28. Cal
CAL
W ho knew spending time in a dusty basement could be that fun?
It’s already evening by the time we step out into the light.
There’s a soft orange glow outside the windows, the kind that makes everything feel like it belongs in a postcard.
Margot has the photo album tucked under her arm, one hand brushing at the smudge of dirt on her jeans.
She says she wants to clean up some of the pictures and hang them on the wall in the reception area.
“Bring a little history into the front room,” she said.
I told her it was a great idea, because it was.
Now I need a shower, badly. I can feel the dust clinging to my arms and neck, like a second skin.
I head upstairs to my room, peel off my shirt, and step under the water, letting it run hot.
Letting it sink into my muscles. But even with the steam rising around me, all I can think about is her.
The way she looked at those old pictures like they were made of glass and memories.
The way her voice dipped when she asked if legacy and burden could feel the same.
That question’s still lodged in my chest. Because I knew exactly what she meant.
And when she said she didn’t want to lean on anyone—because people can disappoint you—I knew that too. I’ve disappointed people. Been disappointed. But I can be different with her. I want to be different for her.
I stay under the spray until the heat runs out, then dry off and change into a T-shirt and joggers. I check my phone and there’s a text from Marley waiting for me:
Heads up. A journalist named Raymond from Scoop just contacted PR—says he’s got a lead you’re in Illinois. Possibly Everfield. He’s sniffing around.
My stomach drops.
No.
Not now.
I stare at the screen for a long second, reading the message twice just to make sure I’m not misinterpreting it. But the words don’t change. Someone’s found me—or they almost have.
I feel the panic crawl up my spine, fast and sharp. I’m not ready to leave. I’m not ready to give up this quiet town, this quiet life. And I’m not ready to tell the friends I’ve made here who I really am.
Because once I do, everything changes.
The way people look at me, talk to me. It always shifts the moment the name clicks. Suddenly I’m not just Cal—I’m Calvin Hale, the guy with the billions and the boardrooms and the burnout. And I lose the thing I’ve worked so hard to find here: being seen for me.
And Margot…
What if she looks at me differently too? What if she thinks this entire thing was a lie?
I grip the phone tighter and close my eyes, breathing through it. I’ve been running so long I almost convinced myself I could hide forever. But maybe time’s up.
I shake my head and scroll through my contacts, thumb hovering for a second before I tap on the name: Simon.
Simon is a private investigator I’ve used a few times before. Discreet. Swift. Brutally effective. He picks up on the second ring.
“Hello, Hale.” His voice is dry, clipped. “It’s been a while.”
“Yeah,” I say. “Not long enough.” I don’t bother with pleasantries. “I need you to do something for me. Urgent.”
“Go on.”
“There’s a tech journalist sniffing around Everfield—male, works for Scoop . I want you to find him. Track him down. Pull him out of this town—quietly. I don’t care how you do it. Just make sure he’s gone.”
There’s a pause. I hear the scratch of a lighter—he’s smoking. Typical.
“Any name?”
“Raymond.”
“Okay. I’ll need time, but I’ll get it done as quickly as I can.”
The line goes dead.
I set the phone down and run both hands through my hair.
I came here to breathe. To be invisible. But it’s never that simple. Not for me.
I walk to the window, hands shoved deep into my pockets. It’s peaceful here. Quiet. Exactly why I came here.
But my thoughts are anything but calm.
I try to imagine it—telling her the truth. Sitting her down and saying, “Hey Margot, I’m not just some guy who needed a break. I’m Cal Hale. The Cal Hale.”
In my mind, I can see her face as the words land. That slow blink. The sharp intake of breath. Her spine going stiff like it always does when she’s hurt but trying not to show it.
And then the look—disappointment.
Not anger. Not even betrayal. Just that quiet, tired disappointment.
It’s worse than any yelling could ever be.
I can feel it already, curling around my chest like ice.
And the worst part? She’d be right to feel it.
But I don’t want to keep hiding. Not from her.
I stare out at the fading light, jaw clenched, heart beating hard in my chest. This thing between Margot and me—it’s not casual anymore. And if I care about her the way I know I do—deeply, stupidly, helplessly—then I owe her the truth.
I turn away from the window, already planning. I’ll take her out. A real date, one she’ll remember. Something special. I’ll make her smile. Laugh. Remind her how safe this is.
And then I’ll tell her everything. Who I really am. Why I came here. Why I lied.
And I’ll look her in the eye and tell her why I’m saying it now—because I don’t want to build something real on something false. Because she deserves the truth. Because I want this to last.
It seems like a solid plan. The only way forward.
I step out of my room, resolve sitting heavy and certain in my chest. I’m going to ask her. Tomorrow, it’ll be us. A real date. And then I’ll tell her everything.
I head downstairs, hoping I’ll find her in the office or maybe in the lounge, curled up with a cup of tea.
But the front of the inn is quiet, too quiet.
I follow the faint sound of music into the kitchen and find Jo humming to herself, a floral apron tied around her waist, stirring a bubbling pot of what smells like apple jam.
She looks up when she sees me. “Evening, sweetheart. You hungry?”
“Actually, I was looking for Margot.”
“She headed out for a bit with Thea,” Jo says, not missing a beat as she lifts a spoon and tastes her creation. “Won’t be long though. You can keep me company while I work.”
She turns back to her jam, but before she can say more, I step farther in. “Can I help with anything?”
She raises a brow. “Help?”
“I want to help.” I shrug, moving toward the sink to wash my hands.
She starts to refuse, but I roll my eyes and inch closer. “Let me help, Jo. I mean it.”
Her smile warms. “Well, in that case…” She gestures toward a bowl of apples. “You can start by slicing these. Nice and thin.”
I pull out a knife and take a seat across from her, settling into the rhythm. For a few moments, we work in companionable silence. Just the snick of the knife and the bubbling of the jam pot.
Then Jo says, “You know, it’s funny how quiet moments like this can feel like medicine.”
I glance up. “Yeah. I didn’t realize how much I needed it.”
She grins. “Slicing apples in the kitchen or your stay here in general?”
“Both,” I answer sincerely. “I was severely burned out, but now I can hear my brain actually thinking. Not noises in my head.”
She laughs lightly. “Burnout sneaks up on you. Especially when you’re used to being the one holding everything together.”
I don’t respond immediately, just keep slicing. But I know what she means.
“Look at Margot…” she continues, voice gentle.
“She’s always been that way. Always choosing responsibility over herself.
Even as a kid. She used to plan her own birthday parties just so no one else would mess it up.
” Jo chuckles, but there’s a wistful undertone.
“She carries so much. Sometimes I wonder if she even knows how to put it down.”
I stay quiet, slicing another apple, thinking about all the moments I’ve seen Margot choose everyone else over herself, even when they don’t ask her to.
“I want to help her,” I say eventually, my voice low. “I want to help her relieve some of that stress.”
Jo pauses, spoon in hand. She tilts her head at me, a little smile tugging at her lips. “And why’s that?”
I meet her gaze across the table. “Because I like her.”
That smile breaks into a laugh. Warm and knowing. “Well,” she says, “I’d be lying if I said I didn’t see that one coming.”
I blink. “You did?”
She nods, turning back to the pot of jam. “A mother always knows.”
Then she peeks at me over her shoulder, eyes twinkling. “And besides, the way you two look at each other? I’d have to be blind not to notice.”