Page 58 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Cal suddenly reaches out and gently takes my arm. “Careful. That’s a stone.”
I blink and look down just in time to see the jagged edge of a loose stone buried in the path. “Oh. Thank you.”
His eyes study me, that quiet intensity of his never quite letting up. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” I say quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m just wondering whether I forgot to give Ana any instructions.”
Cal rolls his eyes playfully. “Margot, please. The inn will survive one hour without you.”
I laugh because he’s right. And also because it’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me like that—with genuine care and not expectation.
We reach my parents’ porch, the scent of old wood and garden roses thick in the summer air. I raise my hand and knock on the front door.
As soon as the door swings open, my dad appears like he’s been standing behind it all morning.
His eyes widen the second he sees Cal. “Cal’s here,” he says—loudly. Like he’s announcing a celebrity.
Cal blinks and looks at me, a little startled. I shrug like I have no idea what’s happening either.
From inside the kitchen, Mom’s voice drifts in, high and musical. “Cal’s here? Hello, Cal!”
Hazel pokes her head out from the hallway, for once not covered in streaks of paint. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun, her brows lifted with surprise. “Cal’s here? Oh wow. That’s a shocking one.” She waves. “Hello, Cal.”
Shocking? What is she even talking about?
Cal chuckles and leans toward me. “They’re happy to see me.”
And he says it so genuinely—so adorably, honestly—that my heart does a little something dangerous in my chest. I pretend I didn’t feel it. Roll my eyes and laugh instead.
“Obviously no one cares that I’m standing here. Dad, can we at least come in?”
“Oh.” Dad grins and steps back like he just remembered I exist. “Come in, Cal. Welcome to the house.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cal says warmly.
He steps aside to let me go in first, and I do—stepping into the delicious smell of something sweet and buttery, warm air, and the inevitable unraveling chaos that is Sunday breakfast at the Hartwells’.
Cal follows me in, and the second the door shuts behind us, I know this was a mistake.
Because suddenly I’m hyperaware of him. Of how close we’re standing. Of how comfortably he fits into this picture—like he was always meant to be here.
And that’s a scary thought. A very scary thought.
I glance around, trying to see the living room through his eyes.
It’s not glamorous. Not even close. The couches are old but still cute, mismatched pillows slumped in corners. One armrest has a tiny tear Hazel swore she’d sew up three years ago. The recliner by the window is Dad’s throne, where he used to watch baseball with a beer in one hand and a daughter—usually Juniper—in the other.
There’s an old afghan Aunt Edie crocheted decades ago, flung lazily across the back of the couch. It doesn’t match anything, which is exactly why it belongs.
It’s home.
It’s always been home.
Thea’s tucked in one corner, legs folded beneath her on the floor, laptop open, fingers flying. She doesn’t even look up. Classic Thea—lost in code or whatever side project has kidnapped her brain today.
Cal stands there for a second, taking it all in. Not judging. Just… absorbing.
Then my dad clears his throat and gestures toward the couch. “Have a seat, Cal. Make yourself at home.”
