17. Margot
MARGOT
T he kitchen smells like cinnamon and something yeasty—probably Aunt Edie’s third attempt at those fancy sourdough rolls she’s been experimenting with. I want to tell her to slow down, but after our last conversation about this, I’m genuinely trying to let her breathe and take her time.
Clara’s half-asleep in a chair, nursing a mug of tea. My mom is cross-legged on a stool by the pantry, flipping through a notebook like it holds the secrets of the universe. Hazel’s on the counter, barefoot, sketching table layout ideas in the margins of an old receipt.
As for me, I’m pacing, my brain trying to unpack so many ideas all at once.
“There are going to be at least forty guests,” I say, tapping my pen against my palm. “We need extra seating, mood lighting, and the wine crates from the cellar should be brought out early to breathe.”
Hazel grins. “You sound like you’re planning a royal banquet, not a wine tasting.”
“It’s a big deal,” I say, trying not to let the edge creep into my voice. “We’ve never hosted a wine event this size before.”
Aunt Edie raises a brow from where she’s peeling fruit. “That’s why we’ve got you at the helm, darling.”
Clara groans dramatically. “I’ll help, but only if someone promises to distract my children tomorrow. Preferably with sugar and cartoons.”
My mom waves a hand. “They can stay with me in the orchard house. I’ll feed them jam and send them back sticky and happy.”
Everyone laughs, even me.
The thing is, I am excited. A little nervous, maybe. But excited. This is the kind of thing the Key & Kettle was made for—community, conversation, something warm and special.
Still… as I scribble more notes into my planner, part of my mind drifts.
To Cal. To the way the wind tousled his hair last night in the garden.
The way his voice softened when he talked about stars and light pollution.
The way he looked at me—like I was the only thing he wanted to see in that entire sky.
And now… he’s leaving.
I blink down at my list, suddenly unsure what I was writing.
The wine event is a big deal. But I’m not entirely sure it’s the only thing tugging at my chest right now, which is not something I like to admit. Not to myself. Not even on paper.
I clear my throat and press the pen to the page again, trying to snap myself back into focus. The to-do list is growing. Seating chart. Wine pairings. Table linens. Lanterns for the backyard.
“Please, can you guys help?” I say, louder than necessary. “That’s the essence of this meeting, so you can help. Mom!”
Everyone straightens at once, like I’ve rung a school bell.
“All right, all right,” Mom says, setting her notebook aside and stretching her arms. “Put me on flowers and table settings. You know I can’t resist a chance to play with color.”
“I’ll help with setup,” Hazel says, flipping her sketchpad closed. “I’ve got that hanging lantern idea I told you about. We’ll make the backyard look like a vineyard in Tuscany.”
“I’ll do the wine labels,” Aunt Edie chimes in, not even looking up from her fruit peeling. “People like to know what they’re drinking. Makes them feel sophisticated.”
The energy in the kitchen kicks into overdrive. Everyone’s talking over each other, tossing out ideas, making quick decisions, shifting chairs, and unearthing old decor boxes like they’re on a deadline for a wedding.
I slip out while they’re distracted, hurrying upstairs to check if I still have the box of fairy lights I used for last year’s Autumn Soirée. My room is a mess of half-unpacked storage bins, but I find the lights tucked behind my dresser, tangled but usable.
As I head back downstairs, I pass the library. The door is slightly open. Two guests are nestled into the armchairs by the window, sipping tea and flipping through a local travel magazine.
I’m about to keep walking when one of them leans forward and says, “I swear, that guest, Cal, looks just like that guy from Forbes .”
I slow down instinctively, hidden just out of sight.
Forbes ?
“Which one?” the second woman asks, amused.
The first laughs softly. “I can’t remember his last name right now. But he’s this super-rich tech guy. There was a whole feature on him a few months ago. His name is Cal, too.”
I freeze, my hand flying to my chest. This can’t be right.
There’s a pause, then the second voice scoffs. “Come on. I love the Key & Kettle, but let’s be real—this isn’t exactly where a billionaire would go to unwind.”
The first woman giggles. “You’re right. That’s why I haven’t said anything. Plus, the other guy doesn’t have lots of pictures on the internet, just a few, so I don’t have much to go by. It’s probably just a resemblance. I’ve met a doppelganger myself.”
Their conversation shifts to something else—someone’s engagement ring and a disastrous bridal shower—but I don’t hear a word of it. I clutch the fairy lights tighter and walk away before they notice me.
Hazel and I spend most of the afternoon in town, checking off last-minute errands for the wine event. We meet with the live band, go over the playlist twice, and pick up some extra decor from the artisan shop near the square.
At some point, while we’re waiting for someone to load drinks into the back of the car, Hazel glances at me sideways. “You good?”
I look up from my phone, forcing a smile. “Yeah. Just tired.”
She doesn’t push, just nods, but her eyes linger longer than usual. Like she knows something’s off.
When we get back to the inn, Kettle Hour is in full swing. The scent of apple cinnamon scones drifts through the entryway, and laughter spills from the front parlor in waves. I stop for a moment in the hall, letting the warmth of it all sink in.
That’s when I catch a glimpse of Cal.
He’s sitting in the corner of the room, tea in hand, laughing at something Amee is saying with wild gestures. His eyes catch mine through the crowd. He lifts a hand in a wave, and something about the ease in his smile stops me.
I wave back. Brief. Small.
Then I turn and head toward the kitchen, my thoughts trailing behind me like loose threads.
Hazel, Maya, and Ana follow me into the kitchen, and soon, they’re talking over each other, cracking jokes, and bickering in that easy, familiar way—but it barely registers.
I murmur something about needing to check a few things and slip away before anyone can ask questions.
By the time I reach my office, my chest feels tight, like I’ve been holding my breath without realizing it.
I close the door behind me and sit at my desk, staring at the laptop. For a moment, I just sit there, palms flat against the edge of the desk, listening to the quiet hum of the inn around me.
Then I open the browser.
Cal Reid.
I type it slowly, like that might make a difference. Like maybe I’d find something new this time. A clue I missed before.
The results load.
Nothing. Not even a trace.
I try different combinations. A middle initial. Cal Reid + Forbes. Cal Reid + Everfield. I scroll past links about realtors and retired teachers and a surfer in California.
But not my Cal .
No profiles. No company records. No press features. No social media accounts.
Nothing.
It sinks in slowly. The weight of it. The realization I’ve been circling since I overheard those guests talking in the hallway.
This name isn’t real.
And if the name isn’t real, what else isn’t?
I sit at my desk for what feels like hours, staring at nothing, the glow of the screen long gone to sleep. My tea’s cold. My shoulders ache. But mostly, my thoughts are loud.
Ana’s knock on the door jolts me back to reality. She tells me the last guest has gone up, and I nod, already on my feet.
And then it’s back to motion. I’m up, helping in the kitchen, straightening pillows in the lounge, wiping down the front desk —anything to keep moving. Anything to keep from thinking too much.
By nine, the inn is quiet again. Lights dimmed. Doors closed. The kind of stillness that lets your thoughts catch up. Everyone’s asleep, except me.
I should go to bed. But instead, I drift upstairs, the creak of each step sounding louder than it should. My feet move before my mind fully catches up.
I stop in front of Cal’s door. I stand there for a full beat, debating. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I lift my hand and knock.
Cal opens the door, and for a second, he just stands there, stunned. Like he wasn’t expecting me. Like the last person he thought he’d see tonight was me.
“Margot?” he says, voice low, eyes flicking to the hallway behind me. “Is everything okay?”
I don’t answer that. I don’t even know what “okay” is anymore.
“Can I come in?”
He nods quickly and steps aside. “Yeah. Of course. Come in.”
The door shuts softly behind me, and before I can talk myself out of it, I turn to face him.
“Who are you, Cal?”
His brow furrows. “What?”
“You heard me.” My voice is quiet but sharp. “Who are you, really?”
He lets out a short breath. “Margot, what’s going on?”
I cross my arms, heart pounding. “That’s what I’d like to know.”
He gives me a confused half-laugh. “I-I don’t know what you mean.”
“I think you do.” I take a step forward. “I think you’ve known for a while that I’d eventually ask. So I’m asking now. Who are you? Because Cal Reid isn’t real. At least not online. There’s no footprint. No history. Nothing.”
He stills. All the amusement drops from his face.
“I can’t stop thinking about it. Because the more I think, the more I realize I don’t know anything about you.”
He’s staring at me now, eyes dark and unreadable.
“I let you into my life,” I say, softer now. “Into my home. And I don’t even know your real name.”
Silence. The kind that stretches too long.
He runs a hand through his hair and takes a slow breath before asking, “Why were you Googling my name?”
I blink. “Seriously? That’s what you’re focusing on right now?”
“Margot, come on?—”
“No,” I cut in. “You don’t get to turn this around on me. I wasn’t trying to expose your past or dig through your trash—I just wanted to know who you are. I wanted to understand the man who’s been living in my inn, in my world, for three weeks.”
He exhales and sits heavily on the edge of the bed, his shoulders sinking. “I wasn’t trying to lie. I just… needed space. A break. Somewhere I could be someone else. And if that meant using a fake name, then—so be it.”
I stare at him, heart pounding. “I’m not asking for your life story or trade secrets, Cal. I’m asking for the basics. Your real name. Where you’re from. What you do. Just… truth.” My voice cracks a little.
He looks up at me then—really looks. And something in his expression softens.
And I stand there, waiting. Because if there’s any chance of salvaging this, it has to start now. With honesty.
He lets out a breath, low and weary. “I can’t tell you, Margot. I came to Everfield to escape it.”
The words hang in the air like a slammed door.
I stare at him, waiting for more—for anything. But he doesn’t offer it.
So I nod. Just once.
And then I turn.
My hand finds the doorknob before my heart catches up. I don’t look back as I pull it open and step into the hall.
It would be the last time I treat him any differently than what he is—a guest. He’s not a friend. He’s not… anything. He’s a guest. I should be content with that. Because if he can’t trust me with the truth, I can’t keep handing him pieces of mine.
I walk away.
And this time, I don’t stop until I’m sitting on the bench in the herb garden. The air is cool, the herbs rustling around me like they’re whispering secrets I’m not ready to hear. I lean back, close my eyes, and let the weight of everything settle in my chest.
I like him.
Like, I really like him.
It hits hard—sudden and sharp, like a poleaxe straight to the gut. And I don’t even try to deny it. What would be the point? It’s the truth. The inconvenient, infuriating truth.
I like the way he makes me laugh when I don’t want to.
The way he steps in quietly, not to impress, but to make things easier.
The way he looks at me like I’m not holding the whole world together by a thread.
But he has secrets. I don’t know what they are, and I’m not ready to plunge blindly.
Not when I’ve spent my whole life building something real—something steady and honest.
So I draw a shaky breath, square my shoulders, and tell myself what I need to hear.
Kill the feelings, Margot.
He’s not who he said he was. You don’t fall for a lie. You walk away from it.
Even if it feels like something inside me is splintering as I do.