18. Cal
CAL
I lean against the door the moment it shuts behind her, the echo of her footsteps still ringing in my ears. My heart feels like it’s trying to beat its way out of my chest.
Did I just ruin everything?
I press the back of my head to the wood, eyes closed, breath shallow. Her words replay again and again, asking me to let her in.
And what did I give her? Evasion. Distance. Silence.
I slide down onto the edge of the bed and drop my head into my hands.
Should I just tell her?
Tell her I’m Cal Hale? That the man she’s been getting to know—the man she’s been slowly trusting—isn’t a broke traveler named Cal Reid, but a tech CEO who’s been on the cover of Forbes ? It’s a near-miracle she didn’t stumble on that online feature.
No.
No, not yet.
I like her. Really like her.
She’s the reason I’ve been dragging my feet about going back to L.A., the reason my suitcase is still unpacked, the reason I spent this morning looking up property listings in a town I didn’t know existed three weeks ago.
She’s different.
Not just because she’s not interested in the flash and the money—I’ve already seen that—but because she sees people. She saw me. Or at least, the version of me I allowed her to meet. The one I wish was the full truth.
And that’s the problem.
If I tell her now, everything changes.
The weight of my name, the numbers in my bank account—it’ll tilt everything between us. And I need to know if what’s growing here is real. If she’s falling for me.
Not Cal Hale.
Not Cal Reid.
Just me.
She’s already seen so much of who I am beneath the surface. But this one piece… this one part of my life has the power to shatter it all. So I’ll hold it a little longer. Just a little.
I’ll explain later.
She’ll understand.
She has to.
By the next morning, I’m restless.
I barely slept. My thoughts chased themselves in circles all night, chasing her, chasing everything I didn’t say. By dawn, I’m wired and exhausted—too tired to go on my usual morning walk, too agitated to stay in bed.
I head downstairs earlier than usual, drawn by the quiet clatter of the kitchen. When I step in, it’s just Margot and Aunt Edie.
Margot looks up, and for half a second, I think she’ll ignore me—a very understandable reaction. But she doesn’t. Instead, she flashes a friendly, breezy smile.
“Good morning, Mr. Reid.”
My chest tightens.
Mr. Reid.
Not Cal. Not even the sarcastic “Sir Cal” she threw at me once. Just… formal, distant, guarded.
I deserve it.
But it stings more than I thought it would.
Aunt Edie, blissfully unaware of the emotional sledgehammer that just hit me, waves me over.
“Come here, Cal,” she says. “You’re finally going to learn how to make a proper pot of morning tea. Margot says you’re always hovering while it’s brewing.”
I manage a smile and move to her side, grateful for the distraction.
Aunt Edie sets a small ceramic teapot in front of me like it’s a sacred artifact.
“First rule,” she says, tapping the side of it with her finger, “you never pour boiling water directly onto the tea leaves. That’s how you kill the flavor. Murder, really. Tea deserves better.”
I try to focus, but out of the corner of my eye, Margot is moving around the kitchen without a care in the world. Her hair is up today, strands falling loose around her face, and she’s humming something soft under her breath as she organizes the pantry shelf. Like she is absolutely fine.
Aunt Edie hands me a spoon. “Now take a little of the loose leaf. Not too much—this is tea, not soup.”
I scoop a small amount and look at her for approval. She nods solemnly, like I just passed the first round of a very intense exam.
“Good. Now, swirl a little warm water in the pot to heat it. You always want to warm the teapot first—it’s respectful.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Respectful?”
“To the tea.” She gives me a withering look, then grins. “Honestly, I don’t know. That’s just what my mother always said.”
I laugh under my breath, and she smiles like she’s proud of herself.
From across the kitchen, Margot lets out a soft snort of amusement but doesn’t look over. She just keeps humming, putting away jars of preserves, her rhythm gentle and unbothered. It’s like she’s built a calm little world around herself, and she’s made sure I’m not in it.
Aunt Edie nudges me again. “Now, add the leaves and pour the water in—not boiling, hot.”
“Hot but not boiling,” I echo, carefully pouring.
She watches with an approving nod. “Now you let it steep. Not a second less than three minutes. Patience is part of the magic.”
We move slowly through each step—straining the tea, pouring it into dainty cups, adding just the right splash of milk. It’s methodical. Calming, even. For a few minutes, I forget the ache in my chest.
Aunt Edie slides a cup in front of me. “Go ahead. Taste it.”
I take a sip. Smooth, delicate, warm. Somehow, it feels like comfort in a cup. I nod. “This is really good.”
“You sound surprised.”
“I’m a little surprised.”
She chuckles softly, and I glance over at Margot. She’s still moving around the kitchen, tying up a paper bag of muffins for one of the guests. She hums something tuneful—light, cheery. Detached.
I can’t help myself.
“Margot,” I say.
She turns immediately, as if I’ve pulled her into the present with nothing more than her name. Her eyes meet mine curiously.
“Want to taste something?”
She walks over, no hesitation. Takes the teacup from my hand and sips it, then looks at me with something close to delight. “Good job, Mr. Reid,” she says, smiling widely. “It’s perfect.”
And then she’s gone. She spins around, waves her goodbye cheerfully, and slips through the kitchen door like she’s late for something. Like nothing is weighing on her at all.
I stare after her.
The tea, moments ago warm and rich and layered with meaning, turns bitter in my mouth.
Aunt Edie clears her throat.
I look up and find her staring at me with that knowing expression she wears so well.
“Trouble in paradise?” she asks, her tone light, but not without intention.
So she noticed.
I shift on my stool, wrapping both hands around my teacup. For a moment, I stay silent, watching the door like Margot will come walking in any moment. But she doesn’t, so I turn to Aunt Edie.
“I came to Everfield to get away,” I say slowly, carefully. “And I have. I’ve had more peace here in three weeks than I’ve had in years.” I shrug. “I just… I’m scared that if I give too much of myself away, it’ll ruin that peace. I don’t want to be selfish. I just want to preserve it.”
I don’t think she’ll understand. I’ve kept my answers vague, half-formed, stitched together with good intentions. But Aunt Edie just smiles, gentle and knowing, like she’s seen all of this before.
“Well,” she says, lifting her cup. “The thing about truth is—it always finds a way. Whether we’re ready for it or not.”
She takes a slow sip, leaving her words to settle between us like steam rising from the tea.
I sigh and take another sip of tea, but it tastes dull now—thin and bitter on my tongue.
Aunt Edie watches me quietly, then reaches out and gives my arm a little pat. “Cheer up, sweetheart. It’s not the end of the world.”
I give her a weak smile, but don’t say anything.
“You leaving today or early tomorrow?” she asks gently.
I shrug, avoiding her gaze. “I haven’t decided.”
Aunt Edie studies me for a second longer, then nods to herself. “Well, don’t be in a rush. There’s a local wine-tasting event here at the inn tonight. It’s a small town thing, but it’s always fun. You’ll love it—I promise.”
I give a small nod. “Okay.”
With a satisfied hum, Aunt Edie rises from her seat, gathers her cup, and walks away, leaving me alone in the kitchen with my quiet thoughts and cooling tea.