Page 132 of Billionaire’s Ruin

She splashed back—her fingers skimming the surface—but it was enough to sprinkle droplets across my chest.

For a moment, we couldn’t stop, giggling like idiots, soaked, childish, and stupidly happy.

“Right, help me up!” I said eventually.

She reached out, her fingers small, warm, soft—her fingers sliding around mine. She tugged me up onto the boat, nearly falling in with me, her laughter ringing across the river.

For a few minutes, we just sat there, dripping and breathless, until our ribs ached from how hard we were laughing. Even the old man with the erhu shook his head at us, muttering something like “city boys have no sense.”

By the time the boat bumped gently against the dock, the sun was sinking, staining the river a deep amber. Lanterns flickered awake along the walkway as evening stretched across the sky.

We wandered to a small inn nestled between two teahouses—a place with paper lanterns swaying in a breeze and wooden stairs that creaked like they whispered secrets.

“Maybe next time,” she said, “let me drive.”

Her smile faltered—just a fraction—but enough for me to notice. Enough to tell me she remembered all the times she had saved me, in ways far bigger than pulling me out of a river.

“Let’s go get dry,” she murmured, her voice gentling.

We headed back toward the narrow street, our shoes squelching with every step. I hadn’t booked anything—not a hotel, not a room, not even a backup plan. A stupid part of me thought it would be romantic to wander and just… see where the day took us.

Spontaneity, right?

Except I’d forgotten one small detail.

It was festival week.

Every inn we passed had red paper charms blinking in the windows, pairs of shoes lined outside doors, lanterns hanging proudly—signs of fully booked rooms. At the second inn, the owner shook her head apologetically. At the third, a young couple rushed past us, waving reservation slips like they’d won the lottery.

She arched an eyebrow at me after the fourth rejection.

“You didn’t book anything, did you?”

I cleared my throat. “I thought we could… improvise.”

“During a festival?” She said dryly, but her eyes sparkled with amusement.

Just when I started to think we’d have to walk all the way back out of town in soaked clothes, June spotted a small wooden sign half-hidden behind a hanging wisteria vine.

“Let’s try that one.”

We walked up the creaking steps, hope hanging by a thread.

Inside, the innkeeper looked up—a woman in her sixties with soft cheeks and the gentle smile of someone who’d spent a lifetime making travelers feel at home.

She took a look at us, “one room left,” she said matter-of-factly.

June blinked. “Just one?”

“Festival week,” the woman explained. “Everything else is full.”

I turned toward her, ready to offer alternatives. “We can go somewhere else.”

She hesitated—only for a heartbeat. Then her gaze flicked to the window where the rain had thickened, tapping against the roof in a steady rhythm.

“It’s fine,” she said at last, voice calm, a little breathy. “We’ll manage. It’s not like it’s the first time we’ve… shared a space.”

Her cheeks warmed at the memory.