6. Cal #2
“I needed a change of pace,” I say honestly. “Somewhere quiet. Slower. This place… kind of found me.”
Someone chuckles. “That’s usually how it happens.”
“Are you a writer?” a woman asks. She’s got silver-streaked curls and a scarf with tiny flowers on it. “You’ve got the quiet vibe. The ‘don’t disturb me, I’m in chapter twelve’ look.”
I laugh. “No. Not a writer.”
“Musician?”
“Nope.”
“Artist? Professor? Retired spy?”
Now I’m laughing, for real this time. “None of those.”
“Well,” says Clara, leaning in. “You’ll tell us eventually. Everfield has a way of making people open up.”
Everyone laughs and nods like this is a proven scientific fact. I hope not. Because I’m only here to escape, not reveal my identity, no matter how friendly the people here seem to be.
But for the first time in a long time, I let myself relax in a room full of strangers who, oddly, don’t feel strange at all.
As the conversation continues, I scan the room again.
No sign of her.
She wasn’t here yesterday, either—at least not while I was. I’d only stayed a few minutes before retreating back upstairs, but she hadn’t shown then, and she’s not here now.
My body’s practically humming with nerves, which is ridiculous.
I don’t get nervous around people. I’ve been in boardrooms with billion-dollar investors and sat across from presidents.
But now I’m sitting in a sun-warmed parlor with lace curtains and talking teapots on the shelves, trying not to crane my neck like some infatuated schoolboy.
My interaction with her hasn’t left my head since it happened. Something about it just tickles my brain in the right way, and I’m not sure what to make of it. Maybe if I see her again, I’ll figure out what this interest is all about.
I know I should not be doing this, but…
But where is she?
“She’s in the kitchen,” someone answers like they can read my mind.
I blink and turn—Aunt Edie is sitting in front of me, tray of fresh scones in hand, watching me with a look that feels part grandma, part all-knowing oracle.
I clear my throat. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She raises one brow, unimpressed. “Right.” She lifts the tray a little higher. “Scone?”
I reach for one. “Thank you.”
“You were looking around for Margot, weren’t you?” Clara chimes in, cackling like she’s just caught a fish with her bare hands. “Don’t worry, sweet cheeks, we’ve all been there.”
I try not to blush. “I wasn’t looking?—”
But the lie dies in my throat as the kitchen door swings open.
Margot walks in, steam rising from the kettle in her hands, her cheeks flushed pink from the heat, dark hair pulled up in a messy knot. She’s wearing a navy apron with a patch on the front shaped like a kettle. There’s flour on her wrist and a smear of what looks like jam on her cheek.
She’s radiant.
She doesn’t look up right away, focused instead on pouring hot water into the waiting teapots. She’s calm, methodical—moving like she’s done this dance a thousand times. Everyone greets her like she’s the heartbeat of the room.
I cannot look away from her.
“Margot, dear,” someone calls out as she pours from the kettle with practiced grace, “do you have some cubes of sugar I can put in my tea?”
Margot doesn’t even pause. “Mrs. Claremont, you’ve already been given six cubes for one teacup. I’m going to say no at this point. That’s too much sugar.”
The entire parlor bursts into laughter, including me. Mrs. Claremont waves her hand in the air like she’s being persecuted for a crime she doesn’t regret.
“There’s something about your sugar, though, Margot,” Amee pipes up from her chair near the fireplace. “It’s too sweet.”
Imani, who’s lounging nearby with one arm linked through her husband Philip’s, raises an eyebrow. “That’s kind of the point of sugar, Amee. I’ve never tasted a sugar that wasn’t sweet in my life,” she adds dryly.
Amee rolls her eyes, and Clara pipes up, “Imani, relax. Amee probably doesn’t mean it that way.”
Imani sits up straight. “I’m relaxed, Clara. Maybe you should relax.”
“I’m too exhausted to get into it with you.” Clara waves her off.
“If I had six mini-devils running around my house, I’d be exhausted too.”
Oh!
I think for sure that Clara will be mad at that. I’m surprised when everyone in the parlor burst into laughter. Including Clara.
I’m not used to this kind of place.
People talk over each other, tease without filters, and openly call each other out. All done with love. No one is offended. I suddenly want someone to roast me; it’s been so long since anyone spoke out of turn to me.
I desperately want to feel like a part of these people.
Despite how interesting they are, my attention drifts to Margot again. She hasn’t looked at me once. Not a glance. Not a flicker.
I try not to notice as she slips back into the kitchen, but of course I do.
A few minutes pass. I make some excuse about needing water—no one hears me over the chatter—and I step out, heading toward the kitchen like I belong.
She’s there, alone, wiping her hands over a folded napkin. She doesn’t hear me at first. Her shoulders are slightly hunched. She looks tired. Not in a weak way. In a way that says she carries things no one sees.
I step closer and clear my throat.
She turns, instantly putting on a smile. But it’s clipped. Professional. Polite. It’s not the one I want. I’ve seen her real smile—it makes the whole inn feel like it’s breathing. This one? This one’s a wall.
“How can I help you?”
She asks it like I’m a stranger again. And technically, I am. But I don’t want to be.
I offer a small smile. “I thought I’d thank you. For the room. For being patient with me yesterday.”
She nods once, the kind of nod you give to an apology you don’t feel like unpacking. “Of course.”
There’s a pause. She moves to adjust the tea tray beside her, and I hate the silence more than I thought I would.
“Margot.”
She turns again, brows raised just slightly.
I take a step closer, just enough to lower my voice. “Is there anything around the inn I can help you with?”
She blinks. “Help me?”
“Yeah. I’ve got time, hands, and absolutely no plans. Figured I could make myself useful.”
Her lips twitch—something between surprise and amusement. But then the wall comes back up.
“You’re a guest, Mr. Reid,” she says evenly, brushing an invisible crumb off the counter. “You don’t have to do anything.”
I frown. “Are you sure? I literally have nothing to do. I can help.”
“I appreciate that,” she says, and the way she says it makes it sound like she means it. “But no thanks.”
Her tone isn’t harsh. Just final.
She goes back to arranging scones on a tray, her fingers moving with mechanical precision. The conversation, like the space between us, is closed.
I watch her for a moment longer than I should, then give a quiet nod and step back.
“Okay. I’ll just go… do nothing then.”
She doesn’t respond.
I turn to leave, my hand brushing the doorframe.
I can’t remember the last time I did any domestic chore, but right now, I’ll clean the whole building if she wants me to.
There’s something in her eyes, an exhaustion that feels familiar.
It’s probably a different brand from the one I feel, but I know the heaviness of it all too well.
Besides, it’s not like I have anything else to do.
Behind me, I hear her exhale—quiet, sharp, like she’s been holding it the whole time.
Something burns inside me, and I wonder if maybe I’m about to get more than I bargained for in Everfield.