Page 28 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Oh!
I think for sure that Clara will be mad at that. I’m surprised when everyone in the parlor burst into laughter. Including Clara.
I’m not used to this kind of place.
People talk over each other, tease without filters, and openly call each other out. All done with love. No one is offended. I suddenly want someone to roast me; it’s been so long since anyone spoke out of turn to me.
I desperately want to feel like a part of these people.
Despite how interesting they are, my attention drifts to Margot again. She hasn’t looked at me once. Not a glance. Not a flicker.
I try not to notice as she slips back into the kitchen, but of course I do.
A few minutes pass. I make some excuse about needing water—no one hears me over the chatter—and I step out, heading toward the kitchen like I belong.
She’s there, alone, wiping her hands over a folded napkin. She doesn’t hear me at first. Her shoulders are slightly hunched. She looks tired. Not in a weak way. In a way that says she carries things no one sees.
I step closer and clear my throat.
She turns, instantly putting on a smile. But it’s clipped. Professional. Polite. It’s not the one I want. I’ve seen her real smile—it makes the whole inn feel like it’s breathing. This one? This one’s a wall.
“How can I help you?”
She asks it like I’m a stranger again. And technically, I am. But I don’t want to be.
I offer a small smile. “I thought I’d thank you. For the room. For being patient with me yesterday.”
She nods once, the kind of nod you give to an apology you don’t feel like unpacking. “Of course.”
There’s a pause. She moves to adjust the tea tray beside her, and I hate the silence more than I thought I would.
“Margot.”
She turns again, brows raised just slightly.
I take a step closer, just enough to lower my voice. “Is there anything around the inn I can help you with?”
She blinks. “Help me?”
“Yeah. I’ve got time, hands, and absolutely no plans. Figured I could make myself useful.”
Her lips twitch—something between surprise and amusement. But then the wall comes back up.
“You’re a guest, Mr. Reid,” she says evenly, brushing an invisible crumb off the counter. “You don’t have to do anything.”
I frown. “Are you sure? I literally have nothing to do. I can help.”
“I appreciate that,” she says, and the way she says it makes it sound like she means it. “But no thanks.”
Her tone isn’t harsh. Just final.
She goes back to arranging scones on a tray, her fingers moving with mechanical precision. The conversation, like the space between us, is closed.
I watch her for a moment longer than I should, then give a quiet nod and step back.
“Okay. I’ll just go… do nothing then.”
She doesn’t respond.
