Chapter 4
Charli
By the time I shower—really shower, in an actual bathroom with endless hot water, soft lighting, and towels that feel like clouds—I feel almost human again.
The employee locker room at the country club is nice enough, it’s clean, but it’s not as luxurious as this place.
There’s space to breathe, to unwind, to just be.
I scrub every speck of breakfast from under my nails, use shampoo that doesn't come from a vending machine, and tame my hair into something that doesn’t scream feral raccoon.
For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m on borrowed time.
Almost.
I dry off using a towel that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe and pull on my clean chef whites. When I step back into the hallway, the scent of coffee still lingers, warm and familiar, but the kitchen is… quiet.
I pad barefoot down the stairs, dreading the possibility of awkward silence or more well-intentioned pity. But what I find stops me cold.
Sawyer is leaning back in one of his ridiculously sleek kitchen chairs, his plate empty—no, spotless—and a second empty plate beside it that definitely didn’t belong to him earlier, is spotless, too.
A mug of coffee sits steaming on the counter, and I’m almost positive he polished off all the orange juice, too.
The only thing left on the counter is the dish towel I tossed earlier, neatly folded.
He looks up from whatever’s on his phone and grins. “Morning again.”
“Did you—” I step into the kitchen, scanning the evidence. “You ate everything?”
He sets his phone down. “I'm a growing boy.”
I stare at him, blinking like I misheard. "That was three people’s worth of food." My voice tilts upward in disbelief, teetering between awe and accusation. "You ate everything. Even the bagel. Who eats a whole everything bagel after pancakes?"
“Exactly. One for me. One for Ghost. And one for my mid-morning snack. It’s called planning ahead.” He pats his stomach with exaggerated pride, like he just completed a culinary triathlon instead of demolishing a small buffet. “Besides, you said you didn’t know what I liked. Now you do. All of it.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I don’t know whether to be horrified or… weirdly flattered. I go with horrified.
“I can't believe you ate all that food,” I say, half-laughing, half-exasperated as I yank the empty juice carton from the fridge and toss it into the recycling bin with more force than necessary. “Seriously, Sawyer. That was a buffet, not a sample platter.”
He just beams like a man who’s proud of himself, which, honestly, he probably is. I shoot him a glare, but it’s lacking real heat. Mostly because I’m too busy marveling at how completely he decimated everything I made in record time.
I cross my arms, trying to gather the courage for what I have to say next. “Look, I want to make a deal.”
He raises an eyebrow, arms folding over that annoyingly broad chest, and leans a little closer, like he’s expecting a punchline. “What kind of deal?” he asks, his tone half-curious, half-challenging—like he already knows I’m about to say something he’s going to hate but is bracing for it, anyway.
I cross my arms. “The deal where I figure things out and don’t become some charity case you feed and house.”
His expression shifts. Barely. But I see it—the flicker of insult, quickly buried. “I never said you were a charity case.”
“You didn’t have to,” I snap. “Look around, Sawyer. This place has views. I’m usually parked behind a dumpster. I sleep on foam padding and bathe in a locker room. We’re not exactly operating on the same playing field here.” I hesitate before getting to the point, "I want to pay rent."
“Charli,” he says, his voice low and tight, like he's holding back a storm. “I’m not doing this for a payout. I don’t want your money.”
“I want to pay rent,” I bite out, my hands trembling as I dig through my duffel bag until I pull out the envelope of cash I’ve been hoarding from my last paycheck.
It’s wrinkled, worn at the edges, but it’s what I’ve got—what I earned.
“I might be temporarily screwed, but I still have dignity. I’m not looking for favors or handouts.
So take the damn money, Sawyer—or I swear, I’ll pack my stuff and be out of here tonight.
Back to the van. At least there, no one looks at me like I’m something to fix. ”
That gets him. His jaw goes tight, and his voice lowers like thunder that hasn’t hit yet. “You offering me rent like I’m some slumlord isn’t dignity, Charli. It’s you trying to prove you don’t need anyone.”
I flinch. Because he’s not wrong. But that doesn’t mean he’s right either.
“You don’t get to make this about my pride,” I say, quieter now. “You don’t know what it’s like to have everything slip out from under you and still have to wake up and pretend you’re fine.”
He pushes up from the chair with the slow, deliberate ease that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand up.
His steps are measured as he rounds the island, each one drawing him closer until he’s standing directly in front of me—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin, close enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes.
Too close. Way too close. The kind of proximity that scrapes nerve endings raw, that makes it hard to think past the thunder of my pulse.
“I know exactly what it’s like to lose everything,” he says, voice low. “And I also know what it’s like to have someone try to help and get spit in their face for it.”
I breathe through my nose, but it does nothing to stop the burn building behind my eyes.
I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall—not here, not in front of him.
My throat tightens around the words, my voice barely holding steady as I say, “I’m not spitting in your face.
I’m just trying to survive with some part of myself intact.
” My fingers curl around the envelope in my hand like it’s a lifeline, the only thing keeping me grounded when everything inside me is unraveling fast and furious.
I’m not just defending my pride—I’m clinging to it with everything I have left.
He nods once, his gaze flicking down to the envelope in my hand, then back to my face—so intense it almost undoes me.
For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to argue again.
That we’ll spiral into another standoff neither of us can win.
But instead, he sighs. Not annoyed—something deeper. Like letting go of a burden.
Then he holds out a hand, slow and steady, like he’s offering me a lifeline instead of a deal. His voice softens just enough to catch me off guard. “Fine, then, we compromise.”
The warmth in his eyes flickers—just for a second—as if he can see the tears brimming in mine and is silently begging me not to let them fall. Like if I cry, he might shatter too.
I blink, hesitation twisting in my chest like a knot I can’t quite untangle. My voice comes out slower this time, less defensive, more uncertain. “What kind of compromise?”
“I don’t want your money,” he says, his voice quieter now, the fight draining from his features. “But if you need to feel like you’re holding your own…”
He pauses, glancing toward the stove, then he looks back at me, steady and calm. “You cook.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften it with charm. Just leaves the words hanging between us, like a peace offering made of stainless steel and gas burners.
My breath catches, because it’s the one offer I don’t know how to refuse. Not because it makes everything okay—but because it lets me keep my spine straight and my soul intact.
I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” His expression doesn’t waver. “You cook like it’s a second language, and Ghost and I have been living on protein bars and frozen food for too long. You need a roof. I need actual food. It sounds like a fair trade to me. Do we have a deal?”
It’s not. Not even close.
But my hands ache to touch his countertops again. My soul wants to lose itself in the click of gas burners and the smell of garlic and butter in the air. His kitchen is the space chefs dream about—high-end, warm, alive.I look at the stove. Then at him.
Then I nod. “Deal.”
He grins. “Deal.”
“And I’m not making pancakes every morning,” I add, though my voice is softer now.
A little frayed around the edges. Like I’m trying to hang on to the last thread of control in a situation that’s slipping through my fingers faster than I want to admit.
It’s not a threat, not really—just a line I need to draw to feel like I’m still me.
“We’ll negotiate that part.” He laughs.
I roll my eyes, but something inside me softens. The air between us isn’t heavy anymore. It’s charged, sure, but lighter somehow. Like the storm broke and left something better in its place.
“Guess I better start planning dinner,” I mutter, already opening the fridge.
He leans back against the counter, watching me like he’s seeing something more than just a woman in borrowed clothes and tired eyes. And maybe he is. But I can’t afford to think too hard about that right now.
As I'm about to put my shoes on, the doorbell rings—sharp, sudden, and too damn early for the second wave of surprises this morning. I freeze mid-lace, heart giving a little jolt as I look up. Sawyer, still leaning against the counter, raises a brow like he meant to say something but forgot.
His expression is half sheepish, half amused. "That’s probably Kendall," he says, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s not my best friend walking into the mansion. I definitely shouldn’t be in right now, dressed in chef whites and still a little damp from my luxury shower experience.
Panic flutters in my chest. I smooth a hand down my shirt, run fingers through my damp hair, and try not to look like someone about to be exposed.
“We have a meeting,” he says.