9. Margot
MARGOT
I push through the front door, my heart thrumming from my encounter with Cal. I didn’t know he was out there with Dad and Aunt Edie, or I’d have sent Ana out with tea.
Ana looks up from the front desk, eyes narrowing. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah. Fine.” I wave her off, trying to look composed even though my pulse is anything but.
She tilts her head. “You sure? You look flushed.”
“Just warm.” I tug off my cardigan, pretending I’m not unraveling. “Did you hear from the florist today?”
Ana shakes her head. “No sign of Delia, but Mr. Avery came down some time ago. Said something’s up with his bathroom. Something about a strange sound when he flushes.”
I gasp. Oh, yes! I totally forgot about it.
Gosh.
I’m already halfway to the stairs.
“Margot—”
“I’ve got it!” I call back, taking the steps two at a time. “Let’s just hope it’s not another plumbing disaster!”
I reach the second floor and hurry down the hallway, my footsteps muffled by the old runner rug. Room Ten—Mr. Avery’s—is at the end.
I knock, bracing myself for a complaint and already reaching for my apologetic smile.
The door opens a crack, and there he is—buttoned up in his usual cardigan, thick glasses perched on his nose.
“Mr. Avery, I’m so sorry about the bathroom. Ana told me, and?—”
He holds up a hand. “Don’t worry. It’s been fixed. Thank you.”
Then—click—the door shuts before I can say anything else.
I blink at the door, stunned.
Fixed?
By who?
I whirl around and glance down the hallway as if the answer will materialize from the air. But it’s quiet. Peaceful.
Frowning, I descend the stairs, my boots tapping lightly on the old wood. The to-do list in my head is still whirring—plumbing, towels, the late apple cider delivery—but one thing is clear: I did not fix Mr. Avery’s bathroom.
Just as I reach the bottom step, the front door creaks open.
Aunt Edie trudges in, bundled in one of her oversized shawls and muttering about how the weather has “turned on her joints.”
I cross my arms. “Aunt Edie, do you know anything about Mr. Avery’s plumbing being fixed?”
She pauses in the middle of the foyer, then raises her brows innocently. “Me?”
“Yes. You.”
She snorts, peeling off her gloves. “Margot, I know you think I can do everything—and to be fair, I can—but I’ve never touched plumbing tools in my life. I wouldn’t even know which way to hold a wrench.”
I narrow my eyes. “I just went up to his room and he says it’s been fixed. Didn’t even give me time to question it.”
“Well, be thankful for a miracle. Don’t question it.”
That gets a laugh out of me despite myself. “Well… that’s strange. But I’m so happy it’s off my to-do list. Finally, I can catch a break.”
Aunt Edie gives me a sly smile I don’t quite trust. “Miracles happen every day, darling.”
Then she glides into the kitchen, humming as she goes.
I stare after her, wondering what that’s about.
But I should have known breaks don’t come to me that easily. If it isn’t Mr. Avery’s bathroom, something else will definitely come up.
That afternoon, I’m stretched out on the tufted loveseat in my office, lazily reviewing tomorrow’s schedule, when Ana walks in with the kind of face people usually wear before delivering terrible news. She looks like she’s about to combust.
“Something just came up,” she starts, hands wringing. “But I need you to relax.”
I bolt upright. “You saying that already has me riled up. What is it?”
She hesitates. And that hesitation is the final warning shot.
I narrow my eyes. “Wait. Don’t tell me it’s about the flowers, Ana, because I will explode.”
Ana groans. “It is. Delia just called. Her grandson is in the hospital—some kind of food poisoning. She won’t be able to make the delivery today.”
My heart skips a beat. “Oh no. Is Benson okay?”
“She says he’ll be fine. He’s under observation.”
I exhale sharply. “Thank goodness.”
Then reality slams into me. “But the bouquet! We need that bouquet before Kettle Hour! The Honeysetts’ anniversary is today, Ana. That’s the one surprise I planned all week!”
Ana nods grimly. “I know.”
The room falls silent as the weight of it hits me. The Honeysetts—retired professors, room 3, married forty-eight years—live for this kind of thoughtfulness. I have to sort this out.
My goodness. If only Mia were here!
I press my fingers to my temples. “We can’t give them a scone and a smile. Not today. This is their thing. The anniversary. The bouquet on the piano. The card.”
I’m already on my feet, grabbing my keys from the hook by the door.
“I’ll go into town and get the flowers myself,” I say, already halfway into the hallway.
“But—Margot?—”
“I’ll be back before Kettle Hour!”
I push through the front doors and march straight to my truck. The air is crisp, my breath puffing out in front of me as I jam the key into the ignition and turn.
Nothing.
I pause.
Try again.
Click-click.
Nothing.
“No. No, no, no,” I mutter, gripping the steering wheel like sheer willpower might wake the engine.
One more time.
Still nothing.
“Are you kidding me right now?” I hiss, slamming my hand against the wheel.
This day is officially testing me.
I glance toward the inn, jaw tight. The sun is already beginning its descent behind the hills. If I don’t leave now, the Honeysetts won’t get their anniversary flowers. And if anyone deserves flowers and sentiment and attention, it’s them.
I rest my forehead on the steering wheel, letting out a slow, angry breath.
“Need a hand?”
The voice comes from behind me.
I turn—and see Cal.
He’s leaning just slightly against a porch column, casual as ever, wearing that annoyingly calm expression.
Of course he’s here. Of course he saw everything.
“I got it,” I mutter, trying the ignition again.
Click-click.
Nothing.
“It doesn’t look like you got it,” Cal says, laughing as he strolls closer.
“It’s not funny,” I groan, slumping back against the seat.
“It’s a little funny,” he says, stopping beside the driver’s side window, arms folded over his chest like he has all the time in the world.
“Where are you going anyway?”
“To pick up flowers,” I grumble. “Our florist had an emergency, and I need a bouquet before Kettle Hour. It’s the Honeysetts’ wedding anniversary.”
“Let me drive you.”
I blink at him. “What?”
He nods toward his rental. “I’ll drive you into town. It’ll take twenty minutes, tops.”
“I don’t think that’s?—”
“Don’t think about yourself,” he cuts in, a teasing smile playing on his lips. “Think about the Honeysetts. Be a hero. Make the right decision.”
I open my mouth. Close it.
“You could just lend me your car,” I try weakly.
“Nope.” He grins. “I want to drive you into town. Come on.”
I stare at him for a beat, torn between pride and practicality.
Then I sigh and shut the truck door with more force than necessary,
“Do you shut your door like this all the time, or is that just for me?”
I can’t help the chuckle that falls out of my lips. “Thank you, Cal. For offering.”
He winks at me and leads me to his rented car in the back.
“Do you take your keys everywhere with you?”
“No.” He holds the passenger door open for me like it’s the 1950s and helps me in. “Just today. And fortunately.”
He gets in, starts the car, and for a while, it’s quiet. Peaceful.
But then I feel it—that subtle weight of his gaze. I glance sideways and, yep, he’s full-on staring.
I turn. “Look at the road, Mr. Reid.”
“I’m looking.” He glances out at the windshield again, a half-smile on his face.
“Why are you looking at me like that?”
His lips twitch. “You’re pretty.”
Just like that. Like it’s a basic observation, like he’s pointing out the weather.
Before I can recover, he adds, “I also think it’s sweet. What you’re doing—racing into town to buy flowers for a guest’s anniversary? That kind of care isn’t the usual. It proves Key & Kettle is a real home.”
His voice is low, genuine. No charm, no game. Just truth.
I can’t help but smile. “Thank you.”
“So how many years have they been married?” he asks, eyes on the winding road ahead.
“Forty-eight,” I say.
He lets out a low gasp. “Their marriage is older than me.”
I arch a brow, latching onto that crumb of information. “How old are you?”
He glances sideways, the corner of his mouth twitching. “I’ll tell you… but only if you do something for me in return.”
“Something like?”
“Stop calling me Mr. Reid.” His tone is light, but there’s a note of sincerity underneath. “I’ll be more comfortable if you call me Cal.”
I consider that. “Okay,” I say eventually. “Deal.”
“Good. I’m thirty-one.”
“Oh.”
He chuckles. “Oh? What does that mean?”
“I don’t know. You don’t look a day over twenty-five.”
His smile grows. “Your first compliment. I’m filing that one away for later.”
I laugh, shaking my head. It’s so easy to talk to him, easier than I want it to be. My shoulders begin to loosen without me realizing.
“So… Mr.—Cal.” I catch myself, and he gives me a small approving nod.
“Yes?”
“Where did you even find out about Key & Kettle?”
“An online ad,” he answers. “I was hooked immediately.”
I raise an eyebrow, teasing. “So the marketing worked.”
“Too well,” he mutters, almost to himself. Then he glances at me. “But I’m glad it did.”
There’s a beat of quiet, then he laughs and stays silent. For the first time in my life, I’m dying to continue a conversation, but I don’t want to press hard.
Soon, we pull up in front of The Wild Bunch, one of Everfield’s flower shops, a cozy little cottage with ivy crawling up its sides and soft music floating out through the open door. I reach for the handle, but before I get out, I glance at Cal.
“You can wait in the car,” I say, grabbing my purse. “I won’t be long.”
His brows lift. “Why would I wait in the car?”
I pause, unsure how to answer that without sounding… dismissive. “I just thought—you might not want to go inside. It’s a flower shop.”
He laughs and opens his door. “Someone’s gotta hold the bags. Besides, I’m interested in picking out the flowers. At least that way, I can say I was a part of the surprise.”
Before I can argue, he’s out of the car and already opening the shop door for me. A tiny bell jingles overhead as we step into the warmth of the space. It smells like roses and eucalyptus and freshly damp soil. I’ve always loved this place.
We walk down the aisle together, and I start gathering flowers from memory—orange ranunculus, white roses, some blush chrysanthemums.
“What’s that one for?” Cal asks, pointing to the ranunculus in my hand.
“Joy. Admiration,” I say.
He hums. “Seems fitting for forty-eight years of marriage.”
I grab a stem of eucalyptus. “This adds texture and scent. Plus, it symbolizes protection.”
“Romantic and practical,” he says, following close behind.
I reach for white roses. “These are classic.”
“What do they mean?”
“Purity. Loyalty. Everlasting love.”
He places a hand over his heart. “Okay, that one got me.”
I try not to smile too wide, but it’s no use. He’s ridiculous in the most endearing way.
“Are you always like this?” I ask, glancing at him as I gather another bundle.
“Like what?”
“Charming.”
He tilts his head. “Only on Tuesdays.”
I roll my eyes, but I’m laughing now. We keep walking, gathering stems and trading commentary like we’ve done this before—like it’s natural. Like we’re a we . Which is… absurd. But something about this moment, this company—it feels good.
Too good.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
We almost argue by the time we get around to the counter, and Cal offers to pay, but once I tell him I got it, he nods and takes a step back, letting me finish the transaction.
When I finish, he grabs the wrapped bouquet without another word and carries it to the car like it’s made of glass.
We’re barely back on the road when Cal groans beside me.
“Nooo. We’re going to miss Kettle Hour.”
I glance at the clock and laugh. It’s 4:10. “You like it that much?”
“I’ve never looked forward to anything in my life the way I look forward to four p.m. in that front parlor,” he says. “The tea. The scones. The chaos. Especially Imani and Clara.”
I laugh. “They’re the highlight of Kettle Hour for me.”
“Me too.” He grins. “At first, I thought they hated each other. I mean, the way they talk to each other? Brutal.”
“That’s just their dynamic. It’s like live theater every day. They love it.”
“They’re weirdly entertaining,” he says, shaking his head. “The first day, I thought I was watching a full-blown fight. Then they started laughing. I was so confused.”
“Guess what?”
He glances at me. “What?”
“When Clara and her ex-husband, Rowan, need to go somewhere without the kids… guess who watches all six of them?”
He turns fully toward me, wide-eyed. “No way.”
“Yes way.”
“All six of them?” He chuckles. “Imani must hate that.”
“She says she does,” I reply, as the car eases into the turn. “But the kids always want to go back to her place. And honestly, I don’t think any child begs to return somewhere they’re not treated right.”
He whistles. “Okay. Imani just earned my eternal respect.”
I smile, watching the road—but my chest feels warm in a way that has nothing to do with the heater. Something about driving through these golden hills with him beside me, teasing and thoughtful and effortlessly kind… it makes the world feel softer.
As we pull into the driveway, I spot someone trudging up the porch with a handful of paint cans and a yellow-streaked T-shirt that used to be white.
Hazel.
Cal slows the car and points. “That your sister? We met a few days ago. She’s great.”
“Thanks,” I say, stepping out of the car.
“Haze!” I call out.
She hears me, pauses, and unceremoniously drops the cans on the porch with a dramatic sigh before walking over. There’s dried paint in her hair. Of course.
“What’s with the flowers?” she asks, just as Cal climbs out of the car, still holding the bouquet like it’s sacred cargo.
“Hi, Cal,” she adds, belatedly.
“Hello, Hazel,” he says with an easy smile.
I motion to the flowers. “Cal, we have to hide those—kind of defeats the purpose of a surprise when you wave them around at the front door.”
Hazel raises an eyebrow. “Oh, I’m sorry. Did I miss the part where I was briefed on this top-secret flower operation?”
I shoot her a look and snatch the bouquet from Cal. “Hazel, you’re late.”
She scoffs. “Um, late for what? I never said I was coming today. I’m here of my own volition.”
“Whatever. Come with me.” I flash Cal a smile. “Thank you so much, Cal. I’ll make it up to you.”
Then I turn on my heel and head toward the entryway before I say something less grateful and more… personal.
Behind me, I hear Hazel’s exaggerated sigh and the creak of the porch under her boots.
Cal’s voice follows. “Does she always feel like she has to repay every favor?”
Hazel laughs. “Not always, just every single time.”