Page 62 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Ididn’t make it to Kettle Hour today.
I spent most of the day with Sam—fixing a broken hinge on the gate, poking around his shed like we were on some top-secret mission, and talking baseball like we’d known each other for years.
We ate leftover pancakes and sat under the pear tree in the yard until the sun dipped low. Then I headed back to the inn, had a quick meal, and crashed. Hard.
Now it’s past eight. The sky’s slipping into night, and the air is cooler than it’s been all day. I wander out of the inn, drawn by the stillness, until I find myself in Aunt Edie’s herb garden.
I lower myself onto the bench, exhaling slowly. The ground still smells faintly of basil and wet soil from last night’s watering. The crickets are out, singing their evening chorus.
It’s peaceful here.
But my mind isn’t.
I think about Margot.
The way she smiled this morning.
The way she flicked her hair to hide a blush she didn’t quite manage to hide.
Then I think about her family—the chaos of it, the warmth. How everyone had something to say, always talking over each other, yet somehow it worked. The teasing, the laughter, the clatter of dishes and stolen bites in the kitchen. Hazel’s sarcasm. Jo’s loud voice from the head of the table. Thea’s quiet presence in the corner. Aunt Edie’s ever-watchful eyes. Sam’s booming laugh.
It was messy. Loud. Alive.
It was… love.
And I crave it more than I know how to admit.
I’ve spent so much of my life in silence. Hotel suites with too many pillows and not enough noise. Offices with glass walls and empty calendars.
I’m an only child, and I lost my parents so early that the wordfamilyhas always felt like a borrowed concept—something other people get to have.
But today, I would eat breakfast, lunch, and dinner at that table every single day if I could.
Just to feel that again. Especially with Margot there.
My phone rings, breaking the quiet. I pull it from my pocket, and it’s my assistant, Marley, calling.
I answer with a low, “Hello.”
“Good evening, Mr. Hale,” she says crisply. “Just checking in. I sent over the latest projections and the updated budgetapprovals to your secure line. No major flags from the board. However, a few partners have begun asking for timelines.”
Translation: They’re getting antsy.
“Noted,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Just your schedule for next week. Still clear, per your instructions. But legal wants to finalize the Taiwan deal. They’ll need your approval on the restructuring clause.”
“I’ll review it tomorrow.”
There’s a pause, then: “Mr. Hale, may I ask—when should I let the team know to expect your return? It’ll be three weeks in three days.”
I look out at the garden, at the way the wind moves through the rosemary like it has nowhere better to be.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel the same.
“I’m somewhere with real air,” I say flatly. “I won’t be returning to the company yet.”
Another pause. “Understood. I’ll hold all external scheduling until further notice.”
