts the wordhandsomein the dictionary. I think I should move back here.”
