Page 89 of How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire
I should pull away.
I don’t.
Instead, I lean in—just enough. Just slightly.
And he meets me the rest of the way.
His lips are soft and warm against mine. There’s nothing rushed about it, nothing urgent. Just a steady, sure kiss that feels like a promise and a question all at once.
I let myself answer with my whole body.
I don’t know how long we stand there like that. Minutes. Hours. Time folds in on itself.
When we finally part, his forehead leans against mine.
“I’ll prove it,” he whispers.
And I—stupidly, foolishly, hopelessly—believe him.
We stay like that, our foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air. I don’t want to move. I don’t want to ruin the fragile stillness that’s settled over us like snow.
Then he wraps his arms around me.
It’s not a quick, casual hug.
It’s deep.
Full.
The kind of hug that presses right into your ribs and makes your throat go tight because it says things words haven’t dared yet. I sink into it before I can stop myself, my arms coming around him like they’ve done it a hundred times before.
And suddenly, I’m blinking fast. My eyes burn, and I don’t know why. Or maybe I do. Maybe I’ve needed this more than I even realized.
He pulls back just slightly, just enough to kiss my cheek—soft and slow.
“Goodnight, Margot,” he says.
And before I can say anything, before I can ask him to stay a little longer or come back tomorrow or anything else foolish, he turns and walks out.
I stand there, staring at the closed door.
Then I press my fingers to my cheek, right where his lips had been.
And I whisper it back, even though he can’t hear me.
“Goodnight, Cal.”
I stand there for a long time, frozen in the quiet, the scent of him still lingering in the air.
My arms feel empty, like they’re missing something that was just there a second ago—something warm and solid and real. I press a hand to my chest. My heart’s still racing, my whole body still humming from that hug… that kiss on my cheek… those words.
He wants to stay.
For me.
I’m not breathing right. I think I forgot how. My head’s spinning, but it’s not the usual kind—the anxious, overthinking kind. This is something gentler. Softer. Like maybe, just maybe, it’s okay to want this.
I move in a daze. I turn off the lamp. I slip under the covers. The sheets are cool, but my skin is warm—too warm—and my thoughts are louder than the silence in the room.
