Page 82 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
“Yeah, Will. Cal’s exactly like Will, Mia,” I sigh. “He gets me. He lets me be me. He doesn’t complain that I’m too hard or too controlling; he just lets me be me.”
“Okay, but what’s the problem? Sounds good so far.”
I close my eyes and say it. “I don’t know who he is.”
There’s a pause. “What?”
“I looked him up. Cal Reid. There’s nothing. No social footprint, no articles, not even a LinkedIn. Which, in this day and age, is weird, right?”
“Definitely. But not really a deal breaker. Some people just don’t like to leave a lot of digital footprints.”
“I confronted him and he kinda admitted he wasn’t telling me everything about himself,” I explain.
Mia’s silent, letting me work through it.
“I’m not asking for every deep, dark secret of his life—I just wanted the basics. A real name. Something true.”
Mia exhales into the phone. “Wow.”
“Yeah.”
“And you like him?”
I press my hand to my chest like that’ll slow my heart down. “I do. And I think he likes me. But now I don’t know what to think. How can I trust what we’ve shared if I don’t even know who he is?”
There’s a soft pause before she says gently, “Margot… people lie for all kinds of reasons. Maybe he’s running from something. Maybe he just wanted to be… invisible. But it sounds like you didn’t fall for the version he pretended to be. You fell for the version he was when he was with you.”
My throat tightens.
“And,” she adds, “if the version he’s shown you is real—then maybe he’s just scared you won’t love him when you know the rest.”
I don’t say anything. I can’t.
“You don’t have to forgive him,” she says. “But don’t shut down either. Don’t forget, it’s only been three weeks, like you said. You’ve got to give him enough time to come to you and explain.”
“But what if I don’t like what he shows me?” I ask. “What if I fall for who he is when he’s with me and I don’t like who he really is?”
“Shield your heart, that’s where balance comes in,” she says. “Give him a chance, but you hold back. Life is short. Love doesn’t come all the time. People can’t pretend for long, and you, Margot, are an excellent judge of character. If you think he’s a great guy, I trust your judgment. I don’t even have to see the rest of him.”
This makes me smile, and it feels like a load has been lifted off my shoulders.
“I love you, Mia.”
“I love you, too,” she says. “And I’m here if you need me. Always.”
“I know,” I whisper.
“Now go enjoy your party.”
CAL
The party is in full swing.
Live music drifts from the garden, soft and jazzy. The smell of roasted pears and cinnamon bread lingers in the air. There’s a warm glow around the inn—candles flickering in mason jars, string lights overhead, the laughter of locals echoing against the walls. It feels… magical. Like Everfield has cracked open and let its soul breathe tonight.
I’m standing in the front parlor with Mr. Honeysett, nodding as he talks about tannins and fermentation. Something about the acidity of Cabernet Francs.
I’m listening. Sort of.
