7. Margot
MARGOT
H elp me?
“ Is there anything around the inn I can help you with?”
I’m in the Sunflower Room, fluffing pillows and wiping down the vanity for the third time even though it’s already spotless. Kettle Hour is over, the guests have all trickled back to their rooms, and the inn has settled into that soft kind of quiet that only comes after laughter and crumbs.
But I’m stuck. On Cal Reid.
He looked different tonight. Or maybe I was finally really looking. Clean, polished, shiny. There’s something quiet about him. Something simmering just beneath the surface.
And yes—he’s handsome. I noticed it the moment he stepped through the door, even though I was too irritated to admit it. But this evening, standing near the fireplace, eagerly answering every question that was thrown at him… There was something else.
I shake my head, pressing my fingers into my temples.
This is ridiculous. I don’t even know him. And I definitely don’t have time for distractions.
Still, when I blink, I see his face. And worse, I feel that flutter in my chest again—the one I’ve trained myself to ignore.
I give the pillow one final, unnecessary punch and whisper, “Get it together, Margot.”
But I don’t get it together.
My thoughts drift back to him standing in my kitchen, asking for ways he can help me.
It was so simple. So… genuine.
I’ve had men offer to take me out, to fix my printer, to get involved in things they have no business in. But no one’s ever asked that question—not like that. Not with the kind of sincerity that doesn’t feel like a performance. He meant it. I felt it. Without expecting anything else in return.
And that?
That’s the part that throws me.
It felt strange, being on the receiving end of someone else’s care, however small. I’m used to giving it. I’m the fixer. The smoother. The one who makes things happen, keeps everything running.
So why am I still standing here, heart fluttering like I’m sixteen?
I let out a soft, bitter laugh and I’m about to walk out of the room when my phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out, smiling when I see Mia’s name displayed on my screen.
Her name alone is a balm.
I sink into the armchair by the window and take the video call. Her face fills the screen—wide smile, curls piled on her head, backlit by the warm yellow glow of her Bardstown house.
“Hey, stranger,” she says. “You look… exhausted but glowy. Innkeeper life looks good on you.”
I roll my eyes. “That’s because this call is the only restful thing I’ve done all day.”
She gasps dramatically. “You mean owning and running an inn isn’t all freshly brewed tea and scones with jam?”
“I haven’t had tea since 8 a.m. and I only remember because it was cold by the time I took the first sip.”
She laughs. “Ah, the glamorous life.”
We fall into easy rhythm—her telling me about Bardstown, how Aunt Dotty made everyone cry at book club again, how the new girl in the group won’t stop suggesting Colleen Hoover titles like they’re the only books that exist. I laugh, but it feels like listening to someone else’s life now. One I used to live in.
Then Mia narrows her eyes, suddenly grinning. “So? Have you found anyone you like yet? Any sexy small-town mystery men sweeping you off your tired feet?”
I snort. “Mia.”
“What? Don’t ‘Mia’ me. It’s been, what, months? Don’t tell me there isn’t one interesting man in Everfield.”
“I barely have time for morning tea,” I say, shifting my weight. “Let alone finding a man.”
She pouts. “That’s a tragedy.”
“What’s tragic is I’m in my late twenties and my most meaningful relationship this week was with a golden retriever who lives here rent-free.”
Mia howls with laughter, and I let myself smile for real this time. “I’m serious. It’s a shame.”
Mia leans closer to the screen. “Okay, fine, I can’t help you run an inn from here, but I can help you find a man?—”
I groan, dragging a hand over my face. “Mia, I thought you left your matchmaking life behind when you got engaged.”
She bursts into laughter. “The life never leaves you. It’s in my blood. I was born to meddle.”
I shake my head, but I’m smiling. “God help Jack. Speaking of Jack, how is he?”
“Oh, he’s fine,” she grins, eyes softening. “Jack’s in L.A. right now, actually. On set.”
“Still filming that streaming series thing?”
“Yep. Another moody detective season. Lots of brooding in alleyways and jaw clenching.”
“You say that like it’s not your entire type.”
“It is my entire type. Why do you think I locked it down?” She holds up her hand and flashes her ring.
“Subtle,” I deadpan.
“Thank you.” She blows a kiss to the camera. “I’m flying out next week to see him, actually. I miss him.”
Her voice softens just slightly on the last part, and I can’t help but feel a little tug in my chest. I’m happy for her—really, I am. She deserves everything good. But some part of me wonders what it would be like to miss someone like that.
“Remind me again what missing someone feels like,” I say, half-joking.
She levels me with a look. “It’s like being low-key miserable, but also kind of glowing.”
“Uh, I wish.”
“Whatever. Hit me up when you need a man. I can hook you up.”
I laugh. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love me.”
“Unfortunately.” I roll my eyes and shake my head. “I really should get going. I have to balance my financial sheets for restocking next week.”
She sighs. “All right. Take good care of yourself. Okay?”
“I will. And you, too.”
I leave the Sunflower Room, still smiling faintly from my chat with Mia. The hallway is dim now, most guests tucked into their rooms. The soft hum of nighttime fills the inn—floorboards creaking, pipes sighing, Waffles snoring somewhere he shouldn’t be.
As I pass the library, a soft tink breaks the quiet.
I pause.
Another tink .
I step back and peek through the slightly open door.
I’m shocked to see Cal in there, crouched in front of one of the tall mahogany bookshelves, sleeves pushed up, adjusting a crooked shelf with the kind of casual focus that makes it seem like he does this sort of thing all the time.
There’s a stack of books beside him, neatly arranged, and his hand is on the bracket like he knows exactly what he’s doing.
My patience, already worn thin, snaps.
“Excuse me,” I say, stepping into the doorway. “What are you doing?”
He looks up, startled at first, then smiling like I’ve just offered him a cup of tea.
“This shelf,” he says, patting the wood. “It was leaning a little. Probably warped from the heat. Figured I’d straighten it out before someone leans on it and sends Austen flying.”
I fold my arms. “You’re a guest, Mr. Reid. Guests don’t fix shelves. Or anything, for that matter.”
He shrugs, calm. “It was bothering me.”
“That’s what staff is for. That’s what I’m for. You’re not supposed to lift a finger while you’re here. If something’s broken, you tell me. I’ll fix it.”
He rises to his feet, towering a little, but still relaxed. Still smiling. “And if it’s just… tilted? Not broken. Just annoying?”
“I will fix it, please. You’re here to rest.”
His eyes search mine like he’s trying to read more than what I’m saying. “You really don’t let anyone help you, do you?”
I bristle. “It’s not about help. It’s about roles. You’re a guest. You relax. I run the inn.”
“Right,” he says softly. “I’ll remember that.”
He steps aside, hands up, surrendering, but there’s something in his eyes I can’t quite name—humor, maybe. Or something more serious. I don’t know.
He starts to walk past me, quiet now, and something in my chest tightens.
He was just trying to help. He didn’t deserve the full brunt of my frustration.
“Hey, Mr. Reid,” I call out.
He stops mid-step and turns slightly, brows raised.
“I’m sorry,” I say, stepping toward him. “I shouldn’t have lashed out like that. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
His brow furrows—but playfully—and he places a hand over his chest. “I’m usually very forgiving, but not tonight. Tonight… you hurt me.”
His tone is dramatic, teasing, but his expression is so comically sincere that I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
I snort. “I’ll make it up to you. Complimentary lunch tomorrow, maybe?”
He tilts his head. “Nah. Let’s have a cup of tea.”
“Tea?”
“Exactly like the one you served during Kettle Hour today,” he says with a grin. “That citrus lavender blend? Might’ve changed my life.”
I start to open my mouth—to say no, to remind him he’s a guest and I’m me and this is not how this place works—but he raises a hand, smile softening.
“I’m joking,” he says gently. “You’re allowed to say no. I didn’t take it to heart. I understand the pressure you’re under. I’ve worked with people who carry a whole operation on their shoulders. You don’t owe me anything.”
There’s something in his voice—sincerity wrapped in charm—and I feel my defenses… falter. Just a little.
“But,” he continues, “I would really like to have tea with you. Even if it’s just ten minutes.”
I should say no.
I should.
But instead, I find myself nodding. “Okay. One cup of tea.”
“One.”
I lead him to the kitchen before I can change my mind.
It’s quiet and not exactly the kind of setting I want to be with my guest, but it’s the least I can do. I turn on the light because the dim lighting is too romantic and suggestive.
He takes a seat at the table, looking entirely at ease, like he’s been doing this for years.
I go to the kettle, fill it, and set it on the stove. “The tea I’m making? It technically belongs to Aunt Edie.”
He raises an eyebrow.
“She hoards her tea like diamond treasures. So if she finds out I brewed this without her…”
I glance over my shoulder at him and smile. “You never got it from me.”
He lifts a hand and makes a zipping motion across his lips. “This tea time never happened.”
I turn away, but I can’t help it—I laugh. Quiet, and only for me. This is not the time to share a laugh. He’s a guest! I’ll just make him tea and send him back to his room.