Page 76 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
He’s staring at me now, eyes dark and unreadable.
“I let you into my life,” I say, softer now. “Into my home. And I don’t even know your real name.”
Silence. The kind that stretches too long.
He runs a hand through his hair and takes a slow breath before asking, “Why were you Googling my name?”
I blink. “Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on right now?”
“Margot, come on?—”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to turn this around on me. I wasn’t trying to expose your past or dig through your trash—I just wanted to know who you are. I wanted to understand the man who’s been living in my inn, in my world, for three weeks.”
He exhales and sits heavily on the edge of the bed, his shoulders sinking. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… needed space. A break. Somewhere I could be someone else. And if that meant using a fake name, then—so be it.”
I stare at him, heart pounding. “I’m not asking for your life story or trade secrets, Cal. I’m asking for the basics. Your real name. Where you’re from. What you do. Just… truth.” My voice cracks a little.
He looks up at me then—really looks. And something in his expression softens.
And I stand there, waiting. Because if there’s any chance of salvaging this, it has to start now. With honesty.
He lets out a breath, low and weary. “I can’t tell you, Margot. I came to Everfield to escape it.”
The words hang in the air like a slammed door.
I stare at him, waiting for more—for anything. But he doesn’t offer it.
So I nod. Just once.
And then I turn.
My hand finds the doorknob before my heart catches up. I don’t look back as I pull it open and step into the hall.
It would be the last time I treat him any differently than what he is—a guest. He’s not a friend. He’s not… anything. He’s a guest. I should be content with that. Because if he can’t trust me with the truth, I can’t keep handing him pieces of mine.
I walk away.
And this time, I don’t stop until I’m sitting on the bench in the herb garden. The air is cool, the herbs rustling around me like they’re whispering secrets I’m not ready to hear. I lean back, close my eyes, and let the weight of everything settle in my chest.
I like him.
Like, Ireallylike him.
It hits hard—sudden and sharp, like a poleaxe straight to the gut. And I don’t even try to deny it. What would be the point? It’s the truth. The inconvenient, infuriating truth.
I like the way he makes me laugh when I don’t want to.
The way he steps in quietly, not to impress, but to make things easier.
The way he looks at me like I’m not holding the whole world together by a thread.
But he has secrets. I don’t know what they are, and I’m not ready to plunge blindly.
Not when I’ve spent my whole life building something real—something steady and honest.
So I draw a shaky breath, square my shoulders, and tell myself what I need to hear.
Kill the feelings, Margot.
