Page 93 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
I roll my eyes. “I’m not made of glass.”
“I’m serious,” he says. “I always forget you’re a guest. No need to sweat it out with me.”
“Helping you is practically a hobby now,” I tell him, walking over to where the hose is coiled like a lazy snake near the fence. “Besides, I’m not really a guest anymore, remember? I’m among Everfield now.”
Sam huffs a little and grins. “Well, leave me out of this when Margot comes out here.”
“I’ll handle it.”
He narrows his eyes at me for a few seconds before bursting into laughter and handing me a wrench. Minutes later, we’re shoulder to shoulder in the garden, kneeling by the tangled hose like two mechanics on a pit crew. Sam hands me the pliers while he wrestles with the nozzle connection, and for a second, all Ihear is the buzz of bees in the lavender and the faint creak of a wind chime hanging from the trellis.
“I actually love working with you,” Sam says, breaking the silence. “It’s so easy.”
I glance over and laugh. “Really?”
Of course, I know he loves working with me, but a part of me wants to hear him talk about it.
He chuckles, wiping sweat off his brow with the back of his hand. “I like to think a man my age has learned a thing or two about life. But one thing you’ve taught me—never judge a book by the cover.”
I pause, still fiddling with the hose connector. “How so?”
He looks at me. “Well, looking at you, no one would think you love fixing things under the sun or working with your hands. You’ve got that city-boy look.”
I grin. “To be honest, I am a city boy. I live in L.A. I’ve lived there for almost a decade. But I told you I used to do stuff like this with my dad when I was younger…”
“Yeah, you did. You mentioned it on the first day we met on the outside porch,” he says with a grin.
“Yeah. We’d fix leaky taps, put up shelves, spend whole Saturdays just making things work again.”
I sit back and exhale slowly. “Then college happened. Work. Life. It all got too fast. But when I lost my parents… I don’t know. I found myself reaching for all the old things. DIYs, manuals, repairs. Like if I could fix something broken, I could keep some part of him alive.”
Sam is quiet for a beat. Then we both laugh when I add, “That said, I still call in the professionals sometimes. Some jobs are beyond me.”
“But…” I trail off, shaking my head and looking around at the garden. “I love doing this.”
Sam reaches over and places a hand on my arm. It’s steady, grounding.
“I’m sure your dad is proud of you, Cal,” he says. His voice is low but certain. “I’m not your dad, but I’m really proud of you.”
My throat tightens. I blink a few times, quick and sharp, and pretend to wipe sweat from my eyes.
“Thanks, Sam.”
I’m still blinking too fast, trying to get a grip before Sam notices, when I hear voices—soft laughter, footsteps on gravel.
The Honeysetts appear around the corner of the house, hand in hand, cheeks pink from the sun or maybe from decades of being in love. They pause when they spot us in the garden.
“Well, well,” Mrs. Honeysett says warmly, “you two look like you’ve been at it since sunrise.”
Sam straightens and dusts his hands on his jeans. “Almost. Just trying to get this old hose to behave.”
“You’re both sweating up a storm,” she says, eyes kind. “I’ll have Ana bring you something cold.”
“No, we’re fine,” Sam assures her. “We’re almost done here.”
Mr. Honeysett chuckles and squints at me. “At this point, I’m not sure Cal is still a guest like the rest of us. He’s practically Hartwell family now.” He throws me a wink.
I laugh, scratching the back of my neck. “Guess I’ve been hanging around a lot.”
