Page 27 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
Everyone laughs and nods like this is a proven scientific fact. I hope not. Because I’m only here to escape, not reveal my identity, no matter how friendly the people here seem to be.
But for the first time in a long time, I let myself relax in a room full of strangers who, oddly, don’t feel strange at all.
As the conversation continues, I scan the room again.
No sign of her.
She wasn’t here yesterday, either—at least not while I was. I’d only stayed a few minutes before retreating back upstairs, but she hadn’t shown then, and she’s not here now.
My body’s practically humming with nerves, which is ridiculous. I don’t get nervous around people. I’ve been in boardrooms with billion-dollar investors and sat across from presidents. But now I’m sitting in a sun-warmed parlor with lace curtains and talking teapots on the shelves, trying not to crane my neck like some infatuated schoolboy.
My interaction with her hasn’t left my head since it happened. Something about it just tickles my brain in the right way, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Maybe if I see her again, I’ll figure out what this interest is all about.
I know I should not be doing this, but…
But where is she?
“She’s in the kitchen,” someone answers like they can read my mind.
I blink and turn—Aunt Edie is sitting in front of me, tray of fresh scones in hand, watching me with a look that feels part grandma, part all-knowing oracle.
I clear my throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She raises one brow, unimpressed. “Right.” She lifts the tray a little higher. “Scone?”
I reach for one. “Thank you.”
“You were looking around for Margot, weren’t you?” Clara chimes in, cackling like she’s just caught a fish with her bare hands. “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks, we’ve all been there.”
I try not to blush. “I wasn’t looking?—”
But the lie dies in my throat as the kitchen door swings open.
Margot walks in, steam rising from the kettle in her hands, her cheeks flushed pink from the heat, dark hair pulled up in a messy knot. She’s wearing a navy apron with a patch on the front shaped like a kettle. There’s flour on her wrist and a smear of what looks like jam on her cheek.
She’s radiant.
She doesn’t look up right away, focused instead on pouring hot water into the waiting teapots. She’s calm, methodical—moving like she’s done this dance a thousand times. Everyone greets her like she’s the heartbeat of the room.
I cannot look away from her.
“Margot, dear,” someone calls out as she pours from the kettle with practiced grace, “do you have some cubes of sugar I can put in my tea?”
Margot doesn’t even pause. “Mrs. Claremont, you’ve already been given six cubes for one teacup. I’m going to say no at this point. That’s too much sugar.”
The entire parlor bursts into laughter, including me. Mrs. Claremont waves her hand in the air like she’s being persecuted for a crime she doesn’t regret.
“There’s something about your sugar, though, Margot,” Amee pipes up from her chair near the fireplace. “It’s too sweet.”
Imani, who’s lounging nearby with one arm linked through her husband Philip’s, raises an eyebrow. “That’s kind of the point of sugar, Amee. I’ve never tasted a sugar that wasn’t sweet in my life,” she adds dryly.
Amee rolls her eyes, and Clara pipes up, “Imani, relax. Amee probably doesn’t mean it that way.”
Imani sits up straight. “I’m relaxed, Clara. Maybe you should relax.”
“I’m too exhausted to get into it with you.” Clara waves her off.
“If I had six mini-devils running around my house, I’d be exhausted too.”
