Page 99 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
I nod toward it. “Where are you taking it?”
“My dad’s in town. I was thinking of calling a cab and dragging it down there. Maybe he can fix it or tell me what to buy next.”
I hold out a hand. “Mind if I take a look first?”
She blinks. “Seriously? You know printers?”
“I know broken things,” I say, flashing a grin. “Sometimes I get lucky.”
She smiles and steps aside, clearly grateful. I take the printer from her and head toward the front parlor, where the light’s better and there’s space to work. She follows.
Truth is, I don’t care about the printer. I just want to be around her people. Around the life Margot’s built here—this quiet,strange little family that feels more like home than anything I’ve touched in years.
Even this—tinkering with a dusty old printer—feels like something. Like roots. Like getting closer.
Like being allowed in. I’m grateful for it.
I set the printer down on the side table near the window and crouch beside it. The thing’s old but not hopeless. A quick peek underneath tells me exactly what’s wrong—a tiny paper jam sensor stuck in the triggered position, probably from the last time someone yanked out a crumpled page like they were in a hurry.
I use my fingernail to gently nudge the little plastic lever back into place, flip the printer right-side up, and hit the power button. The machine hums to life like it was never mad at anyone in the first place.
Thea leans in, blinking at the lights. “Wait. That’s it?”
I smile up at her. “That’s it.”
She stares at the printer like it just betrayed her. Then she grins, wide and genuine. “You’re a genius. Thank you so much. You just saved me a cab ride and a full meltdown.”
I stand, brushing my palms on my jeans. “Glad to be useful.” Then I tilt my head. “Margot told me you’re into tech. What kind of tech, exactly?”
Her face lights up in that quiet, internal way she shares with Margot. “Mostly systems architecture. I love building infrastructure—databases, backends, server logic. Anything that needs to be functional and invisible.”
“That’s impressive,” I say, and I mean it. “You work remotely?”
“Yeah,” she says. “Cybersecurity startup. Mostly defense contracts and enterprise systems. It’s quiet work, but I like it that way.”
I nod, genuinely curious. “You ever build your own stuff?”
“Oh, totally. I’ve got like five personal projects I keep abandoning and resurrecting. Right now, I’m obsessed with offline-first apps for small businesses. Stuff that could run even without constant internet.”
That makes me smile. “That sounds like something Everfield could use.”
She laughs. “Exactly. I think half the town still runs on paper ledgers.”
I watch her for a beat, thoughtful. There’s something sharp and self-made about her, just like Margot—but quieter, less visible. I start thinking, unbidden, about how easy it would be to help her scale those ideas. Offline-first apps? Small-town systems? There’s a whole market for that. A whole infrastructure I could build with her if I just?—
Not now. Not yet. First, I tell Margot the truth. Then, when everything’s on the table, maybe I’ll ask Thea if she wants a partner. The kind with unlimited resources and the will to see her succeed.
Thea lifts the printer again, cradling it like a prize. “Thanks, Cal. I owe you one.”
“Uh-oh,” I say, grinning. “I always cash my debts. Don’t forget.”
She snorts, shaking her head, and disappears through the hall with the printer.
And I’m left standing there, already counting the hours until nightfall.
I spend the rest of the evening pretending to be busy. Folding laundry. Reorganizing my room. Answering two emails I’ve ignored for weeks. But none of it sticks. My mind keeps circling back to her.
By the time night falls, the inn is quiet, and I make my way out of my room and enter the kitchen. I step through the doorway to see Margot standing by the counter, talking to Aunt Edie in that low, familiar voice I’ve come to know too well. Her hair is tied up in a loose knot. She’s wearing some soft cotton thing that shouldn’t make my throat dry, but it does.
