Page 49 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Suffocated?
I blink, stunned. My chest tightens.
Amee barrels on. “You missed the bouquet Margot got the Honeysetts! She surprised them with it right before dinner.”
A pause.
He hums like he’s never heard of it in his life. “Really? That’s sweet of her.”
I stare at the wall like it’s betrayed me.
He didn’t just leave—he erased the whole afternoon like it never happened. Like it wasn’t his car we drove into town. Like he didn’t pick out lilies and argue with me over the price of tulips. Like he didn’t drive the whole way home with the bouquet perched carefully on the seat beside him, as if it were breakable glass. I press my hand to my stomach.
It shouldn’t hurt. He’s a guest. A stranger.
Still, I step away from the door.
Still, it hurts.
I’ve never been more confused in my life. I hate feeling like this.
I sit back down at the kitchen table, the pen still clutched in my hand, the to-do list looking back at me like it knows all my secrets. I blink down at all the numbers but they blur together, meaningless.
All I can think about is Cal and the stark realization that I’ve been thinking about him way more than my usual guests. I don’t know when it happened. When I started… noticing.
Not just his handsome face. But the way he listens. The way he laughs quietly when he’s not trying to charm anyone. The way he picked flowers with me like it mattered.
And now, the way he walked out tonight—cool, distant. Like I hurt him.
I rub my temples. I need to finish this list.
But then I hear it—the shuffle of footsteps, the quiet goodnights drifting up from the front parlor. Doors closing. Laughter dimming. Someone flicks off the hallway lamp. The inn sighs into silence, soft and familiar.
Everyone has gone to sleep.
I take a deep breath and look up?—
And there he is.
Cal, standing at the doorway, arms folded, watching me.
I jump, startled, and my elbow knocks the edge of the stool. It wobbles dangerously and suddenly I’m not standing—I’m falling.
But I don’t hit the floor.
He’s there before I can blink, one arm steadying the stool, the other wrapping around my waist, firm and unshakable. My face is inches from his chest, the scent of him—tea and something clean and unfamiliar—rushing up to meet me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
His voice is low, steady, like the rest of him. But his arm lingers a second too long around me.
I pull back. “You scared me.”
“I didn’t mean to.” His eyes scan mine carefully, like he’s looking for something. “You seemed deep in thought.”
I straighten. “I was.”
“You looked like you were fighting a war with that paper.”
