13. Margot
MARGOT
C al meets me in the kitchen the next morning at ten.
The moment he walks through the door, I can’t help it—I laugh.
“Why are you dressed like you’re going on an interview?”
He grins, straightening the collar of his button-down. “I want to make a good impression.”
“Cal, please. Impressions have been made since last week.” I shake my head, still smiling. “Come on. Let’s go.”
Cal laughs and follows me out the door. As we step outside, I glance down—and immediately catch sight of his shoes. I haven’t seen them before. Black leather. Polished. Serious. They belong in a conference room, not on the gravel path leading to my parents’ orchard house.
My gaze lifts—slowly—and sweeps over the rest of him. Crisp gray button-down tucked into tailored black pants. He looks completely out of place in the most intentional way. Like he could run a board meeting and charm a room full of executives before breakfast.
But he’s walking beside me, smiling like he has nowhere else he’d rather be.
I realize then that I find him so attractive in businesswear just as much as I like him in casual—maybe more.
The thought sneaks up on me, warm and a little dangerous. I look away quickly, hoping he doesn’t notice the way my cheeks heat. I like how he took his time to make sure he looks good. It’s just breakfast, but the fact that he treats my invitation as something more important makes my heart smile.
Cal nudges me lightly with his elbow. “I love your dress,” he says, voice warm. “It looks beautiful on you. You look pretty.”
This time, there’s no stopping the blush. I flick my hair over my shoulder, trying to hide my face as I mumble, “Thank you.”
Cal chuckles, like he knows exactly what he just did.
The orchard house isn’t far—just around the corner—but walking beside Cal, it somehow feels like a marathon. Every step is slow and strange and a little too aware.
Being around Cal is… calm. Familiar, like an old friend, which is odd because I’ve never been the type to easily make friends.
But with him, there’s no pressure to be anyone else.
I enjoy his company more than I’ll ever admit out loud.
Especially our little nighttime tea “parties.” As silly as they are, after every cup, I sleep better. Deeper. Lighter.
Last night, though, something was different. There was a tension hanging in the air—not heavy or awkward, but quiet and charged, like he wanted to say something but didn’t. And for me… something shifted.
Seeing him out there by the circuit breaker, it did something to me. He didn’t know I was back. He wasn’t doing it to impress me. He just… did it. Because it needed to be done. Because maybe he thought it would make my life easier.
It was sweet. Honestly, unfairly sweet.
And then came the tea. And then came Thea.
I love my sister, I do. But really, Thea? You couldn’t have picked five minutes later to emerge from your bat cave?
She’d come into the kitchen last night in search of tampons—apparently, she ran out and didn’t feel like going to the store.
She left almost immediately after, but the damage was done.
Cal had already said goodnight and slipped upstairs, leaving me alone with a cooling teacup and the lingering feeling.
Cal suddenly reaches out and gently takes my arm. “Careful. That’s a stone.”
I blink and look down just in time to see the jagged edge of a loose stone buried in the path. “Oh. Thank you.”
His eyes study me, that quiet intensity of his never quite letting up. “You sure you’re okay?”
“Yes,” I say quickly, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “I’m just wondering whether I forgot to give Ana any instructions.”
Cal rolls his eyes playfully. “Margot, please. The inn will survive one hour without you.”
I laugh because he’s right. And also because it’s been a long time since anyone has looked at me like that—with genuine care and not expectation.
We reach my parents’ porch, the scent of old wood and garden roses thick in the summer air. I raise my hand and knock on the front door.
As soon as the door swings open, my dad appears like he’s been standing behind it all morning.
His eyes widen the second he sees Cal. “Cal’s here,” he says—loudly. Like he’s announcing a celebrity.
Cal blinks and looks at me, a little startled. I shrug like I have no idea what’s happening either.
From inside the kitchen, Mom’s voice drifts in, high and musical. “Cal’s here? Hello, Cal!”
Hazel pokes her head out from the hallway, for once not covered in streaks of paint. Her hair is tied up in a loose bun, her brows lifted with surprise. “Cal’s here? Oh wow. That’s a shocking one.” She waves. “Hello, Cal.”
Shocking? What is she even talking about?
Cal chuckles and leans toward me. “They’re happy to see me.”
And he says it so genuinely—so adorably, honestly—that my heart does a little something dangerous in my chest. I pretend I didn’t feel it. Roll my eyes and laugh instead.
“Obviously no one cares that I’m standing here. Dad, can we at least come in?”
“Oh.” Dad grins and steps back like he just remembered I exist. “Come in, Cal. Welcome to the house.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cal says warmly.
He steps aside to let me go in first, and I do—stepping into the delicious smell of something sweet and buttery, warm air, and the inevitable unraveling chaos that is Sunday breakfast at the Hartwells’.
Cal follows me in, and the second the door shuts behind us, I know this was a mistake.
Because suddenly I’m hyperaware of him. Of how close we’re standing. Of how comfortably he fits into this picture—like he was always meant to be here.
And that’s a scary thought. A very scary thought.
I glance around, trying to see the living room through his eyes.
It’s not glamorous. Not even close. The couches are old but still cute, mismatched pillows slumped in corners.
One armrest has a tiny tear Hazel swore she’d sew up three years ago.
The recliner by the window is Dad’s throne, where he used to watch baseball with a beer in one hand and a daughter—usually Juniper—in the other.
There’s an old afghan Aunt Edie crocheted decades ago, flung lazily across the back of the couch. It doesn’t match anything, which is exactly why it belongs.
It’s home.
It’s always been home.
Thea’s tucked in one corner, legs folded beneath her on the floor, laptop open, fingers flying. She doesn’t even look up. Classic Thea—lost in code or whatever side project has kidnapped her brain today.
Cal stands there for a second, taking it all in. Not judging. Just… absorbing.
Then my dad clears his throat and gestures toward the couch. “Have a seat, Cal. Make yourself at home.”
Cal smiles and nods. “Thank you, sir.” He sits like he belongs here. Like it’s natural.
I leave Cal with my father and head into the kitchen and immediately smell it—cinnamon, roasted garlic, something buttery and sweet.
Mom is bustling around in her apron, humming to some old ‘70s love song on the radio while Aunt Edie wipes down the counter with practiced efficiency. The food’s clearly done.
I see steaming casseroles and a stack of fluffy pancakes already plated.
Oh, pancakes. Cal’s going to love that.
“Smells like heaven,” I murmur, kissing them each on the cheek.
“You didn’t tell me Cal was coming,” Mom complains. “I would have made him?—”
My phone starts to ring. “Mom, don’t worry. He loves pancakes,” I say, fishing in the pocket of my dress for the device. It’s Juniper. With exams around the corner, it’s recently become hard to reach Juniper on the phone, so seeing her call makes me super excited.
“Juniper,” I say, answering. “Hello, my favorite sister.”
“I heard that!” Hazel announces as she strolls in, beelining for the tray of bacon, snatches two strips, and pops one into her mouth before Mom swats at her with a wooden spoon.
“Hazel Hartwell! I have half a mind to?—”
Hazel dodges the spoon like a pro and winks. “Half a mind is generous, Mom.”
“You’re banned from the kitchen!” Mom says, pointing dramatically to the door.
“Is that Mom?” Juniper laughs. “And Hazel? Is there a party going?”
“Just breakfast.” I turn the phone around, letting Juniper greet everyone in the kitchen for a few moments before turning the screen back to me.
“Ugh, I miss that kitchen,” she says.
“Tell me about school,” I say, leaning against the fridge. “Are you still doing that weird elective?”
“Psycholinguistics is not weird,” Juniper groans. “I love it. It’s literally teaching me why Aunt Edie talks like a 1940s radio host.”
Aunt Edie gasps, hand on chest. “How dare you, Juniper Hartwell?”
We laugh, and Juniper sighs on the other end. “Where’s Dad? Can I talk to him?”
“Sure,” I say, still smiling. “He’s in the living room.”
I walk back toward the parlor and hand Dad the phone. The moment his face appears on screen, I hear Juniper’s voice erupting with joy: “Dad! I’ve missed you!”
Cal, seated across from him, turns toward me. “Wait—you have another sister?”
I laugh and sit down beside him. “I have three. Hazel, Thea, and Juniper. Hazel’s the chaotic artist, Thea’s the techie who never leaves her cave, and Juniper’s the baby of the house. She’s in college.”
Cal grins. “Wow. A full house.”
“Yup.”
He nods like he’s storing it all away. “What else should I know?”
I open my mouth, but no words come out. I find it sweet that he wants to know more about this crazy circus that is my family. His eyes are soft and genuine.
I’m interrupted by Mom’s voice drifting into the living room from the dining area. “All right, breakfast is ready. Everybody, to the table before it gets cold!”
There’s a stampede of movement.
Hazel calls dibs on the chair by the window. Dad grabs his usual seat at the head of the table. Thea finally unplugs from her laptop and shuffles into the dining room like a grumpy vampire. She gives Cal a friendly nod as she pulls out a chair across from him.
“Hi, Cal.”
He smiles warmly at her. “Hi, Thea.”