Page 45 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
CAL
The front parlor is glowing with warmth, music, and joy.
The Honeysetts are dancing—if you can call it dancing—arms flailing in that endearing, retired-professor way, while Clara twirls around them with Jo, Imani, and Daryl clapping offbeat by the fireplace. Even Amee’s in the melee, laughing louder than anyone. Somehow, this town makes chaos look like magic.
I lean against the doorframe, letting the noise wash over me.
Margot is seated off to the side, for once. No clipboard, no bustling. Just her, curled on a vintage armchair, a glass of punch in her hand, laughing at something Aunt Edie and Sam are saying. Her shoulders aren’t pulled tight like they usually are. She looks… soft. Like sunlight on Sunday morning.
And it hits me—I haven’t thought about my company in days.
Not once. Not my overflowing inbox, not the quarterly reports, not the passive-aggressive board meetings. Not even the articles or headlines or press stalking me like a shadow.
All I’ve thought about is her.
Margot Hartwell, with the expressive face and that sharp brain of hers. The way she makes hot tea taste like a conversation. The way she apologizes like it’s her job but never lets anyone get away with anything. The way she makes this whole inn feel like a home.
I don’t know what that means. Or where it leads. But I can’t take my eyes off her.
And for the first time in years, I don’t feel like I’m running. I feel like I’ve arrived. Where? I don’t know.
Just as I’m sinking deeper into my quiet moment, Amee appears out of nowhere like a glittery tornado and grabs my hand.
“Come on, mystery man. You’ve been brooding in that corner long enough.”
“I don’t dance,” I say with a helpless laugh.
“Neither do the rest of us. That’s the fun part.”
Before I can object, she’s already dragging me into the center of the room. Waffles barks like he’s cheering me on. I glance over my shoulder—and there’s Margot, watching with a smile she’s trying to hide behind her glass.
So I try. God help me, I try.
I sway. I turn. I get the beat completely wrong. Clara shrieks with laughter. Jo does something with her hips that makes everyone holler. Someone hands me a maraca. Waffles bounces in the middle like he’s the star of the show.
I’m sweating and laughing and trying not to trip over a throw pillow when Mr. Honeysett suddenly claps twice, loud and clear.
The music fades.
“I’d like to say something,” he says.
Everyone hushes and eases toward their chairs. His wife looks surprised but delighted. He holds her hand and helps her stand beside him. His fingers link with hers like it’s the easiest thing in the world. Like it’s muscle memory after forty-eight years.
He looks around the room, then down at her, his voice quiet but strong.
“I’ve loved this woman since the day she threw her shoe at me in a campus hallway,” he starts, and the entire room chuckles.
“But what I’ve come to learn is that love is not about how you feel in the beginning. It’s about what you choose every day after. Through the ordinary. The terrible. The wonderful. Through the raising of children and the loss of parents. Through job changes and health scares. Through burnt dinners and quiet Sunday mornings.”
She blinks at him, her smile trembling.
“I don’t just love her because of what we’ve shared, but because of how she’s stayed. Who she’s stayed. She’s the same woman who threw that shoe—just with wiser eyes, kinder hands, and a heart that’s carried me through more than I deserve.”
He lifts her hand and kisses her knuckles.
“I’d marry you all over again. Every version of you. Again and again and again.”
There’s a thick silence.
