Page 24 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
The inn looks different in the daylight. Warmer. Like it’s alive. There’s a vine-covered trellis near the side garden, wind chimes dancing above a bench, and mismatched boots lined up neatly just outside the back door. Handmade signs point to things like “Play Circle,” “Garden Reading Nook,” and “Trail to the Orchard.”
It’s… charming.
And not in the overly curated “we spent a million dollars to look rustic” kind of way. It’s real. You can tell someone cares about this place. Every detail is intentional, like it was placed with love, not for show.
I walk toward town.
The road dips gently, winding past a little wooden fence covered in morning glories. A kid on a bike zooms past and waves like we’ve met before. An older man loading pumpkins into the back of a truck nods at me like I belong. A golden retriever—not Waffles—barks lazily from someone’s porch and then flops down in a pile of sun.
I head toward Main Street, and it unfolds before me like a postcard.
Red-brick storefronts. White-trimmed windows. A couple laughing outside a coffee shop. A florist opening her shop with a broom in hand and earbuds in. The café window glows with warmth, and there’s a hand-lettered chalkboard on the sidewalk that saysPumpkin Maple Scones Today—Come In For A Hug, Or At Least A Latte.
I walk slowly, taking everything in.
People here walk without their heads buried in phones. Shopkeepers leave their doors propped open. There’s a pace—slower, steadier. Intentional.
I pass a bookstore. A wine bar. A little barber shop with a striped pole turning outside. Every corner smells like cinnamon, firewood, and the last stretch of summer giving way to fall.
And I feel something I haven’t felt in… years.
Happy.
Not ecstatic. Not fireworks and champagne.
Just… still. Good.
I don’t know yet if I’ll stay three weeks or three days. I don’t know what I’m looking for.
But for the first time in a long time, I don’t want to leave.
I don’t buy anything.
Not the coffee that smells like it could save lives. Not the handwoven scarves a woman hangs on a rack outside her boutique. Not even the hot, syrupy mini pies a kid offers me from a street cart with a crooked grin and a “First one’s free, mister.”
I just take it in.
The way everyone moves like they have time.
The way strangers nod at me with that small-town curiosity— they don’t know me, but they’re ready to care.
The way someone called out “Morning!” from across the street like we were old friends.
I’m not sure what I expected. Suspicion? Recognition? But nobody stares too long. Nobody points. They treat me like any other passerby, and that feels like a gift.
I check my watch: 7:30 a.m.
Time to head back.
When I get back to the inn, someone’s crouched on the porch, hammer in hand, sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
He’s working on a loose board, coaxing it back into place with the kind of care that tells me he’s done this a hundred times.
He looks up as I reach the steps.
“Morning,” he says, voice warm and steady. He gestures toward the step with the hammer. “Watch your foot there—it’s a little rebellious.”
I grin. “Thanks for the warning.”
