Page 1 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
MARGOT
There are three kinds of chaos I know how to manage.
Thewe’re out of scones againkind. Thethere’s a spider in the bathtub and the guest swears it winkedkind. And then this—the worst kind—thesomeone’s standing at the front desk insisting they booked a room we absolutely do not havekind.
“I have the confirmation right here,” the woman says crisply, holding up her phone like a lawyer about to win a case.
I smile. Calm, practiced. “Of course. May I take a look?”
She turns the screen toward me. And yep. There it is. A full three-night reservation, check-in today.
Room: the Rose Suite.
Which is currently occupied by a honeymooning couple from Oak Park who most definitely have not checked out early.
Ana, our newest front desk hire, hovers beside me, visibly panicked. “It’s not in the system,” she mouths. “I swear, Margot. I checked this morning. Twice.”
I nod slightly, keeping my tone light. “Would you mind stepping into the parlor? We’ll bring you some tea while we sort this out.”
The woman crosses her arms. “I’ve been driving since six this morning. I’d prefer a room over tea.”
So would I. Unfortunately, the Key & Kettle Inn is completely, totally, unforgivingly full. Every room. Every spare couch. Even the nook in the attic where I live is a disaster of receipts, flannel blankets, and half-unpacked boxes I’ve been meaning to sort since I moved back.
And Edie’s private library corner? Already given up to a stranded travel writer two nights ago.
Ana whispers, “Should I text Hazel?”
“She doesn’t have space,” I mutter. “And she’ll say she’s not a hotel.”
“She’s not wrong.”
I inhale deeply and rub my temple.Focus, Margot. Fix it.
Behind me, a kettle screams on the stove. Someone’s shoes squeak across the floor like a warning siren. Upstairs, a baby starts crying. Somewhere else, something glass clinks too hard.
Perfect. Just… perfect.
“I’ve got this,” I tell Ana. “Go check the garden patio. I think Mr. Todd asked for fresh lemon water.”
She scurries off like I just handed her a life raft. I turn back to the guest, who still looks like someone just told her Starbucks discontinued coffee.
“I’m so sorry, Ms. Chambers. We seem to have a very rare overlap in the system. While we sort it out, we’d love to offer you a cozy spot in our parlor, some hot tea, and complimentary pastries.”
Her frown doesn’t budge. “I need to be on a Zoom call in an hour. I’m not doing it in your lobby.”
Duly noted.
I guide her toward the parlor anyway, then dart past the front desk toward the linen closet—and nearly collide with Aunt Edie halfway down the stairs. She’s balancing a tray of jam jars like it’s her job. Which, technically, it used to be. Before the heart attack. Three months ago! She should be resting!
She purses her lips, calm as ever, that signature mix of elegance and dry amusement. Aunt Edie has always moved through life like the inn itself—graceful, composed, and curated down to the teaspoon. Her silver-streaked hair is swept into one of her perfectly undone chignons, and she smells faintly of lemon verbena and strong black coffee—the only kind she drinks, even though she owns a collection of rare teas she never touches.
“Don’t say anything,” she says without even looking up.
“I wasn’t going to.”
“You’re about to.”
“I’m about to suggest,” I say, reaching for the tray, “that someone recovering from a major cardiac event shouldn’t be ferrying glass containers down a staircase.”
