Page 73 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Sam glances at me, something knowing in his eyes. “She always has.”
I sit back on my heels and sip from my can. “What was she like as a teenager? I know teenagers tend to let loose. I did my fair share.”
He laughs. “Not Margot. Responsible. Smart. A bit bossy. Loved lists—still does. She was the one making dinner when her sisters were goofing off. Always had her head screwed on straight. That girl came out of the womb with a five-year plan.”
I smile, picturing a younger version of Margot with her no-nonsense glare and planner in hand.
“Did she ever let loose?” I ask, grinning.
Sam snorts. “Hazel tried to corrupt her a few times. Took her to parties. Got her into one or two harmless scrapes. But Margot always found her way back to center. She’s just… steady.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“I admire that,” I say. “She’s built something special here.”
Sam nods. “She has. And she won’t admit it, but she wants someone who’ll see that. Who’ll sit beside her and let her rest for once. Someone who won’t let her run herself ragged trying to prove she can do it all.”
I look down at the wood we’re working on. My hands feel suddenly still. “I’m not sure she knows that.”
Sam’s voice is calm. “She will.”
I stay silent even though a thousand words are running around in my head. Margot. The mention of that name alone grounds me to Everfield. I don’t want to leave. This feels like an opportunity I should hold on to and explore. If I lose this, something tells me I’ll never find it again.
MARGOT
The kitchen smells like cinnamon and something yeasty—probably Aunt Edie’s third attempt at those fancy sourdough rolls she’s been experimenting with. I want to tell her to slow down, but after our last conversation about this, I’m genuinely trying to let her breathe and take her time.
Clara’s half-asleep in a chair, nursing a mug of tea. My mom is cross-legged on a stool by the pantry, flipping through a notebook like it holds the secrets of the universe. Hazel’s on the counter, barefoot, sketching table layout ideas in the margins of an old receipt.
As for me, I’m pacing, my brain trying to unpack so many ideas all at once.
“There are going to be at least forty guests,” I say, tapping my pen against my palm. “We need extra seating, mood lighting, and the wine crates from the cellar should be brought out early to breathe.”
Hazel grins. “You sound like you’re planning a royal banquet, not a wine tasting.”
“It’s a big deal,” I say, trying not to let the edge creep into my voice. “We’ve never hosted a wine event this size before.”
Aunt Edie raises a brow from where she’s peeling fruit. “That’s why we’ve got you at the helm, darling.”
Clara groans dramatically. “I’ll help, but only if someone promises to distract my children tomorrow. Preferably with sugar and cartoons.”
My mom waves a hand. “They can stay with me in the orchard house. I’ll feed them jam and send them back sticky and happy.”
Everyone laughs, even me.
The thing is, I am excited. A little nervous, maybe. But excited. This is the kind of thing the Key & Kettle was made for—community, conversation, something warm and special.
Still… as I scribble more notes into my planner, part of my mind drifts. To Cal. To the way the wind tousled his hair last night in the garden. The way his voice softened when he talked about stars and light pollution. The way he looked at me—like I was the only thing he wanted to see in that entire sky.
And now… he’s leaving.
I blink down at my list, suddenly unsure what I was writing.
The wine eventisa big deal. But I’m not entirely sure it’s the only thing tugging at my chest right now, which is not something I like to admit. Not to myself. Not even on paper.
I clear my throat and press the pen to the page again, trying to snap myself back into focus. The to-do list is growing. Seating chart. Wine pairings. Table linens. Lanterns for the backyard.
“Please, can you guys help?” I say, louder than necessary. “That’s the essence of this meeting, so you can help. Mom!”
