Page 32 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“I’m joking,” he says gently. “You’re allowed to say no. I didn’t take it to heart. I understand the pressure you’re under. I’ve worked with people who carry a whole operation on their shoulders. You don’t owe me anything.”
There’s something in his voice—sincerity wrapped in charm—and I feel my defenses… falter. Just a little.
“But,” he continues, “I would really like to have tea with you. Even if it’s just ten minutes.”
I should say no.
I should.
But instead, I find myself nodding. “Okay. One cup of tea.”
“One.”
I lead him to the kitchen before I can change my mind.
It’s quiet and not exactly the kind of setting I want to be with my guest, but it’s the least I can do. I turn on the light because the dim lighting is too romantic and suggestive.
He takes a seat at the table, looking entirely at ease, like he’s been doing this for years.
I go to the kettle, fill it, and set it on the stove. “The tea I’m making? It technically belongs to Aunt Edie.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“She hoards her tea like diamond treasures. So if she finds out I brewed this without her…”
I glance over my shoulder at him and smile. “You never got it from me.”
He lifts a hand and makes a zipping motion across his lips. “This tea time never happened.”
I turn away, but I can’t help it—I laugh. Quiet, and only for me. This is not the time to share a laugh. He’s a guest! I’ll just make him tea and send him back to his room.
The kettle whistles gently. I pour the hot water over the blend—citrus, lavender, a hint of something floral and earthy—and let it steep. The scent drifts through the air, calming and familiar. I grab two mismatched mugs from the rack, hand him one, and sit across from him.
We don’t talk for a moment.
We just sip.
“So,” he says eventually, swirling his cup, “you’ve built something really special here.”
I lower my cup, eyeing him. “I didn’t build it. Aunt Edie did.”
“You’re the one running it now.”
I don’t respond. Compliments are hard to swallow, especially when I feel like I’m just trying to keep the ship from sinking most days.
He doesn’t press. Just takes another sip.
“What did you do before the inn?” he asks.
I hesitate. “PR. For a distillery in Bardstown.”
“That sounds… intense.”
“You have no idea.”
We go quiet again, but it’s different now—easier, like we’re slowly unfolding in the warmth of tea and midnight.
“Bardstown…Where is that, exactly?”
