Chapter 1
Sawyer
The Silver Willow wasn’t just another investment.
It was mine. I walked through this place a dozen times before closing on it.
Listening to the head chef, Charli, talk about turning the seasonal menu.
She ran that kitchen like a damn command center.
One look, one word, and people moved. There was power in her presence – even if she didn’t demand it.
I talked to my brother, Ian, about turning it into something higher end without losing its soul.
Now it’s a blackened shell, soaked in ash and foam, the bones of it sagging like a dying animal under tarp-covered scaffolding. I stand across the street with a cup of shitty gas station coffee in one hand and a pit in my stomach that hasn’t let up since the night it burned.
I couldn’t cook to save my life—still can’t.
I once set a frozen pizza on fire and damn near triggered the sprinkler system in my old condo.
But there was something about the controlled chaos of a kitchen that always fascinated me.
The precision. The timing. The art of turning raw ingredients into something unforgettable.
Watching a well-run kitchen was like watching a symphony—everyone moving in sync, heat and motion and steel, all dancing together.
Owning The Silver Willow had been about more than profit.
It was about creation. Community. Legacy.
It was the first thing I had that felt personal—mine, not inherited, not handed off, not part of some soulless real estate portfolio.
Now it’s gone.
Ash clings to the air like a memory you can’t scrub out. The scent of charred wood and bitter grease settles in my throat and stays there.
I take a long sip of the bitter coffee, watching a charred beam get lifted into a dumpster.
The groan of metal and wood echoes down the block like the building’s crying out one last time.
I clench my jaw. What kills me isn’t just the money I lost—it’s the people.
My team. My staff. My chef. The ones who showed up early and stayed late.
The ones who believed in what we were building.
People who trusted me to make something permanent in a world that rarely is.
And now? They’ve got nothing. No warning.
No backup plan. Just ashes where their future used to be.
Charli Whitmore, my head chef, had been with the restaurant long before I bought it—an absolute force in the kitchen. Could command a brigade with a look. I’d only had a handful of conversations with her before the fire, but she is smart. Driven. Loyal to the bone.
And now out of a job.
Not on my watch.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen for a beat.
My thumb hovers over Ian’s name before I finally tap it.
He’s probably still in bed, grumpy as hell, but he’s the one person I trust to make things happen fast—and right now, that’s all I care about.
I pace along the sidewalk, smoke still drifting faintly from the building across the street, my free hand tightening around the coffee cup until the paper crinkles.
He answers on the second ring. "If you’re calling before seven, someone better be dead."
"Charli Whitmore," I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. "She was my executive chef. Hell of a cook. Hell of a leader. You got an opening at the club for her? Somewhere she can land on her feet while I figure out what comes next?"
A pause. Then, "Jesus, you’re not even going to say good morning?"
"Not in the mood, big brother. She’s been through hell, Ian. She’s a damn talent, and she deserves more than being tossed aside like collateral damage. I need her placed so we don’t lose her. Not tomorrow. Not next week. Now."
Ian sighs, and I picture him sitting at his kitchen counter, rubbing sleep from his eyes with one hand and holding his phone with the other.
"Fine. Yeah, I’ve got a spot at the country club.
One of the executive chef slots just opened up.
But full disclosure—she’s walking into Carl’s territory.
He doesn’t play nice with fresh blood, especially not someone coming in with your stamp on her. "
I grit my teeth. "She can handle Carl. Trust me. He’ll either respect her or get the hell out of her way."
"Then consider it done," he says, sounding more awake now. "Tell her to come in Monday morning, seven sharp. I’ll make sure HR has her paperwork ready. And Sawyer? Don’t hover. Let her find her feet."
"I’m not going to hover," I lie. Because I will. Of course I will. I’m Sawyer fucking Gallo.
I hang up and stare at the smoking ruin across the street, the scent of wet soot clinging to the morning air like a curse.
Sirens are long gone, but the wreckage hums with silence, the kind that settles over a grave.
I should’ve let HR handle it. Should’ve pointed her to an employment site like everyone else, but the thought of her out there, jobless, makes my jaw clench.
I watch as a couple of construction workers shift around the site, cataloging damage, clearing debris—familiar faces, all of them. Guys I hired years ago. Today, not one of them looks me in the eye.
Good. Because I don’t have answers yet. Only promises. And those burn hotter than fire.
It’s not enough. I’m going to rebuild The Silver Willow—better, stronger. And I’m going to take care of every person who depended on it.
Charli’s van is parked in the alley behind what’s left of The Silver Willow, tucked in beside the delivery ramp and an overflowing dumpster. I spot it as I round the corner, and sure enough, the driver’s side window is cracked open, and her silhouette is visible through the glass.
She’s sitting in the front seat, hunched over something in her lap—a notebook, maybe, or a tablet. Her brows are drawn tight, her hair pulled into a no-nonsense knot. Even exhausted, even surrounded by smoke and ruin, she looks like she owns the pavement she’s sitting on.
I tap on the window, and she startles, then glares at me.
"Sorry," I say as she cracks the window open. She squints up at me, wary and tired. Her eyes are puffy, like she hasn’t slept in days, and there’s a stubborn smear of ash on her cheek. "Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Just saw the van and figured you might be here. I wanted to check in."
"What’s up, Gallo?" she says, crossing her arms with the kind of defiant tilt to her chin that dares me to give her a reason to swing. Her voice is low, clipped, like she’s bracing for more bad news and already pissed off about it.
"Got you a job," I say, leaning one arm against the van, keeping my tone even but firm. "At the country club. High-end kitchen. Real work. Not a pity post, if that’s what you’re thinking. Ian doesn’t do charity hires, and I didn’t twist his arm. Much."
She lets out a soft, disbelieving breath, her expression shifting from wary to something that almost looks like hope—like she wants to believe me but doesn’t quite trust the ground she’s standing on.
"You’re serious? Just like that, you lined up a job for me?
That’s... I don’t even know what to say. "
I take a breath, steadying my voice. "You’re sharp, steady under pressure, and you’ve got instincts most chefs would kill for.
That kind of talent doesn’t belong cooking in a fast-food joint or wondering how to scrape together rent.
You need a place where you can do what you do best—and this job is an opportunity.
One you deserve… at least until I get the Silver Willow back up and running. "
She doesn’t answer. Just looks out past me toward the wreckage of the restaurant.
"Ian knows you’ve got chops. Carl might test you at first—he’s old school, likes to bark and puff up his chest—but you’ll shut that down quickly, I’m sure. He’ll either learn to respect you or get out of your way. And if he doesn’t, I’ll deal with him myself."
Her jaw tightens. She’s considering it, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.
Finally, she mutters, "Do I have to wear one of those stuffy-ass double-breasted jackets?"
I grin. "Not unless you want to."
Another pause. Then a sigh. "Fine. But if Carl so much as breathes in my direction, I’m stabbing him with a skewer."
I laugh, "Deal."
She looks at me then, and for a second the noise around us disappears.
There’s a flicker in her eyes—doubt, maybe, or gratitude she’s not ready to admit—but it hits me square in the chest. The air tightens between us.
Not from the heat of the burned-out restaurant behind us, but from something newer.
Unspoken. Unplanned. And entirely too dangerous.
I clear my throat and step back. "Monday. Seven. Don’t be late."
She nods, slow and unreadable, then gently eases the window back up.
Her hand lingers on the edge for a second, like she’s thinking about saying something more—but it never comes.
The glass slides shut with a soft click, sealing her back into the quiet cocoon of her van, leaving me standing in the alley with a dozen words I didn’t say and the feeling of something I can’t quite name.
As I walk away, I tell myself this was the right thing to do.
That offering her this job, stepping into her orbit like this, was about doing the decent thing as an owner of the restaurant.
About making sure the people who helped build The Silver Willow don’t fall through the cracks.
That stubborn fire in her—I felt it catch something in me I thought I buried a long time ago.
It has nothing to do with how my pulse kicked up when she smiled.
I’m not that guy.
Not anymore.
Back at the office, I spread the plans out across my desk and try to get my head back in the game.
A dozen projects are in motion, most of them tied to the resort development on Palmera Island in the Bahamas.
The hotel and spa sit on the north tip of the smaller island, Little Palmera, but everything else—the infrastructure, the community spaces, the long-term vision—is happening on the main island where the staff will live and play.
We’re building it all. Schools. A hospital.
A library. Government buildings. Clean water access.
The works. It’s one of the biggest projects Gallo Construction has ever taken on, and it means something.
Ian didn’t just want luxury. He wanted a legacy.
A place where people could thrive, not just clock in and serve cocktails by the pool.
My phone buzzes. First, it’s a site manager from the Palmera Island project—checking on a shipment of imported tile that’s been delayed at the docks.
Then it’s the lead architect needing a sign-off on updated schematics for the school complex.
By the time I finish a ten-minute call with the plumbing contractor who’s trying to source specialized filtration components for the hospital, my coffee’s gone cold.
It’s a lot, and normally, I’d thrive in it. But today, every call feels like it’s dragging me further away from that parking lot where Charli sat alone, her van still covered in ash.
After the last call, I sit back in my chair, staring at the open blueprints. It's all good work. Solid, honest work. But it doesn’t feel as sharp today. Not after everything that's happened.
Charli’s job is lined up. The projects are moving forward fast. Nevertheless, my mind won’t settle.
I pick up the phone again and start drafting a message to Ian.
Then I stop, stare at the screen for another second, and call him instead—because I know if I don't hear it from him directly, I'll keep second-guessing every detail.
He answers on the first ring this time. "Tell me you’re not hovering already."
"Only a little," I admit. "I just want Monday to be smooth."
"HR’s got it locked down. She’s good to go," Ian says. "You really think she’ll take to the club kitchen?"
"She’s already survived worse."
There’s a pause, then he says, "Speaking of survival, we need to finalize the hospital interior specs on Palmera. The ministry wants everything submitted by next week."
I sigh, leaning forward and scanning the blueprints. "Yeah, I saw the email. I’ll get with the design team. We still need to nail down the housing units for the school staff."
"Right. And don’t forget the water system for the south end. The filtration units are delayed again."
"Already on it."
"This project’s becoming a beast," he mutters. "But when it’s done... it’s going to be something real."
I nod to myself. "That’s the point. Build something that outlasts us. Between Palmera and the Silver Willow, I’ve got my hands full. My calendar doesn’t have room for any more surprises."
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, "You think she fits into all that?"
"Who, Charli?" I lean back, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah. I do."
"Guess we’ll find out."
"We will."
“Remember, Sawyer, you’re not just rebuilding the restaurant, you’re rebuilding something in you, too.”
“Okay, I’m done with the big brother talk for the night. See ya tomorrow.”
I can hear him laughing when we hang up, and for the first time since the fire, I feel something close to solid under my feet.
Not because anything’s easy. It’s not. The resort timeline is tight, the logistics are insane, and there are a dozen fires—not the literal kind—that need putting out.
But there’s movement. There’s momentum, and for the first time in days, I feel like I’m not just reacting—I’m building again.
Still, even with that momentum, my thoughts drift back to her. To Charli. To the way she clenched her jaw instead of asking for help, the way she didn’t even flinch when I told her she’d be working with a chef known for being territorial.
I don’t just want to rebuild a restaurant. I want to build a future, and somehow, Charli Whitmore will be part of that blueprint.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I get more coffee, then drag the construction plans closer.
Time to rebuild. Everything.