Page 110 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“Yes.” I groan a little as I stand. “I’ve been meaning to reorganize it for weeks. Months, really. But I keep putting it off.”
She smiles sympathetically. “You want me to help?”
“No, no—it’s fine.” I wave her off. “I’ll go dig around. Maybe it’ll finally force me to sort through the mess.”
She nods and ducks out.
With a sigh, I head down the back staircase, flipping on the light that leads to the basement. The air gets cooler as I descend, and I brace myself for the chaos that awaits below. I already knowwhat I’m walking into—half-open boxes, old decor from holiday seasons past, and random things we’ve shoved down here to deal with later.
Later has arrived.
I spend the afternoon knee-deep in dust and forgotten boxes, sleeves rolled up, hair pulled back, legs aching from crouching and lifting. It’s mundane, sure—sorting through old extension cords, faded brochures, broken picture frames—but it’s also strangely grounding. There’s something comforting about bringing order to this tucked-away corner of the inn. Like I’m taking care of more than just a building. Like I’m tending to the bones of something that’s always held us together.
Just as I’m about to call it quits, I tug at a stack of musty linens, and something thuds to the floor behind them. A thick, cloth-bound album. I brush the dust off the cover and open it carefully.
Inside: black-and-white photographs of the Key & Kettle from the 1950s. There’s Aunt Edie as a girl, standing stiffly in front of the fireplace. My grandmother on the porch, waving in that timeless, elegant way. Strangers turned guests, caught mid-laughter around what looks like a very early version of Kettle Hour.
Tucked between the pages, a folded note. Yellowed. Fragile. I open it with careful fingers. It’s my grandmother’s handwriting—looping, precise, undeniably hers.
“For my family who keep the heart of this place beating. Don’t forget: This inn has always been about more than tea and linens. It’s a home. Keep it that way.”
I press the note to my chest and sit back on my heels.
The moment roots me. Reminds me—this legacy I’m a part of? It’s not just something I inherited. It’s something I get to carry forward.
I flip slowly through the album, careful not to let the fragile corners tear. Each page is a portal. There’s my mom—Jo—as a gap-toothed kid in a polka-dot dress, her hair wild and her grin even wilder. She’s everywhere: curled up in a rocking chair with a book, balanced on the porch railing with a slice of watermelon, Aunt Edie trailing after her like a little shadow.
There are dozens of pictures of Aunt Edie too—always poised, always watchful, even as a teenager. She looks so much like Hazel in some of them, it nearly knocks the breath out of me. Then I turn another page and pause.
My mom again—older now. A teenager, leaning back against a wood-paneled car with a shy kind of smile. And standing beside her, lanky and sheepish in a way only teen boys can be, is my dad. Sam.
I let out a soft laugh.
They’re both so young. So unguarded. The way he’s looking at her—it’s the same way he still does, whenever she’s telling one of her long-winded stories at the dinner table. And she’s looking back like she’s already made up her mind.
I shake my head, still smiling.
Their love stretches over decades. It survived college, kids, chaos. It’s rooted deep in the soil of this place, twined through the inn just like Aunt Edie, just like all of us.
It’s strange to think that something so ordinary—two teenagers in love—can echo through generations like this. That I’m part ofit now. It brings tears to my eyes, soft and unexpected. I blink them away and gently touch the edge of the photo.
I keep flipping through the album, lost in it, until I hear the basement door creak open. Footsteps on the stairs. I turn, and there he is.
Cal.
My heart jumps a little—like it always does when I see him—and I smile without meaning to. He just has that effect on me.
“Hey,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
“Finding you,” he says, with that crooked smile that makes my stomach flip. He walks over and crouches beside me, completely unfazed by the dust and the chaos around us. Just comfortable here. With me.
“What are you doing?” he asks, leaning closer, his gaze falling on the album.
“Looking at history,” I say, turning it toward him. “Family stuff. Old pictures of the inn, my mom, Edie… grandparents.”
His eyes light up with interest. I scoot a little so he can see better, and he leans in.
I point to a picture. “That’s Aunt Edie. Probably sixteen there. She always looks like she’s about to tell someone off, even back then.”
