Page 17 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Her fingers hover over the keyboard. “Oh… I’m so sorry. We’re at maximum capacity right now—we can’t take any more guests.”
And yes, she looks really sorry.
I blink. The words hit harder than they should.
I stare at her, waiting for the punchline. It doesn’t come.
I run a hand over my jaw, still not used to the beard, but it’s the least of my worries right now. “Right. But I should already have a room, yes?”
Something tightens in my chest. This place—this exact place—is the only reason I flew across the country and drove three hours in a rental car. It’s the only plan I’ve had in days that didn’t involve boardrooms, microphones, or people pretending to like me for the sake of a photo op.
Iwantthis place. Ineedit. I paid for it.
My good mood flies out the window, replaced by temper and irritation. I try to feign a fake smile, which I’m surprisingly good at, but right now, it doesn’t come. I don’t exactly have the bandwidth to smile right now.
“How come the room is no longer available?” My voice comes out sharper than intended. “That’s not a great look. I’ll probably need a refund.”
Waffles whines and nudges my knee, and I sigh, trying to rein it in.
I’m not angry at her. I’m just… bone-deep tired. And if this place turns me away, I honestly don’t know where else to go.
She looks startled, and maybe I’m being a jerk, but this was supposed to be the first quiet moment I’ve had in a year. And now I might have to spend it fighting for a room I already paid for.
She takes a deep breath and then flashes the fakest smile I’ve seen in years.
It’s impressive, honestly. I give her props. She managed to smile when I couldn’t. And that’s saying something. I’ve smiled through hostile takeovers, public scandals, and a CNBC interview with food poisoning. But right now, I’m hanging on by a thread. This is a tense moment, so yes, kudos to her, I guess.
“You’re saying you already booked a room in advance?” she asks, all sugar and ice.
“Yes,” I answer, trying not to clench my jaw. “My name is Cal.”
“First name. Last name. Please.”
I hesitate for a split second. “Cal Ha—Reid. Cal Reid.”
I almost messed up there. If I say Cal Hale, it’s over for me. Even my disguise won’t be able to save me.
She pauses, giving me a long, blinking look, then turns to her computer and starts typing. The keyboard clicks echo in theroom. Waffles thumps his tail once against my boot like he’s sensing the storm.
She clears her throat and looks up again, this time with something like dry ice in her eyes. I’m surprised she still has the smile on at this point. I may need to employ her. She’s a pro at crisis management.
“You’re Cal Reid,” she says slowly.
“Yes.”
“You booked a three-week stay that was supposed to start… four days ago.”
The way she says it—it’s not even accusatory. It’s just disappointed. Like I’ve turned in a school project late, and now she has to mark it with a red pen and a sad face.
“Sir? I need to confirm. Is that correct?”
“Yes. That’s correct.”
“So… you’re four days late for the booking.”
“Yes.”
It feels like I’m in the principal’s office. Or worse—at a PTA meeting where I forgot to show up and now this very composed, very put-together woman is reminding me I’ve wasted everyone’s time.
