Page 78 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“Good morning, Mr. Reid.”
My chest tightens.
Mr. Reid.
Not Cal. Not even the sarcastic “Sir Cal” she threw at me once. Just… formal, distant, guarded.
I deserve it.
But it stings more than I thought it would.
Aunt Edie, blissfully unaware of the emotional sledgehammer that just hit me, waves me over.
“Come here, Cal,” she says. “You’re finally going to learn how to make a proper pot of morning tea. Margot says you’re always hovering while it’s brewing.”
I manage a smile and move to her side, grateful for the distraction. Aunt Edie sets a small ceramic teapot in front of me like it’s a sacred artifact. “First rule,” she says, tapping the side of it with her finger, “you never pour boiling water directly ontothe tea leaves. That’s how you kill the flavor. Murder, really. Tea deserves better.”
I try to focus, but out of the corner of my eye, Margot is moving around the kitchen without a care in the world. Her hair is up today, strands falling loose around her face, and she’s humming something soft under her breath as she organizes the pantry shelf. Like she is absolutely fine.
Aunt Edie hands me a spoon. “Now take a little of the loose leaf. Not too much—this is tea, not soup.”
I scoop a small amount and look at her for approval. She nods solemnly, like I just passed the first round of a very intense exam.
“Good. Now, swirl a little warm water in the pot to heat it. You always want to warm the teapot first—it’s respectful.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Respectful?”
“To the tea.” She gives me a withering look, then grins. “Honestly, I don’t know. That’s just what my mother always said.”
I laugh under my breath, and she smiles like she’s proud of herself.
From across the kitchen, Margot lets out a soft snort of amusement but doesn’t look over. She just keeps humming, putting away jars of preserves, her rhythm gentle and unbothered. It’s like she’s built a calm little world around herself, and she’s made sure I’m not in it.
Aunt Edie nudges me again. “Now, add the leaves and pour the water in—not boiling, hot.”
“Hot but not boiling,” I echo, carefully pouring.
She watches with an approving nod. “Now you let it steep. Not a second less than three minutes. Patience is part of the magic.”
We move slowly through each step—straining the tea, pouring it into dainty cups, adding just the right splash of milk. It’s methodical. Calming, even. For a few minutes, I forget the ache in my chest.
Aunt Edie slides a cup in front of me. “Go ahead. Taste it.”
I take a sip. Smooth, delicate, warm. Somehow, it feels like comfort in a cup. I nod. “This is really good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m a little surprised.”
She chuckles softly, and I glance over at Margot. She’s still moving around the kitchen, tying up a paper bag of muffins for one of the guests. She hums something tuneful—light, cheery. Detached.
I can’t help myself.
“Margot,” I say.
She turns immediately, as if I’ve pulled her into the present with nothing more than her name. Her eyes meet mine curiously.
“Want to taste something?”
