Page 71 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“Hey, Cal. You ready for breakfast?”
“Not yet. But thanks,” I say with a wave.
Outside, the morning air is bright and already heating up. The backyard stretches out before us, green and familiar. I ask, “Where’s Margot?”
“She went to town to grab something real quick,” Sam replies. “She should be back soon.”
The tools are already laid out near the shaded patch by the herb garden. A small cooler sits a few feet away. Sam walks over, opens it, and pulls out two cans of cold soda. He tosses one to me.
“Hydration before hammering,” he says.
I catch it, crack it open, and take a long sip as Sam starts setting up the planks and brackets. I sink into the lawn chair beside the bench frame, letting the morning settle around us.
“Nothing like good company and mild manual labor to start the day,” he says.
I chuckle, lifting mine in salute. “I’m only here for the drinks.”
Sam grins. “It’s only a matter of time before you join me. You like to work as much as I do.”
I gasp, mock-offended. “So that’s why you called me? You don’t need my company. You just need free labor.”
He winks. “Is it really free when I already offered you drinks?”
“What?”
We both burst into laughter.
And he’s right. Thirty minutes in, I’m holding a drill and lining up planks like I’ve been part of this backyard forever. The sun’s higher now, casting long lines across the grass, and we’re both sweating through our shirts—but it doesn’t feel like work. We’re laughing about the crooked bench Sam tried to build once, comparing notes on stubborn screws and favorite wood stains. Somehow, we veer into conversations about movies, football, and a wine-tasting event the inn is hosting tomorrow night.
“It’s fun,” Sam says. You get to taste as much wine as you like and unwind.”
“I’ll try,” I answer evasively. My three weeks are up, and ideally, I should leave either tomorrow night or early the next morning. But I want to stay. So badly.
I swing the hammer too hard and miss the nail by a fraction of an inch—my fingers almost taking the brunt of it.
Sam glances over sharply. “You okay?”
“Yeah. Almost caught my finger.” I flex it and laugh. “That would’ve been tragic.”
Sam shakes his head. “Careful, son. That pain can drive a man crazy.”
I grin. “Has it happened to you before?”
He scoffs. “Several times. I’ve grown desensitized to it by now. But I’ll never forget the first time.”
I look over, curious. “What happened?”
Sam wipes his forehead with the back of his hand, chuckling at the memory. “It was the summer after Jo and I got married. I was trying to fix a rickety kitchen stool to impress her. You know, be the man of the house.”
I smile. “Did it work?”
“Oh, it worked. But not before I smashed my finger so hard I blacked out for three seconds. Jo thought I’d died.”
I laugh out loud. “You passed out?”
“Straight to the floor like a sack of flour. She screamed, I groaned, and the stool never got fixed.”
“That’s the most heroic fail I’ve ever heard.”
