Page 27 of Rescued By My Small Town Billionaire

Becky raises an eyebrow. “What are you, a locksmith now?”

I smirk. “Let’s just say I’ve had experience with stuck doors and jammed toolboxes.”

Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my multi-tool, flipping open the smallest screwdriver. Becky watches as I work the tiny tool into the keyhole, gently wiggling it. There’s a soft click, and the lock pops open.

Becky gasps. “Mike, how—?”

“Years of dealing with stubborn ranch equipment,” I grin and give her a quick wink.

She rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue, reaching for the box with trembling fingers. Slowly, she lifts the lid.

Inside, the scent of aged parchment and dried lavender drifts into the air. Neatly stacked inside are several old letters, tied together with a faded blue ribbon.

Becky’s breath catches. “These… these are from my grandmother.”

She carefully unties the ribbon, her hands reverent as she picks up the first letter. I watch as her eyes scan the handwriting, her lips parting in shock.

“She wrote these to me,” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Like she knew I’d find them someday.”

The letters inside, wrapped in a faded blue ribbon, smell faintly of lavender and parchment, the ink slightly smudged but the words still bold and clear. Each letter holds pieces of her grandmother’s wisdom, stories, and guidance meant for Becky, as if her past self knew Becky would need them one day.

I shift closer, watching her read, the words spilling into the air like a quiet melody.

The first letter is dated years ago, long before Becky was old enough to understand the depth of its meaning.

"My dearest Becky,

If you are reading this, then life has led you back to the flower shop, to the place where love and dreams grow together. I always knew your heart was meant for this. You carry light within you, and though there will be times when you doubt yourself, always remember—flowers do not question their right to bloom. Neither should you.

Love is the same way. It does not follow a plan, nor does it fit into neat little boxes. It is wild, unpredictable, and often arrives when you least expect it. But when it does, embrace it. Do not let fear keep you from something beautiful.

You will face trials, my dear, but you are strong. Never doubt your worth, and never let anyone take away the magic that is uniquely yours.

With all my love, Your Grandma."

I glance at Becky, watching as tears slip silently down her cheeks. Her fingers tremble against the parchment, her breathing uneven.

“Becky,” I say softly.

She presses the letter to her chest, swallowing hard. “She knew,” she whispers. “She knew I would struggle with this. That I’d doubt myself. That I’d be afraid of love.”

She looks up at me, and something inside my chest clenches at the raw vulnerability in her eyes.

“You do belong here,” I say firmly. “You belong at the shop. With these flowers. With this town.” I hesitate, then add, “With me.”

Becky lets out a shaky breath, a small, tearful laugh escaping her lips. “How do you always know exactly what to say?”

I reach for her hand, holding it between my own. “Because I know you, Becky. And I’m not going anywhere.”

She nods, squeezing my hand back. But I see it—the conflict still lingering in her eyes, the war between fear and belief.

One letter isn’t enough to undo years of doubt. But maybe, just maybe, it’s the beginning of something new.

Becky carefully folds the letter, placing it back inside the box before looking at the others. “I need time to go through them,” she says quietly.

“Of course,” I say, giving her space.

She hesitates, biting her lip. “Mike… what if I can’t do this?”

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