39. Margot
MARGOT
I t’s been two months of dating Cal, and honestly? It’s been bliss.
Right now, we’re in L.A. at some swanky tech conference filled with big names and bigger egos. I’m here as Cal’s date. The room is all sleek suits, expensive watches, and conversations I don’t fully understand—but I’m not as out of place as I used to feel.
This world used to intimidate me a little. The scale, the shine, the speed of it all. But after a few events like this—after being by Cal’s side and watching how easily he fits here, how gently he keeps me grounded—I’m adjusting. Slowly.
Especially because he’s adjusted too. Without complaint.
Cal’s gone all in on the slow, quiet rhythm of Everfield. He reads on the porch now. He joins me for Kettle Hour. He knows how to work the ancient coffee machine at the inn and insists on doing it every morning.
It’s not lost on me—what that kind of effort means.
So I stand a little taller next to him now. I slip my hand into his, and he squeezes it gently, like he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
They call his name, and the whole room erupts into applause. Cal turns to me, leans down, and presses a soft kiss to my cheek.
“Wish me luck,” he whispers.
“Always,” I say.
And then he’s walking up to the stage, confident and calm in that way only Cal can be. The spotlight hits him, and for a moment, I just watch.
Not as the man I met at the Key & Kettle. Not the quiet guy who fixed our leaky faucet and helped with waffle batter. But the man he’s always been underneath—sharp, visionary, magnetic.
My heart swells.
I would never have purposely chosen this life—the cameras, the headlines, the stages. But now that it’s here, and he’s here, I wouldn’t have it any other way.
He’s worth it.
I’ll support him with all my strength, not because he needs it, but because love like this deserves to be rooted in something strong.
Something real.
After his speech, we wait a few minutes for the crowd to thin. Soon, we’re in the car, finally alone. The moment the door shuts, I reach for him. He meets me halfway, and we share a quiet kiss, then a long, full-bodied hug.
He rests his forehead against mine. “Our flight back to Everfield is in two hours. Do you think Mia and Jack are free to meet up?”
I smile. We met them once last month, when everyone’s schedules magically aligned. Jack was amazing—funny, warm, grounded. I see why Mia is madly in love with him. And I’m happy, because it’s clear he loves her just as much.
“Mia texted earlier. Jack’s still on set and hasn’t wrapped. By the time they’re done, we’ll probably be back in Everfield.”
Cal nods. “Okay. Let’s go grab something to eat then.”
He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together as the car pulls away from the venue and into the city traffic.
We find a quiet Italian place tucked into a side street in West Hollywood—dim lights, warm brick walls, candles on every table.
The kind of spot where nobody’s trying too hard.
Cal insists we sit at a small corner booth, his back to the wall so he can “watch for paparazzi,” which makes me laugh until I almost knock over the water glasses.
He orders the truffle mushroom risotto and a side of roasted lamb. I go for the handmade pappardelle with braised short rib and a glass of non-alcoholic red wine that the waiter swears will change my life. It does.
When our food arrives, it’s a masterpiece—steam curling up from creamy risotto, the meat falling apart on my fork. I let out an actual moan. Cal raises his brows, amused.
“Should I be jealous of your pasta?”
“Yes,” I say through a mouthful. “It’s giving you serious competition tonight.”
He grins. “I should’ve known you’d fall for carbs in the end.”
“I’ve always loved carbs. You just got lucky enough to come after bread.”
He laughs and steals a bite from my plate. I swat at his hand, then give up and let him have another forkful.
We talk about everything and nothing—how the conference went, the ridiculous L.A. billboards we passed on the way here, and how his driver mistook me for his assistant when he picked us up this morning. Cal mimics the man’s voice perfectly, which has me laughing so hard I nearly choke on my wine.
Then, in a quiet moment between bites, he reaches across the table and takes my hand.
“I’m really happy,” he says. “You see how easy it is to find balance? Two days ago, we were chasing Waffles during Kettle Hour, and now we’re in West Hollywood eating amazing food.”
I laugh. It’s all I do when I’m with him. Aunt Edie was right—sometimes, it’s good to let go and let things run their course.
But then Cal’s eyes widen slightly. “Paparazzi,” he mutters. “A group just walked in.”
He signals for the check and pays quickly, keeping his voice low. One thing I’m still not used to is the paparazzi. Thankfully, Cal’s skilled at avoiding them—but I’m not sure we’ll be lucky today.
We step out, and just as we feared, the sharp click of cameras follows us to the car.
Cal slips his arm around me and guides me forward, shielding my face with his jacket as the flashes multiply.
He opens the passenger door, helps me inside, and closes it gently before walking around to the driver’s side.
Once the doors shut, the noise disappears. The windows are tinted—thank goodness.
“You good?” he asks, looking over at me.
“I’m good. I’m used to this,” I say with a small smile.
He lets out a sigh of relief and reaches out to brush his fingers over my cheek.
“You’re the best woman for me,” he says softly. “I love you so much, Margot.”
“I love you too.”
He presses a kiss to my cheek, then starts the engine. “Let’s go home.”