Page 26 of Rescued By My Small Town Billionaire

My breath catches, my heart soaring.

“I love you too,” I whisper.

The last of my fears fall away.

After we sit there for what feels like forever, wrapped in the comfort of our confessions, Mike shifts beside me, like he’s remembering something.

“There’s something I need to show you,” he says.

He reaches down and lifts a small, aged wooden box, setting it on the table between us. The surface is worn smooth, the edges slightly singed, a remnant of the fire. The intricate floral carvings along the lid catch the fading sunlight, revealing craftsmanship that’s both delicate and strong.

“This was found inside the walls when they were rebuilding the shop,” Mike explains. “The guys pulled it out from the back storage area. It must have been hidden there for years.”

I trace my fingers over the carved patterns, a strange sense of familiarity stirring inside me. And then, all at once, realization crashes over me.

“This belonged to my grandmother,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.

Mike’s brows lift in surprise. “You’re sure?”

I nod, my heartbeat picking up. “I used to see it when I was little—she always kept it on the top shelf of her closet. I remember asking her what was inside once, and she told me it held secrets.”

Mike leans in, his eyes locked on mine. “Do you know what kind of secrets?”

I shake my head, running my thumb over the small brass lock securing the lid. It’s sturdy, untouched, like it’s been waiting for someone to find it.

The air between us shifts, thick with the weight of discovery.

“What do you think is inside?” Mike asks.

I swallow hard, my fingers gripping the edges of the box.

“I don’t know,” I admit. “But I think it’s time to find out.”

I glance up at Mike, and he gives me a small nod, his fingers curling over mine as we hold the box between us.

“Whatever’s in there,” he says, his voice low and certain, “we’ll figure it out together.”

And somehow, I know we will.

Chapter fourteen

Mike

The box sits between us on the worn pine coffee table, its presence heavier than its actual weight.

It’s small but remarkably sturdy, carved from dark walnut wood, its edges softened with time. Intricate floral engravings—roses, lilacs, and peonies—adorn the surface, their delicate patterns carefully etched by hand. The brass hinges and lock glint softly in the dim light, aged but still secure.

The box has a history, one that Becky never knew existed until now. It was discovered inside the rebuilt walls of the shop, hidden away for decades like a forgotten secret waiting to be unearthed.

Becky’s fingers trace the carved floral patterns on the lid, her brow furrowed in thought. I can see the battle inside her—the desire to know the truth warring with the fear of what she might find.

Nearby, B. the kitten is curled up on a plaid blanket draped over a chair, her tiny paws twitching in sleep.

I lean forward, resting my elbows on my knees. “Are you ready?”

She exhales, nods, then hands me the box. “We still need the key.”

I turn it over in my hands, examining the brass lock. It’s old but still sturdy, likely untouched for decades. “Maybe we don’t need a key,” I say, setting it down. “Sometimes, these old locks can be picked.”

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