How to Fall for the Secret Billionaire

1. Margot

MARGOT

T here are three kinds of chaos I know how to manage.

The we’re out of scones again kind. The there’s a spider in the bathtub and the guest swears it winked kind. And then this—the worst kind—the someone’s standing at the front desk insisting they booked a room we absolutely do not have kind.

“I have the confirmation right here,” the woman says crisply, holding up her phone like a lawyer about to win a case.

I smile. Calm, practiced. “Of course. May I take a look?”

She turns the screen toward me. And yep. There it is. A full three-night reservation, check-in today.

Room: the Rose Suite.

Which is currently occupied by a honeymooning couple from Oak Park who most definitely have not checked out early.

Ana, our newest front desk hire, hovers beside me, visibly panicked. “It’s not in the system,” she mouths. “I swear, Margot. I checked this morning. Twice.”

I nod slightly, keeping my tone light. “Would you mind stepping into the parlor? We’ll bring you some tea while we sort this out.”

The woman crosses her arms. “I’ve been driving since six this morning. I’d prefer a room over tea.”

So would I. Unfortunately, the Key & Kettle Inn is completely, totally, unforgivingly full. Every room. Every spare couch. Even the nook in the attic where I live is a disaster of receipts, flannel blankets, and half-unpacked boxes I’ve been meaning to sort since I moved back.

And Edie’s private library corner? Already given up to a stranded travel writer two nights ago.

Ana whispers, “Should I text Hazel?”

“She doesn’t have space,” I mutter. “And she’ll say she’s not a hotel.”

“She’s not wrong.”

I inhale deeply and rub my temple. Focus, Margot. Fix it .

Behind me, a kettle screams on the stove. Someone’s shoes squeak across the floor like a warning siren. Upstairs, a baby starts crying. Somewhere else, something glass clinks too hard.

Perfect. Just… perfect.

“I’ve got this,” I tell Ana. “Go check the garden patio. I think Mr. Todd asked for fresh lemon water.”

She scurries off like I just handed her a life raft. I turn back to the guest, who still looks like someone just told her Starbucks discontinued coffee.

“I’m so sorry, Ms. Chambers. We seem to have a very rare overlap in the system. While we sort it out, we’d love to offer you a cozy spot in our parlor, some hot tea, and complimentary pastries.”

Her frown doesn’t budge. “I need to be on a Zoom call in an hour. I’m not doing it in your lobby.”

Duly noted.

I guide her toward the parlor anyway, then dart past the front desk toward the linen closet—and nearly collide with Aunt Edie halfway down the stairs.

She’s balancing a tray of jam jars like it’s her job.

Which, technically, it used to be. Before the heart attack.

Three months ago! She should be resting!

She purses her lips, calm as ever, that signature mix of elegance and dry amusement.

Aunt Edie has always moved through life like the inn itself—graceful, composed, and curated down to the teaspoon.

Her silver-streaked hair is swept into one of her perfectly undone chignons, and she smells faintly of lemon verbena and strong black coffee—the only kind she drinks, even though she owns a collection of rare teas she never touches.

“Don’t say anything,” she says without even looking up.

“I wasn’t going to.”

“You’re about to.”

“I’m about to suggest,” I say, reaching for the tray, “that someone recovering from a major cardiac event shouldn’t be ferrying glass containers down a staircase.”

“They’re for the welcome baskets.”

“Which Ana or I could’ve handled.”

“You were busy.”

“Because someone booked a ghost guest who doesn’t exist in our system, and now I have nowhere to put her.”

Edie arches a brow at me, the way only she can. “I suppose the linen closet’s out of the question?”

I groan. “Don’t make me laugh. The inn has five-star glowing reviews on Yelp. We didn’t get that by putting guests up in the linen closet.”

“Breathe, darling. You’ll figure it out.” She pats my shoulder and starts heading back up, slow but determined, like a woman who’s made peace with ignoring medical advice.

I watch her go, clutching the railing like it’s dignity and refusing to accept that she needs help.

Then I turn back to the guest list, heart sinking.

There it is.

Room: Rose Suite.

Guest: Chambers, Elise.

Not in the system. No record of payment. No email confirmation sent. Just a woman with a phone, a reservation, and no intention of leaving.

Moments later, I figure out the problem: a rare glitch in the booking software. The room was released by mistake and then reassigned without flagging the conflict. Happens once every never. Of course it happens today.

What I haven’t figured out is a solution.

These are the things that keep me up at night. These slips that I can’t control.

I can deal with the rowdy and rude guests, I can deal with the triple-stacked to-do lists or the always-broken sugar jar or the porch board that creaks louder than cymbals.

But moments like these, where I’m racking my brain and nothing is coming up, make me want to pull out my hair, crawl into a hole, and hide. I hate cracks that I can’t patch fast enough.

I left Bardstown—where I carefully curated my life—to come home. I gave up my entire career—my apartment, my schedule, my paycheck—to come back and keep this place running and hold it together. Because no one else could. Because Aunt Edie needed someone. Because someone always has to step up.

And that someone is always me.

But now, I feel my control slipping between my fingers as I panic in front of the stairway, the tray of jam jars abandoned on the side table.

What am I going to do? Ms. Chambers only has an hour until her Zoom call. I have to do something, even if it means conjuring my fairy godmother.

I pinch the bridge of my nose and whisper a prayer I’m not even sure is coherent. I am about three minutes away from either a meltdown or a miracle.

Then I hear voices. Soft, happy ones.

I look up the stairs—and there they are.

Jamie and Jane. Our honeymooners. Coming down with their luggage, hand in hand, moving in that slow, floaty way that only people who’ve just vowed forever can manage.

They’re staring at each other like they invented love.

They don’t even notice me standing at the bottom of the staircase, panic in my throat and my hair half pinned.

I straighten as they reach the landing.

“Where are you two going with all that?” I ask, keeping my voice light.

Jane beams, her face lit with that sunshine-glow kind of happiness that makes you believe in good men and clean sheets. She grabs my hand like we’re old friends.

“I told Jamie last night I was craving my favorite ice cream from Mariette’s,” she says, giggling. “It’s this little place in Michigan I used to go to when I was a kid. He booked us a flight. We’re going today!”

She squeals and clutches his arm. Jamie just smiles like he’d fly her to the moon if she asked.

I feel something tight in my chest unclench.

“Oh,” I say, practically breathless with relief. “So you’re checking out?”

Jane nods, her curls bouncing. “Yes! We’re moving on. But thank you, Margot.” She throws her arms around me before I can even respond. “This has been amazing. I’m so glad we chose this place for our first stop after the wedding. It gave us exactly the cozy, homey vibe we needed to start our lives.”

I hug her back, warmth blooming all through me. Thank goodness for impulsive, romantic newlyweds.

As she pulls away, she gestures to Jamie like she can’t believe her luck. “Isn’t he the most wonderful man in the world?”

I smile at him. “He really is. That’s the sweetest thing I’ve heard all week. You’re so lucky, Jane. I think you’re both lucky.”

She grins.

They glide toward the door in their newlywed bubble of joy and perfect weather and ice cream road trips. I barely wait until it swings shut behind them before I bolt up the stairs, heart pounding with relief.

The Rose Suite is empty. I have thirty minutes. Ms. Chambers is getting her miracle after all.

In twenty minutes, the suite is gleaming. I’ve changed the bedding, fluffed the pillows, and swapped the old welcome card for a new one with freshly snipped lavender tucked inside. I’m also sweating through my blouse, but that honestly doesn’t matter.

Fairy godmother, whoever you are, thank you for this miracle.

I fly down the stairs, slowing just before the parlor so I don’t look like the manic innkeeper I am. Ms. Chambers is there, arms crossed like she’s guarding the gates of hell. Her foot taps. Her lips are pursed in pure judgment. And when her eyes land on me, she stands up with military precision.

“I can’t believe this is happening,” she says before I can get a word in. “I only came here because of the reviews. Reviews lie, huh? Because this is so?—”

“Your room is ready, Ms. Chambers.”

God, it feels good to say that.

She freezes. “What?”

“Yes,” I say, already gesturing toward the staircase. “It’s ready. Come with me.”

She follows, though not silently. Of course not.

“I don’t want another room,” she huffs behind me. “I booked the Rose Suite for a reason. I liked the amenities in there. That’s why I booked it. That’s what I want.”

I stop in front of the second-floor door, the brass rose plaque gleaming in the hallway light. I turn to her, smiling, and press the heavy, old-fashioned key into her hand. Room 12. Engraved in brass like all the rest.

The change is instant. Her face softens. “Oh. Thank you, Margot.”

I nod, still catching my breath. “No, thank you for your patience. I’m truly sorry for the glitch. Breakfast is always included in the package, but today, lunch and dinner are on the house. Just a little way to make up for the delay. If you need anything at all, the front desk is just a call away.”

She actually nods—smiles even. “Thank you. I know I’m going to have a great time.”

She steps into the room, and the door closes behind her with a soft click.