Page 13 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“Waffles,” she sighs, narrowing her eyes at him. “I’ve told you—I’m not a huge golden retriever fan. You’re too needy. It’s emotional labor being around you.”
He just blinks up at her, panting like the picture of joy.
Amee huffs, grabs a scone off her plate, and feeds a piece to him. Then another piece and another. Then she ruffles his ears and coos, “You’re the best dog in the world, aren’t you, my sweet boy?”
I exchange a glance with Clara, who snorts into her sleeve.
In another thirty minutes, the front parlor is half-full when the Honeysetts make their descent.
Room 3’s finest.
Dr. Gerald and Dr. Frances Honeysett are retired sociology professors from Vermont, and it shows in every way—from their habit of quoting obscure theorists over tea to their insistence on good manners and speech.
“Lovely afternoon, as always,” Gerald says to everyone, nodding at the spread as if it’s a research presentation. “The symmetry of this scone arrangement is very psychologically pleasing.”
He says this every day without fail.
“I told you, dear,” Frances says, lowering herself gently into her favorite seat by the corner lamp. “This inn’s ambiance promotes serotonin.”
“I did a whole paper on serotonin and setting in 1987,” Gerald replies, settling beside her.
I smile and pour their tea before they can start citing each other.
Next through the door is Delia Bunting, our town’s resident florist-slash-aesthetic enthusiast. She floats in wearing a pastel cardigan that matches the tulip pin in her hair and carries awoven basket that smells faintly of lavender and cut stems for Aunt Edie.
Then we have Imani and Philip Carter walk in, laughing and teasing each other as always. They’re child-free, by choice. They travel once a month and are always seen together since they jointly run an event planning business in town.
Imani and Clara are always at each other’s throats, probably because they are peers who live opposite lives. Clara always complains about being exhausted, and Imani never fails to remind her that it was her decision to have six children, all under the age of ten.
Soon, the parlor is completely full. Not a single seat left. Elbows brush, tea flows, and every conversation overlaps another like waves crashing into shore.
Aunt Edie is perched by the fireplace with her cup, listening to Gerald Honeysett explain something about ritualistic hospitality in Scandinavian communes. She nods along politely, but I catch the slight twitch of her eyebrow—her tell that she’s tuning out.
I’m enjoying the interesting conversation when Ana pokes her head into the parlor and motions for me to come close. Something is up. Of course. I can’t get a break for one second.
We step into the hallway just off the lobby. Ana glances back toward the parlor, then pulls up something on the reservation screen.
“We’ve got a guest who was supposed to check in today. For a three-week stay. Booked under the name Cal Reid. He’s not here, hasn’t called, and didn’t cancel.”
“Reid?” I frown, peering at the screen. “Three weeks?”
Ana nods. “Suite 7. Reserved. Paid in full.”
I scroll through the profile— just basic info, nothing else. No special requests, no flags. Just a standard booking with a local number that rings twice and dumps me straight to voicemail.
“I’ve been trying to reach the guest, too,” Ana says. “His number doesn’t connect.”
I try again.
Same thing.
“Well,” I mutter, “if he doesn’t show up by tomorrow, we cancel and open the room back up.”
Ana nods. “Got it. You want me to flag it?”
“Flag it, hold the suite, and we’ll check again in the morning.”
She taps a few keys and closes the screen. “Done.”
