Page 36 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
He stares at me. “Seriously?”
“I’ll need a few tools.”
“Be my guest,” he says, clearly stunned that this stranger in a Henley and joggers knows what a fill valve is.
I head downstairs, passing through the hallway with easy steps. Waffles barks once from somewhere near the kitchen, but I don’t stop.
In the parlor, I run straight into Aunt Edie. She’s holding a bowl of something warm and cinnamon-scented, her gray curls tucked neatly under a scarf.
“Well, good morning, Mr. Reid,” she says, eyes twinkling like she knows something again.
“Morning. Do you have a toolbox I can borrow?”
She doesn’t ask why. Doesn’t blink. Just gestures toward the hallway closet.
“Bottom shelf. Careful—it’s heavy.”
I grab it with a nod. “Thanks. I’ll bring it back.”
“You better. And don’t forget to come down for breakfast. We’re making pancakes.”
I smile. “I’ll be there.”
I head back upstairs, toolbox in hand, already thinking through what parts might need tightening and whether Glen’s toilet is going to be a quick fix or a full-blown headache.
But weirdly… I don’t mind either way. I’m just happy to be useful here.
It ends up being a quick fix. Two screws tightened, one minor adjustment to the fill valve, and the racket disappears like magic.
Glen flushes the toilet again and stands back, eyes wide. “It’s… quiet.”
“Silent as it should be.”
He laughs, actually laughs, and shakes his head. “You just saved me from losing my mind.”
I smile, wiping my hands on a towel he handed me earlier. “Glad to help.”
He stretches out a hand. “I didn’t catch your name.”
“Cal.”
Recognition sparks in his eyes. “Ah. So you’re the one everyone’s been talking about. The mysterious new guest.”
I raise a brow and chuckle. “I know nothing about that.”
“I can imagine.” He grins, pushing his thick-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I’m Glen Avery. I’m a travel writer. Novelist too, when I’m feeling brave enough to finish something.”
“Nice to meet you.”
He nods. “I came here hoping to get away. Wanted a safe, quiet place to write. So far, aside from the haunted-sounding toilet, it’s been perfect.”
I glance around the peaceful room—soft light, shelves stacked with books, a folded typewriter case near the armchair. It suits him.
“I’ve been here a week and have not seen you. You don’t come down for Kettle Hour?”
“Nope.” He shakes his head. “This is the most I’ve spoken to anyone in days. I time my exits so I don’t have to mingle. Not really a fan of crowds.”
“Understandable,” I say. “Though the tea’s decent. And the scones have magic, I swear it.”
