Page 87 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
But that’s not what keeps me up.
It’s the dance.
Well… dances. Plural. We only agreed to one, but somehow, we had two. Somehow, I let him hold me just a little longer than necessary. Somehow, I let myself forget.
People noticed.
Ana mentioned it later, when we were closing up, how she overheard a few guests whispering that Cal and I “looked cute together.” One woman apparently even said we were a couple.
I should’ve been upset. Embarrassed, at the very least. It’s unprofessional. Inappropriate. The kind of thing I used to roll my eyes at when it happened in other inns.
But instead?
It was a struggle to hide my smile.
And now, lying here in the dark with damp hair and warm sheets, I can’t stop thinking about how his hand felt at the small of my back. How he looked at me like I wasn’t just someone he liked—but someone he trusted. Like I was a harbor.
Like I was his peace.
I shouldn’t feel this way. He’s a guest. A stranger. A man with more secrets than he lets on, even if he says “Cal” is his real name. Even if he says he came here to hide, not to deceive.
I don’t want to be someone’s hiding place.
I turn over, trying to push the thoughts away. I try to focus on the night’s success. On the laughter in the parlor, the way the fire pit glowed outside, how everyone seemed genuinely happy. That’s what matters. That’s why I came back. To build something that lasts. Not to flirt with guests who look at me like I’m more than I am.
But then I remember his hand reaching for mine. The way he whispered “Thank you” after the second dance.
And I realize… I’m already in trouble.
I’m about to put a pillow over my head and summon silence in my mind when I hear a knock on the door.
I frown, glance at the clock. It’s almost midnight. I hope it’s not a guest complaining about the water pressure or asking for a spare toothbrush. Again.
I pad to the door, already bracing myself.
“Who is it?”
A beat. Then, quietly:
“It’s me. Cal.”
My stomach drops.
Of course it is.
I hesitate. My hand rests on the knob, frozen. I could tell him now’s not a good time. I could say anything that keeps the lines neat and professional and safe.
Instead, I find myself pulling the door open before I can stop myself. He’s standing there in the hallway in a soft gray hoodie, his hair mussed like he’s been running a hand through it for hours. There’s something uncertain in his eyes. Like he almost didn’t knock. Like part of him still wants to turn around.
“Hi. Are you okay?”
“Yes.”
A beat. “Do you want to come in?”
“I’d love to.”
I open the door wider and step aside. He walks in.
