Page 84 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
And this time, I won’t walk away.
I’m not certain about opening myself up completely, but I can give her something. Anything.
I circle the yard twice—once by the old oak where someone set up a tasting table, once around the firepit where townsfolk are gathered with glasses and laughter. No sign of her.
I head back toward the house, my thoughts a knot of half-formed apologies and things I should’ve said. The music is louder now, the band warming into a familiar jazz swing. People pass me with flushed cheeks and half-full glasses, nodding in that Everfield way that still catches me off guard.
And then I see her.
Right by the front door, standing beneath the hanging lanterns. She’s talking with Imani and Philip. They’re laughing about something, and she throws her head back in that full, unapologetic way she rarely lets herself do.
She looks radiant. At home. Free.
The black dress she’s wearing catches the light. Her curls are pinned up loosely, with one stray lock brushing her cheek. There’s something about her in this moment that feels so utterly unreachable, and yet so familiar, it steals the air from my lungs.
I should be happy she’s smiling.
I am happy. Really.
But watching her now—so completely present, so fine without me—it stings.
It’s selfish. I know that.
But part of me hoped that maybe I wasn’t the only one lying awake last night. That maybe she’d see me, and there’d be something in her eyes. Recognition. Relief. That spark again.
Instead, she just looks content. At ease.
Like the part of her that reached out to me… is gone.
I hover there for a second too long, just outside the pool of warm light, wondering if I should keep walking. Wondering if I’ve already missed my window.
It’s Imani who spots me first. Her eyes light up, and she waves, nudging Philip beside her. He lifts his glass in greeting and turns slightly, just enough for Margot to notice.
She follows their gaze.
Our eyes meet.
For a second, something unreadable flickers in hers. But then, just as quickly, it’s gone—smoothed over with that calm, composed smile she wears so well.
“Mr. Reid,” she says brightly, like we’re strangers. “Hope you’re enjoying the party?”
Mr. Reid.
It lands like a slap. Can she stop already? Anything but Mr. Reid, please.
I force a smile and approach them. “It’s incredible. You outdid yourself.”
Imani laughs and reaches for my arm. “You have to tell us which wine you liked best. We’ve been arguing about the dry reds versus the fruitier whites all evening.”
“Fruit-forward,” Philip corrects with mock seriousness.
Margot’s already stepping back. “I’ll leave you to it,” she says lightly. “I should go check on the cheese trays.”
She turns before I can stop her, slipping into the inn like she’s not running away.
I stand there, holding a fake smile and a thousand things I didn’t say. The party hums on around me. But the second she disappears inside, everything goes quiet. At least, inside me, it does.
Because Mr. Reid is the name you give a guest.
