11. Margot
MARGOT
I ’m in the kitchen, elbow-deep in receipts, with a notebook open in front of me and a pen tapping against my chin. I’m supposed to be writing a financial to-do list—something I’ve been meaning to do for weeks now—but the numbers blur before I can organize a single thought.
All I can think about is Cal.
Not just the moment earlier, but the way he looked at me when I said he was “just a guest.” Like I’d built a wall and slammed the gate shut in his face. The worst part? I didn’t even mean to. Not like that.
It’s been over an hour since then.
Kettle Hour is done, the crumbs swept up, the teacups washed. Most of the guests have wandered off to their rooms or curled up in the den with books. The house has quieted into that low hum of nighttime peace.
But Cal still hasn’t come back inside.
I let out a slow breath and try to focus. I scribble the word utilities on the notepad, but even that looks wrong. I stare at it like it’s in another language.
The truth is—I messed up.
And what’s worse is that everyone knew it. Dad stopped talking. Aunt Edie just gave me that look. Even Mom didn’t defend me. They all quietly dispersed like I’d said something unforgivable.
But did I?
I wasn’t wrong, was I? He’s a guest. Why did everyone just accept him like that? He isn’t the first male guest we’ve hosted at the inn, so why is it different with him?
I pull the notebook back toward me and force myself to focus.
Financial To-Do List
Utility bills (due by the 3rd)
Supply run for guest rooms (Maya said Room 4’s towels are thinning)
Bakery invoice (still pending for last week’s delivery)
Flowers for Honeysetts— paid today
Edie’s hospital bills
I stop there, pen hovering over the page like it suddenly weighs a hundred pounds.
That last one punches the air out of my lungs.
I don’t even need to write the amount—I already know it.
I see it in my sleep. I see it every time I close the freezer and find it full of frozen meals because Aunt Edie won’t let me cook for her.
Every time she tries to sweep a hallway she has no business being in.
Every time she pretends she’s not tired.
I press my hand to my forehead and squeeze my eyes shut. The inn is surviving. Barely. But surviving. And yet… her bills loom like a cloud I can’t outrun.
I write down the total anyway. Just so I can see it on paper. Just so it’s not only living in my chest like a stone.
My stomach twists.
I rub the back of my neck and glance toward the window. The sun’s slipping down now, warm and gold against the trees.
Still no sign of him.
He said he wanted to step out for a bit of air. Why’s that taking so long? It’s been over an hour!
The front door swings open with a bang, loud enough to snap me right out of my thoughts.
“Cal!”
I freeze, pen still in my hand. It’s the chorus of guests from the front parlor—Mrs. Claremont’s unmistakable voice layered with Daryl’s deep chuckle and Amee’s dramatic squeal.
Then I hear it.
His laugh.
Soft. Warm. Familiar now, somehow.
It drifts down the hall like it’s looking for me. I close my eyes for a second, listening.
I creep to the kitchen doorway and press my ear to it like some nosy schoolgirl.
Ridiculous.
I should walk away, but I don’t.
I hear Amee’s voice float in from the parlor, bright and curious. “Where’d you sneak off to, Mr. Mysterious?”
“I just needed a walk,” Cal says, his voice smooth and casual. “Felt a little… suffocated.”
Suffocated?
I blink, stunned. My chest tightens.
Amee barrels on. “You missed the bouquet Margot got the Honeysetts! She surprised them with it right before dinner.”
A pause.
He hums like he’s never heard of it in his life. “Really? That’s sweet of her.”
I stare at the wall like it’s betrayed me.
He didn’t just leave—he erased the whole afternoon like it never happened.
Like it wasn’t his car we drove into town.
Like he didn’t pick out lilies and argue with me over the price of tulips.
Like he didn’t drive the whole way home with the bouquet perched carefully on the seat beside him, as if it were breakable glass. I press my hand to my stomach.
It shouldn’t hurt. He’s a guest. A stranger.
Still, I step away from the door.
Still, it hurts.
I’ve never been more confused in my life. I hate feeling like this.
I sit back down at the kitchen table, the pen still clutched in my hand, the to-do list looking back at me like it knows all my secrets. I blink down at all the numbers but they blur together, meaningless.
All I can think about is Cal and the stark realization that I’ve been thinking about him way more than my usual guests. I don’t know when it happened. When I started… noticing.
Not just his handsome face. But the way he listens. The way he laughs quietly when he’s not trying to charm anyone. The way he picked flowers with me like it mattered.
And now, the way he walked out tonight—cool, distant. Like I hurt him.
I rub my temples. I need to finish this list.
But then I hear it—the shuffle of footsteps, the quiet goodnights drifting up from the front parlor. Doors closing. Laughter dimming. Someone flicks off the hallway lamp. The inn sighs into silence, soft and familiar.
Everyone has gone to sleep.
I take a deep breath and look up?—
And there he is.
Cal, standing at the doorway, arms folded, watching me.
I jump, startled, and my elbow knocks the edge of the stool. It wobbles dangerously and suddenly I’m not standing—I’m falling.
But I don’t hit the floor.
He’s there before I can blink, one arm steadying the stool, the other wrapping around my waist, firm and unshakable. My face is inches from his chest, the scent of him—tea and something clean and unfamiliar—rushing up to meet me.
“I’ve got you,” he murmurs.
His voice is low, steady, like the rest of him. But his arm lingers a second too long around me.
I pull back. “You scared me.”
“I didn’t mean to.” His eyes scan mine carefully, like he’s looking for something. “You seemed deep in thought.”
I straighten. “I was.”
“You looked like you were fighting a war with that paper.”
I glance down at the half-scribbled to-do list. “Just the usual. Bills. Problems. Miracles we can’t afford.”
His gaze doesn’t leave mine. “Are you okay?”
I shake my head. “No. I mean—yes. But… no. I don’t know.”
He doesn’t say anything. Just waits.
“I need to apologize,” I admit. “For earlier. With my mom. With you.”
He leans back a little, arms crossed again, casual but attentive. “You don’t have to apologize.”
I pause, my throat tightening slightly. I just… feel like I need to apologize. I hate feeling like I hurt him, but then, I don’t know what exactly I’m apologizing for. For being snappy? For drawing a line? For saying he was just a guest?
“I crossed a line,” he says. “It was a boundary you needed to enforce.”
His words are so calm, but there’s something vulnerable underneath. And it stings in a way I didn’t expect.
I glance down at my hands. “I’m used to having a tight grip on things. Especially here. The inn, my family. Guests don’t usually…”
“Get invited to breakfast?”
I look up. He’s smiling a little, but there’s no mockery in it.
“Exactly,” I say.
A beat passes. The air is thick with something I can’t name.
“I didn’t come here to mess with your order, Margot,” he says. “I came here to disappear.”
I sit back on the table, the edge digging into my palm. He pulls out a chair and sits across from me, like we’ve done this a hundred times before.
“You can always let me know when I’m going out of line.”
He starts drumming his fingers on the table, light and rhythmic, like we didn’t just dip our toes into a very deep, very real moment.
“So,” he says, tilting his head, “what list is this?”
I glance down at the paper in front of me. It’s smudged and messy from how many times I’ve rewritten the numbers, crossed things out, started again.
“Financials,” I say with a tired smile. “The glamorous life of running a charming inn.”
He raises a brow. “Charming, yes. Glamorous, not so much.”
I laugh. “Fair enough.”
He leans in slightly. “Why did you look so… helpless earlier? When I walked in and you didn’t see me?”
I hesitate. My instinct is to brush it off, say something flippant. But something about the way he asks—gentle, not demanding—makes me want to tell the truth.
I exhale. “It’s Aunt Edie,” I say quietly. “Her medical bills. We’re still paying them off. Insurance covered some, but not enough. And between the upkeep of the inn, staff pay, groceries, linen services, repairs…” I trail off and gesture to the list. “We’re barely staying afloat.”
He doesn’t say anything for a second. Just watches me with that calm, thoughtful look of his.
“It’s hard,” I add, softer. “Feeling like you’re constantly one broken pipe away from losing everything.”
There’s a silence that settles between us, thick but not uncomfortable. Like he’s letting me exhale all the weight I’ve been carrying around.
“You’re not alone in this,” he says eventually.
I meet his eyes. “Sometimes it feels like I am.”
His expression doesn’t shift much. But something in his jaw tightens slightly, like he’s just decided something.
But before I can ask what, he smiles again and reaches for the pen on the table. “Want help crunching some numbers?”
I blink. “You’re offering to help me budget now?”
“I’m very good with numbers.”
I laugh before I can stop myself, shaking my head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And you’re exhausted,” he says. “Let me help.”
As sweet as he is, I’m not ready to go that far with him. Sharing inn finances with a guest? No. No matter how kind, handsome, and gentle he is. But I don’t want to outrightly reject his kind offer, not when it might hurt him again.
Plus, he’s nice company, so I really do want to spend some time with him. I file the to-do list away in the folder and close it with a sigh. No more numbers tonight.
Cal watches me curiously. “What are you doing now?”
I slide open the side drawer and gesture for him to come over. “This,” I whisper like it’s top secret, “is Aunt Edie’s tea collection. Choose one. And choose wisely.”
He leans in, gasping dramatically as he peers at the colorful rows of labeled sachets. “Why do I feel like I’m doing something criminal?”
“Because we are.” I grin. “Now hurry!”
He laughs under his breath as he reads the labels one by one, his voice low and amused. “Vanilla Earl Grey… Lavender Dreams… Chamomile Citrus… Ooh, something called Moonlight Mint? This is serious business.”
“Every tea has a mood,” I say, arms folded, pretending to be stern. “Choose your mood.”
He plucks one out with mock ceremony. “Cinnamon Rose. This better be good.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Bold choice.”
I take the bag from him and walk to the kettle, flipping the switch. The water begins to hum, and I try not to think about how quiet the kitchen suddenly feels—with just the two of us, the glow from the lamp, and the steady bubbling of a stolen moment.
“So,” he says, propping himself on the edge of the table, “what’s the punishment if Aunt Edie catches us?”
“She’ll guilt-trip us until the end of time,” I reply. “That’s worse than jail.”
He laughs. “Worth it.”
I don’t say anything. Just smile to myself as I pour the hot water over the tea.
This—this tiny, rebellious moment—feels like the calm I didn’t know I needed.
I pour the tea into two mismatched ceramic mugs—one has a faded painting of a sunflower, the other says “World’s Okayest Cook.” I hand him the latter and lean back against the counter, arms crossed, watching him like a hawk.
“Well?” I ask. “How is it?”
He takes a long, deliberate sip, swallows, then closes his eyes dramatically. “I’ll go to war for this flavor every night, Margot.”
The laugh bursts out of me before I can stop it—loud and unfiltered and too real. He gasps, eyes wide.
“Shh! Do you want Aunt Edie coming down here and catching us in the act?”
I cover my mouth, trying—and failing—to smother another giggle. “You started it!”
He lifts his mug, grinning. “I regret nothing.”
I shake my head, the smile still on my face. It’s been so long since I laughed like that. Since I felt this light.
And now I’m sipping contraband tea in the quiet of the inn kitchen with a man I should probably be keeping at arm’s length… but somehow, I don’t want to.
We linger in the kitchen far longer than we should—curled around steaming mugs of Aunt Edie’s prized tea, the kind of warmth that seeps past your throat and settles somewhere deep in your chest.
We talk.
Not about anything particularly grand at first. Just…
little things. Cal tells me a ridiculous story about trying to fix a garbage disposal as a teenager—one that ended in a minor electrical fire.
I snort so hard I nearly spill my tea. Then I tell him about the time Hazel installed wallpaper in Room 5 upside down and tried to convince everyone it was “artistic.”
We laugh. A lot.
It’s easy. Effortless. His presence takes up space in a way that doesn’t crowd me—it fills the room without pressing in. His eyes are soft when I talk, and for some reason, that makes me want to talk more.
I tell him a little about myself. Not the whole story, but enough. That I used to live in Bardstown. That I worked in PR. That I left when Aunt Edie got sick. That this place—Key & Kettle—has always been my second home. My first home, really. The only one that felt like mine.
I don’t say how hard it’s been. I don’t tell him about the nights I cry in my truck or the weight of the bills or how scared I get sometimes that I’m not enough to keep this all running.
But somehow, I think he hears all that anyway.
He doesn’t press. He just nods slowly and says, “I think you’re doing something really beautiful here.”
It catches me off guard. The sincerity. The quiet way he says it. Like he means it. Like it matters.
And for the first time in a long time… it does.
Until a shocked gasp from the doorway shatters the moment.
“Are you two drinking my tea?”
The voice is so dramatic, so full of betrayal, I nearly drop my cup.
Then—
A louder gasp.
“And my rarest flavor?”
It’s Aunt Edie, standing with wide eyes. “Oh, you’re both in trouble. You can’t get out of this one.”