Page 31 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
I leave the Sunflower Room, still smiling faintly from my chat with Mia. The hallway is dim now, most guests tucked into their rooms. The soft hum of nighttime fills the inn—floorboards creaking, pipes sighing, Waffles snoring somewhere he shouldn’t be.
As I pass the library, a softtinkbreaks the quiet.
I pause.
Anothertink.
I step back and peek through the slightly open door. I’m shocked to see Cal in there, crouched in front of one of the tall mahogany bookshelves, sleeves pushed up, adjusting a crooked shelf with the kind of casual focus that makes it seem like he does this sort of thing all the time. There’s a stack of books beside him, neatly arranged, and his hand is on the bracket like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
My patience, already worn thin, snaps.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping into the doorway. “What are you doing?”
He looks up, startled at first, then smiling like I’ve just offered him a cup of tea.
“This shelf,” he says, patting the wood. “It was leaning a little. Probably warped from the heat. Figured I’d straighten it out before someone leans on it and sends Austen flying.”
I fold my arms. “You’re a guest, Mr. Reid. Guests don’t fix shelves. Or anything, for that matter.”
He shrugs, calm. “It was bothering me.”
“That’s what staff is for. That’s what I’m for. You’re not supposed to lift a finger while you’re here. If something’s broken, you tell me. I’ll fix it.”
He rises to his feet, towering a little, but still relaxed. Still smiling. “And if it’s just… tilted? Not broken. Just annoying?”
“I will fix it, please. You’re here to rest.”
His eyes search mine like he’s trying to read more than what I’m saying. “You really don’t let anyone help you, do you?”
I bristle. “It’s not about help. It’s about roles. You’re a guest. You relax. I run the inn.”
“Right,” he says softly. “I’ll remember that.”
He steps aside, hands up, surrendering, but there’s something in his eyes I can’t quite name—humor, maybe. Or something more serious. I don’t know.
He starts to walk past me, quiet now, and something in my chest tightens.
He was just trying to help. He didn’t deserve the full brunt of my frustration.
“Hey, Mr. Reid,” I call out.
He stops mid-step and turns slightly, brows raised.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping toward him. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His brow furrows—but playfully—and he places a hand over his chest. “I’m usually very forgiving, but not tonight. Tonight… you hurt me.”
His tone is dramatic, teasing, but his expression is so comically sincere that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
I snort. “I’ll make it up to you. Complimentary lunch tomorrow, maybe?”
He tilts his head. “Nah. Let’s have a cup of tea.”
“Tea?”
“Exactly like the one you served during Kettle Hour today,” he says with a grin. “That citrus lavender blend? Might’ve changed my life.”
I start to open my mouth—to say no, to remind him he’s a guest and I’m me and this is not how this place works—but he raises a hand, smile softening.
