Page 26 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
She pauses at the base of the stairs and offers me a smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Reid. You here for breakfast?”
I stand slowly, brushing my palms on my jeans. “Actually, I’ll be having breakfast upstairs.”
She sighs. “Okay. See you at Kettle Hour, then?”
“Sure.”
She flashes me a wink and drifts toward the front parlor like she’s floating on air. I give Waffles one last pat and head upstairs, ready to attend to my work emails.
By four o’clock, I decide to go to Kettle Hour.
Yesterday, when Ana invited me, I only showed up for a few minutes—out of courtesy more than anything. I was tired from the trip, disoriented and jet-lagged from the change in pace, and barely had the energy to smile, let alone mingle. I remember grabbing a teapot, nodding at someone, then disappearing before anyone could ask me a single question.
But today’s different.
Today, I feel good.
I woke up early, walked the town, met a man fixing the porch who didn’t treat me like I was on the cover ofForbes, and played with a dog who thinks he runs the place. It’s been… grounding.
So, at four-thirty, I head downstairs.
The moment I step into the front parlor, I’m hit by a wave of warmth—teacups clinking, low chatter, and that buttery scone smell that honestly deserves its own café franchise.
Quilts are draped over armchairs, and someone’s set a little jazz playlist on a vintage speaker in the corner. The whole thing feels like a scene from a movie I never knew I needed to be in.
The room is almost filled.
And to my surprise… people actually seem excited to see me.
“There he is,” says a woman I recognize from yesterday—Clara, I think.
I offer a polite smile, but she waves me over like I’m a nephew returning from war. “You left too early yesterday. We didn’t even get to ask you anything.”
A few others nod, shifting to make room for me on one of the couches. The energy is friendly, curious—not nosy in the big-city sense, but genuine. These are the kind of people who ask questions because they care about the answers.
“Well,” says a tall man with a salt-and-pepper beard, setting down his tea, “Cal, right? What brings you to Everfield?”
I ease into a seat, Waffles appearing again and plopping himself loyally by my feet like a self-appointed bodyguard.
“I needed a change of pace,” I say honestly. “Somewhere quiet. Slower. This place… kind of found me.”
Someone chuckles. “That’s usually how it happens.”
“Are you a writer?” a woman asks. She’s got silver-streaked curls and a scarf with tiny flowers on it. “You’ve got the quiet vibe. The ‘don’t disturb me, I’m in chapter twelve’ look.”
I laugh. “No. Not a writer.”
“Musician?”
“Nope.”
“Artist? Professor? Retired spy?”
Now I’m laughing, for real this time. “None of those.”
“Well,” says Clara, leaning in. “You’ll tell us eventually. Everfield has a way of making people open up.”
