Page 37 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
He laughs again and offers another firm handshake. “Thanks again, Cal. Really.”
“No problem, Glen.”
I leave his room, toolbox in hand, and head back down the hall, a little lighter than before. As I’m walking back toward the hallway closet with the toolbox in hand, I spot Sam and Aunt Edie out by the firepit. They’re standing near the circle of Adirondack chairs, having an easy conversation, judging by their smiles. Sam notices me first and lifts a hand in greeting.
I return the wave, then head to the closet to return the toolbox, wiping my palms on my jeans. When I step back outside, the morning light has settled soft and gold across the lawn.
I make my way toward them.
“What’d you use the toolbox for?” Sam calls out as I approach.
“Room ten,” I say. “Glen’s toilet was making a weird noise. Fill valve issue. Quick fix.”
“Oh, why don’t anyone call me? I could have fixed it.”
I shrug. “DIYs are kind of my thing.”
He raises an eyebrow. “That so? What’d you do to fix it?”
“Adjusted the float arm, tightened a couple of screws. It was overfilling the tank.”
Sam nods in approval. “Classic. You’ve got a good eye. Might be time I recruit you for the weekend chores.”
Before I can reply, Aunt Edie groans like we’ve personally offended her. “All right, enough with the plumbing jargon! You two sound like a pair of grumpy mechanics in a garage.”
She lowers herself into a chair with a theatrical sigh and gestures at the other seats. “Sit, sit. Talk about something that doesn’t involve float arms and water pressure.”
We both laugh and settle in just as Ana appears from the side path carrying two trays, one for each of them.
She sets them down—golden pancakes, edges crisp and center soft, with a glossy square of butter melting slowly on top. Crispy bacon sits beside scrambled eggs, and a ramekin of rich maple syrup waits nearby. There’s a bowl of fresh fruit—strawberries, blueberries, melon—and a warm biscuit nestled on the side.
“I’ll get yours next, Mr. Reid,” she says to me before vanishing inside.
Moments later, she’s back with my breakfast and hands it over with a smile.
I look down—and stop.
“Wow,” I murmur, taking the tray. “Did someone tell the kitchen I haven’t eaten like this in years?”
Ana grins. “We don’t let anyone go hungry at Key & Kettle.”
She walks away, and I sit back in my chair, the plate warm against my hands.
Sam glances over and grins. “Don’t worry—it tastes even better than it looks.”
We eat in companionable silence for a while. The food is, no surprise, incredible, as always.
I didn’t realize how much I missed a real breakfast—one made by hands that care, not some personal chef back in L.A. who’s just following macros and a contract.
Sam leans back in his chair, coffee mug in hand. “Cal, how long are you staying in Everfield?”
“I booked a three-week stay. I needed a break,” I say, cutting into the pancakes. “Haven’t taken time off in years.”
He hums at that, a quiet, knowing sound. But he doesn’t pry. Just takes a sip of his coffee, then says, “Yeah. Most people who end up here are running from something or toward something. Or both.”
I glance at him. There’s no judgment in his voice, just a calm steadiness I didn’t realize I’d been craving.
“You live on the property?” I ask, steering the conversation off me.
