Page 51 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
I meet his eyes. “Sometimes it feels like I am.”
His expression doesn’t shift much. But something in his jaw tightens slightly, like he’s just decided something.
But before I can ask what, he smiles again and reaches for the pen on the table. “Want help crunching some numbers?”
I blink. “You’re offering to help me budget now?”
“I’m very good with numbers.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re exhausted,” he says. “Let me help.”
As sweet as he is, I’m not ready to go that far with him. Sharing inn finances with a guest? No. No matter how kind, handsome, and gentle he is. But I don’t want to outrightly reject his kind offer, not when it might hurt him again.
Plus, he’s nice company, so I really do want to spend some time with him. I file the to-do list away in the folder and close it with a sigh. No more numbers tonight.
Cal watches me curiously. “What are you doing now?”
I slide open the side drawer and gesture for him to come over. “This,” I whisper like it’s top secret, “is Aunt Edie’s tea collection. Choose one. And choose wisely.”
He leans in, gasping dramatically as he peers at the colorful rows of labeled sachets. “Why do I feel like I’m doing something criminal?”
“Because we are.” I grin. “Now hurry!”
He laughs under his breath as he reads the labels one by one, his voice low and amused. “Vanilla Earl Grey… Lavender Dreams… Chamomile Citrus… Ooh, something called Moonlight Mint? This is serious business.”
“Every tea has a mood,” I say, arms folded, pretending to be stern. “Choose your mood.”
He plucks one out with mock ceremony. “Cinnamon Rose. This better be good.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Bold choice.”
I take the bag from him and walk to the kettle, flipping the switch. The water begins to hum, and I try not to think about how quiet the kitchen suddenly feels—with just the two of us, the glow from the lamp, and the steady bubbling of a stolen moment.
“So,” he says, propping himself on the edge of the table, “what’s the punishment if Aunt Edie catches us?”
“She’ll guilt-trip us until the end of time,” I reply. “That’s worse than jail.”
He laughs. “Worth it.”
I don’t say anything. Just smile to myself as I pour the hot water over the tea.
This—this tiny, rebellious moment—feels like the calm I didn’t know I needed.
I pour the tea into two mismatched ceramic mugs—one has a faded painting of a sunflower, the other says “World’s Okayest Cook.” I hand him the latter and lean back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk.
“Well?” I ask. “How is it?”
He takes a long, deliberate sip, swallows, then closes his eyes dramatically. “I’ll go to war for this flavor every night, Margot.”
The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—loud and unfiltered and too real. He gasps, eyes wide.
“Shh! Do you want Aunt Edie coming down here and catching us in the act?”
I cover my mouth, trying—and failing—to smother another giggle. “You started it!”
He lifts his mug, grinning. “I regret nothing.”
