Page 10 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
There’s a section for reviews.
I scroll.
“I don’t know what kind of sorcery Margot does, but if you have a problem, it’s not solved because you haven’t met her. I honestly think she has magic powers. Will I be going back? Yes. Every time I’m in Illinois.”
Another person writes:
“From the tea to the towels, everything here is perfect. But it’s Margot who makes the place shine. She remembered I liked honey instead of sugar in my tea—how does she remember that?! My own mom doesn’t even remember that. She puts sugar in my tea every time.”
And another:
“You will love this inn. I promise you. You won’t want to leave. Everything is a ten over ten. They have my heart. I miss Waffles. Thank you so much, K&K!”
I keep reading.
Everyone’s raving about the rooms, the tea, the cookies, Margot, and the dog. But most of all, they talk about the hominess, the sense of community, the Kettle Hour where the townspeople and guests gather around and share gossip, tea, and snacks. The image makes me smile. The last time I did that, my parents were alive and I was ten.
Good times.
There’s no flashy promo. No luxury gimmicks.
Just story after story about people who showed up tired, frayed, lonely—and left lighter.
Minutes later, the car rolls to a stop, and my driver softly calls. “Sir?”
I look up and realize we’re parked outside my house. My phone buzzes with receipt of a confirmation email from Key & Kettle Inn. I booked a three-week stay under the name Cal Reid, starting tomorrow.
I slide my phone into my pocket and step out of the car.
I don’t look back. I march straight into the house, already thinking about what I can fit into one suitcase and how quickly Marley can push back all my activities for the next month.
MARGOT
It’s almost four, which means it’s almost time for Kettle Hour—our cozy daily ritual where tea flows, scones disappear in minutes, and the town’s best gossip floats in on a breeze like perfume.
Maya’s already in the kitchen, tying her apron and humming off-key to whatever’s playing through her phone speaker. She’s our current intern, bright-eyed, eager, and barely taller than the scone tins.
She comes in a few times a week, whenever she has the time, and I don’t mind because she’s eighteen and has big dreams of leaving Everfield to study hospitality in a big city. She volunteered to intern here at Key & Kettle for school credit, but I can tell she secretly adores everything about the place. Maya labels everything, color-codes the pantry weekly, and once created a guest feedback survey that made me tear up.
Ana is already slicing strawberries for the jam tray and shooting Maya silent looks that say, “Please don’t burn anything today.”
I’m grabbing the second kettle when I hear the soft shuffle of footsteps behind me.
“Move over, I’ll do the cinnamon glaze,” Aunt Edie says in that calm, breezy tone she uses when she’s pretending she isn’t on medical rest.
I turn slowly and see her, already halfway into an apron. Elegant, of course—wearing linen pants and a blush blouse like she’s on the cover of a lifestyle magazine calledEffortless Aunting. There’s a smear of lip tint on her mouth and a familiar mug of black coffee in her hand. Black. Always black. The darker, the better.
“Nope.” I gently steer her toward the armchair near the window.
“Margot, I’m fine.”
“Which is exactly what people say right before they faint over scone batter. You’re under strict no-straining orders. That includes cinnamon glaze.”
She raises one perfectly arched brow. “So what you’re saying is—no supervision, no unsolicited advice, and no cookie jar organizing?”
“Yes,” I deadpan.
She sighs, sinking into the chair like a queen settling onto a reluctant throne. “Well, if you ruin Kettle Hour without me, I reserve the right to say ‘I told you so.’”
