Page 4 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
My stomach dips. I don’t even have to look. I already know. It’s Amy—Amee—Wainwright. She always corrects people with, “It’s spelled A-M-E-E. Not Amy. Names matter.”
Ana and I have also dubbed her the Professional Complainer. It’s week two of her month-long stay, and I’ve heard more colorful complaints from her than I have from every other guest combined since the New Year.
So far, the list includes “The pillows are too fluffy,” “The tea tastes like memory,” “The laundry water smells too clean,” “The room is too quiet to sleep,” and my personal favorite, “This curtain rod feels unstable, and it’s affecting my emotional health.”
I can’t help but wonder what the problem is this time.
I plaster on a smile, summoning every ounce of strength I have left. “Good morning, Amee. Everything all right?”
She pauses halfway through adjusting the belt on her robe, eyes gleaming with the kind of energy that usually precedes a five-minute monologue about drafty windows or lemon zest that’s “too forward.”
Instead, she tilts her head and says, “Nothing at all. I just think you look splendid this morning.”
I blink. My brain short-circuits a little.
“Oh… thank you?”
She smiles and floats down the stairs like she’s walking a runway, her slippers completely silent against the wood.
I stare after her, half expecting her to turn around and say, “Actually, I changed my mind about the tea. It tasted like abandonment today.” But she doesn’t. She disappears into the hallway toward the dining room, leaving me standing there, stunned.
I exhale. Deeply. Heavily.
What a morning.
I finally reach the bottom step, still reeling from Amee’s uncharacteristic non-complaint, when I hear Ana groan from the parlor.
“Waffles, no. Not again—Waffles, drop it.”
A sharp yip, a low growl, and another shout. I turn the corner and there he is: Waffles, the most entitled dog in all of Everfield, proudly parading across the rug with one of our velvet throw pillows in his mouth like it’s a royal prize.
“Waffles!” I bark, hands on my hips.
He stops. Looks at me. And I swear on Aunt Edie’s herb garden that dog smirks.
Waffles is a large golden retriever mix with suspiciously good posture and the ego of a retired duke. He belongs—technically—to the Olsons down the road, but he’s adopted the Key & Kettle as his personal kingdom, only returning home every few days, begrudgingly. He shows up when he pleases, lounges where hepleases, accepts offerings of bacon with minimal gratitude, and leaves only when summoned by a bribe or divine intervention.
“He came in during breakfast,” Ana says, hands in the air. “One of the guests fed him sausage, and he’s been acting like he owns the place ever since.”
“Because he does think he owns the place,” I mutter, marching over. “Waffles, drop the pillow.”
He backs away a step, tail wagging slowly. Calculating.
“I’m not playing with you today,” I warn. “Give it.”
With a sigh worthy of Shakespeare, he releases the pillow. I scoop it up—drool-covered and half-flattened—and glare at him.
“You are a menace.”
He trots off toward the fireplace like I just complimented him.
Ana shakes her head, clearly trying not to laugh. “You know, we could just put up a ‘No Dogs Allowed’ sign.”
“He’d eat it,” I say, dropping the pillow in the laundry basket by the door. “And you know the guests would refuse. They love him.”
They really do.
Waffles is usually the first to greet anyone who walks into the inn, and they immediately fall in love with him. The two-faced traitor is a terror to us, but charming to all the guests. He appears in all their vacation photos, and they all leave treats for him during check-outs. I’m sure that’s another reason he’s arrogant. He knows we run this place together.
