Page 11 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“Duly noted.”
I toss a dish towel over my shoulder and nod to Maya, who’s grinning like she just got promoted.
“This is how we keep the legacy alive,” I tease her. “With three women, two ovens, and absolutely no interference.”
“Yet somehow,” Aunt Edie murmurs from her chair, “this place still runs on my recipe cards.”
As we move around the kitchen, I realize—like I always do—that Kettle Hour is secretly my favorite part of the day.
Not that I’d ever admit that out loud. Not when I’m this busy whisking lemon into the clotted cream and making sure the cherry scones don’t burn. But still. There’s something about the quiet hum before the storm, the comforting predictability of it. The trays, the clink of teaspoons, the scent of butter and bergamot curling into the air.
It’s work, yes—but it’s also a kind of ritual. A soft, communal exhale.
By three-forty-five, guests and locals will begin drifting in. Some for the tea, others for the company. A few, like Mrs. Claremont, come strictly for the sugar cubes she sneaks into her purse when she thinks no one is watching.
Every day without fail, Clara Mendoza is the first one through the door. Single mother of six under ten and the most exhausted person in Everfield. Her kids go to their father’s after lunch, and, like clockwork, Clara walks in here like it’s her sanctuary.
She’s said it so many times that Kettle Hour is like her emotional support group.
I’m halfway through arranging the napkin triangles when something furry barrels through my legs.
“Waffles!” I shout, catching myself on the counter.
He does a joyful slide across the kitchen tile and smirks at me.
Ana shrieks behind me. “He just licked the lemon bowl!”
Maya freezes mid-scoop. “Should I… toss it out or…?”
I look at the smug, butter-colored menace who is now sniffing the cookie jar.
“Yes. Toss it. And someone please get him out of the scone tray.”
Waffles jumps up with the elegance of a flying mop and snatches a biscuit. Tail wagging, he tears off toward the front parlor just as the front door creaks open.
A beat later?—
“Waffles!” a woman’s voice calls, warm and tired and completely unsurprised.
Clara Mendoza steps inside, dressed in her usual oversized sweater and jeans, hair scraped into a mom bun that saysdon’t even ask.
“Tell me someone cried more than me today,” she says.
Before any of us can answer, she swoops down and presses a kiss to Aunt Edie’s cheek. “You look radiant, as always. I, however, have mascara in my eyebrows and someone’s yogurt in my hair. I checked.”
Aunt Edie smiles. “Well, I don’t smell it.”
Clara drops into the spare stool by the flour bin with a dramatic sigh and points at the scones. “I want one of the corner ones. The crispy ones.”
“Back of the tray,” I say, sliding it toward her. “Help yourself.”
She grins. “I love this place.”
Waffles circles her feet, tail wagging furiously, hoping she’ll “accidentally” drop something. Clara tosses him half a corner, and he catches it mid-air like a caffeinated acrobat.
The oven dings. The smell of vanilla, cinnamon, and something gloriously golden fills the kitchen.
“The last batch of scones are ready,” Ana calls, slipping on her mitts and pulling the tray out like she’s unveiling treasure. Which, honestly, she is.
