Page 6 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
After Aunt Edie’s heart attack three months ago, it was clear she couldn’t keep running the inn the way she used to. Not without help. She won’t admit it—she never would—but her body made the call for her. Fifty-six isn’t old, not really, but after decades of managing every key, kettle, and guest complaint in this place, her body said, “Enough.” She needed to rest.
But Edie doesn’t rest. She lingers. She inspects. She hovers by the linen closet and makes comments about thread counts. She still drinks her tar-black coffee in the garden like nothing ever happened. Like her heart didn’t almost stop.
Someone had to take over.
Jo—my mom, Edie’s older sister—is sixty next year and a retired elementary school teacher. She used to handle spelling bees and PTA meetings, not linen orders and wine pairings. She offered to help, bless her, but this place isn’t hers. She knows it. I know it. We all know it.
My sisters?
Let’s just say the options were… limited.
Hazel, the second-born, is twenty-four and allergic to responsibility. She lives in town above a bookstore that also somehow sells clay and yarn and used vinyls. She’s got paint in her hair more often than not and a heart full of rebellion. When Aunt Edie floated the idea of her taking over the inn, Hazel tilted her head, sipped her turmeric chai, and said, “Maybe we should just sell it. It’s like, older than even you, Auntie.”
That was the end of that conversation.
Thea was next. My little introvert genius. She lives here—in the inn, technically—but good luck spotting her. Her apartment is tucked down in the garden-level unit, converted from what was once a cellar into a sleek, cold fortress of solitude.
She has her own Wi-Fi and food storage, so she hardly comes up. She also doesn’t believe in small talk or overhead lighting. When Aunt Edie asked her to consider managing the inn, she literally said, “I’ll think about it,” and then locked her door.
It’s been three months.
Legend says she’s still thinking.
And then there’s Juniper.
My baby.
She’s away at college, but she’s got this light in her that I’ve never seen in anyone else. Soft-spoken but strong. Empathetic to a fault. If she were home, she would’ve said yes in a heartbeat, no questions asked, probably with a plate of cookies in hand. But no one even brought it up to her. We all knew better.
Which left me.
The oldest. The fixer. The one who’s always been good at holding things together while pretending she’s not falling apart.
Aunt Edie called. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t look for a way out.
I resigned from my job, packed my entire life into boxes, and moved back to Everfield to run this inn—the same inn that’s been in our family since the fifties. The one with the creaky porch, the brass room keys, the scone recipe Edie swears is magic.
I didn’t come back for rest.
I came back because this place matters.
Because it’s ours.
Because when everything else is shifting and uncertain, the Key & Kettle is still here.
And as long as I have a say in it, it’s not going anywhere.
CAL
The boardroom smells like recycled air and boredom.
Twelve people sit around a walnut conference table, each with a tablet in front of them, all angled just slightly so I know they want me to see the numbers. The presentation is clean. The deck is sleek. The pitch is good. Probably.
I’m supposed to be listening.
Across from me, Will—our product lead—is walking through a new UX revamp for the health tracking app. His voice is steady, but his hands keep adjusting his collar. He’s nervous. They always are when I’m quiet.
“We’re seeing a 6.8% retention drop in users over thirty-five,” he says, tapping through to a heat map. “Which isn’t catastrophic, but it’s also not nothing.”
