Forty, Flirty & Fall Inn (Forty and Flirty Billionaires #5)

Chapter 1

GONE PHISHING

LUKE

“Wait, you’re calling us to tell us you’re chasing a catfish at midnight on a Friday? That’s either peak determination… or wildly unhinged.”

One of my best buddies Grayson Dixon’s voice echoes through my car’s Bluetooth as my tires grip another slick mountain curve. Pines line either side of the narrow road, tall and ghostly in the mist—like arboreal monks judging my life choices.

“I’m calling to tell you I’m not making it to The Summit tomorrow,” I say, ignoring his commentary. “Tell the others. I’ll Venmo my share for Callum’s group gift.”

“Oh, so this is the bail-and-vanish call,” Overbearing Best Friend #2 Connor Reeves cuts in, his baritone dropping into the chat like an unsolicited calendar invite. “Very on-brand.”

“I have a legitimate reason,” I mutter, squinting through the rain-smeared windshield. “I think someone hacked my SecureMatch profile.”

A beat of silence.

“Shit,” Grayson swears. As the founder of the dating app for mature professionals who don’t give a damn about meeting up on apps where choreographed dances dominate, I’m guessing this is the last thing he wants to hear.

“I…haven’t heard anything about this kind of thing from my guys.

” He clears his throat. “But to be clear…is this an actual cybersecurity emergency or another compatibility spiral?”

“It’s purely professional curiosity,” I snap. “Someone’s tampering with my data. Forcing my profile to match with the same woman. Over. And over.”

My fingers tighten on the steering wheel. “And I don’t like being played. Not in life. Not in code. Not by a stranger using algorithmic witchcraft.”

“Alright, Mr. Nobody’s Mark,” Grayson says. “Where’s this trail to the hacker lead? Silicon Valley? The Cayman Islands?”

“A B&B in Alder Ridge.”

“That’s not a real place,” Connor says.

“It’s a small town near Snoqualmie Falls,” I clarify. “Forty-ish minutes outside Seattle. Population: mystery. Elevation: red flags.”

“Oh no,” Connor says. “Tell me Nana Sterling didn’t finally outsource your love life to a mountain witch with broadband access.”

“My grandmother is eighty-nine, not a Bond villain.”

“She keeps dossiers on your exes and an encrypted spreadsheet tracking your emotional availability. I wouldn’t put it past her.”

“Anyway,” I redirect, “Callum’s engagement party gift—get him the limited-edition Glenfiddich or the cufflinks. Not both.”

“Already handled,” Grayson says. “What isn’t handled is your date situation for Callum’s engagement shindig. Or lack thereof. The party’s in four weeks. Time’s a-ticking.”

“And here we go,” I mutter.

“It’s not just about optics,” Connor says. “It’s a group event. You bring someone who can make small talk and not call the wedding ‘an overpriced networking opportunity.’ Like last time.”

“I’ve got bigger concerns than finding a placeholder for a catered photo op.”

“Bigger than being the last unattached man standing?” Grayson asks. “Let’s review. Connor’s married. I’m married. Alex has Mac. Callum’s halfway to being a husband and national treasure. That leaves you. The lone wolf. The terminal bachelor. The emotionally unavailable encryption key.”

“Jesus,” I mutter.

Being close since our days at Stanford have done nothing to soften the punches my closest friends throw.

“Unclaimed Pokémon, if we’re branding,” Connor adds. “But like… a rare one. With trust issues and impeccable grooming.”

“Limited-edition emotionally stunted startup founder,” Grayson chimes in. “Likes: ghosting women and watching C-SPAN at 2x speed.”

“You guys done?” I deadpan. “Because I’m adding time to this drive just to avoid Lakeview Cemetery, so forgive me if I’m not in the mood for a roast.”

Connor goes quiet. Grayson clears his throat.

“I didn’t realize you were driving past there tonight,” Connor says, voice gentler now.

“Yeah. Didn’t realize I still avoid it.”

A moment of silence passes before Grayson exhales.

“Okay, back to the part where someone’s digitally stalking you. Who’s the woman?”

“Sage Winters. Forty-one. Owns a B&B. Claims she’s into cybersecurity, family values, and pumpkin spice capitalism.”

“And she keeps showing up on SecureMatch?” Connor asks.

“Every time I swipe left, she shows back up. Like a glitch. Or a ghost with a Wi-Fi signal.”

“Sounds romantic,” Connor mutters.

“Sounds like malware,” Grayson counters. “So let me get this straight—you’re driving into a fog-drenched town to confront a woman you think is… what? Stalking you via profile manipulation?”

“That’s about the size of it.”

“And you bailed on Dr. Amanda Chen for this?”

“She wanted to meet each other’s families,” I say. “I wasn’t ready for that.”

A pause.

“You liked Amanda,” Connor says, like I’ve just admitted to abandoning a puppy on the freeway.

“I did. She was great. Smart. Articulate. Good listener.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“She was… compatible.”

Grayson groans. “Jesus. You talk about dating like it’s a software integration.”

“Takes one to know one. And anyway, compatibility matters. It’s measurable. Predictable. Low emotional volatility.”

“So is a toaster,” Connor mutters. “You bringing that to Callum’s wedding too?”

My phone pings with another SecureMatch notification. I glance at the screen.

“It’s her. Again.”

“Sage?” Connor asks.

“Yup.” I send them a screenshot.

The profile fills the screen: Auburn hair. Green eyes. A smile like sunshine in a tea commercial.

“She’s cute,” Grayson says.

“Super cute,” Connor echoes. “No wonder you think she’s a Russian bot.”

“Her profile reads like a perfectly calibrated pitch. It’s too curated. Some nose-picking basement-dweller reverse-engineered my preferences. I know it.”

“Or maybe you just found a woman who’s just into anxious nerds who wear emotionally repressed knitwear,” Connor says.

“Yeah,” Grayson agrees. “My wife calls me a sexy Mister Robot. She says she likes watching me debug my feelings.”

I ignore them as the trees thin and the glow of the inn comes into view.

Ahead, nestled into the slope of the mountain, is a wooden structure with wraparound balconies and golden windows glowing like they’re trying to seduce me.

A sign swings gently from an old post.

CASCADE VIEW INN – EST. 1952

“Okay. I see it,” I mutter. “The inn.”

“Please tell me it’s a little murdery,” Grayson says.

“Nope. It looks like a Hallmark movie and an Airbnb had a baby. Porch swing. Hanging mums. Probably a hot cider bar inside.”

“Oh yeah,” Connor says. “Definitely where the killer hides the bodies.”

I pull into the gravel lot under a timber awning. Rain drums the hood of my car like sarcastic applause.

“I never told her I was coming,” I say.

Another dangling pause.

Connor scoffs. “Dude, you didn’t book a room?”

“Nope.”

“And this Sage chick sent you a message saying she’s looking forward to meeting you?”

“Yep.”

Another beat of silence.

“Okay,” Grayson says, voice more serious now. “That’s not just weird—it’s NSA weird.”

“She said the inn’s open for late arrivals. Like she’s been waiting for me.”

“Well, shit, that’s not a coincidence,” Connor says. “That’s surveillance. Maybe you’re right about this being a basement-dweller bot.”

“Right? Maybe this catfish has been monitoring something. Location data, app activity, maybe my cookies.”

“Cookies?” Grayson says. “What are you, eighty?”

“You know what I mean.”

“Or,” Connor offers, “you could just ask the weird catfishing perv living in his parents’ house to the engagement party. Better than nothing.”

“I’m not bringing a potential cybercriminal to a black-tie event.”

“But what if she’s real?” Grayson asks. “If she’s just a woman who’s into emotional puzzles with great bone structure?”

I grab my laptop bag from the passenger side and stare at the building.

Outside, the inn looms like something out of a fairytale. Gabled roofs. Antique lanterns. Soft music drifting through the air.

I stare at the last message on my phone.

Can’t wait to finally meet you in person.

The word “finally” hits different now.

“So fucking weird,” I say under my breath. “Like she knew I’d come looking.”

“Luke?” Connor asks. “You good?”

“I’m going in.”

“Text every hour,” Grayson says. “If we don’t hear from you, we send the cavalry.”

“Understood.”

I end the call and sit for a beat, watching the inn through the rain-streaked windshield.

Then I step into the storm.

Time to find out who “Sage Winters” really is—and why she’s been so damn sure I’d come knocking.