Chapter 5
Sawyer
Idon’t know exactly when the shift happened—maybe it was the first time Ghost abandoned my side to curl up against Charli on the couch like they’d known each other forever—but something in my own damn house has changed.
The rhythm is different. The air feels warmer, like it’s carrying something new, something unspoken but tangible.
My space doesn’t just look different—it feels different.
And I’d be lying if I said it didn’t rattle me.
Case in point? I’m currently sitting in a lounger beside my pool, watching my hundred-and-twenty-pound Doberman float blissfully on an inflatable raft next to Charli.
That traitorous mutt climbed on with her the second Charli slipped into the water, and now the two of them are basking in the late afternoon sun like they’re vacationing royalty.
And me?
I’m off to the side, nursing a bottle of water, trying very hard not to notice how incredible Charli looks in that bikini—sun-kissed skin, damp curls trailing down her back, legs that go on for days—and wondering how the hell I got edged out of my own dog's affections by a woman who’s only been living here a few days.
Ghost is draped across her like some loyal furry throne accessory, completely smitten, while I’m over here pretending to care more about hydration than the way Charli’s laughter skips across the water like a warm breeze.
"She likes me better," Charli says without even opening her eyes, like she can read my mind. Her voice is smug and just this side of a taunt.
I grunt, trying not to let my eyes stray below her neckline. "She doesn’t like you better. She likes whoever feeds her bacon," I mutter, glaring at the dog like she’s betrayed me on a deeply personal level... 'cuz she has.
Charli cracks one eye open and turns her head toward me, the corner of her mouth tugging upward in that slow, knowing smile of hers. "I made breakfast and suddenly I’m the heir to the estate? Calm down, Gallo."
"She was my dog first," I mutter. "My shadow. Now she follows you around like you're her emotional support human."
"Maybe you should work on your emotional support skills."
I shoot her a look. She just beams and runs a hand through Ghost’s fur as the raft bobs slightly on the water. The dog lets out a contented huff and rests her head on Charli’s thigh like she belongs there.
I rub a hand over the back of my neck and try to tell myself this isn’t getting under my skin.
But it is. Since when do I lounge by the pool?
I’m a workaholic, and here I am just sitting here, watching her like I don’t have a thousand things on my calendar that suddenly don’t matter. What the hell is happening to me?
It’s not just the dog that seems to have changed. It’s everything.
Charli hums when she moves through the kitchen now.
She rearranged the spice drawer and had the audacity to label things.
There’s a chalkboard menu by the fridge I didn’t authorize, and I caught her using my outdoor grill like it was part of her morning ritual.
You don't touch a man's grill. It's sacred ground. You just don't.
She’s not just staying here. She’s inhabiting my life. And part of me—a stupid, reckless part I can’t quite shut off—likes it. Which is the problem.
She thinks she’s a burden saying that if she stays too long or takes up too much space, I’ll kick her out like she overstayed her welcome.
So, she keeps trying to make herself smaller.
More invisible. Like slipping through the cracks is a skill she perfected somewhere between survival and surrender.
But the thing is, I see her. And that’s the problem, too.
I see her taking her coffee out back in the early mornings before the sun rises, sitting cross-legged on a yoga mat doing yoga, her hair still messy from sleep.
Sometimes she hums under her breath, just softly enough that I can’t make out the tune.
I see the way she tucks in when she laughs—like she doesn’t trust it yet.
Like joy is something that might get taken away if she lets herself enjoy it too much.
She’s always got that notebook. And there’s this look on her face sometimes—soft, focused, far away—that makes me want to sit down beside her and ask what she’s writing, even though I never do.
And I hate she thinks she doesn’t belong here.
Charli swings her legs over the side of the raft and slips into the pool.
Ghost, ever loyal to her new favorite person, paddles behind her.
Water glistens on Charli’s skin, and I force my eyes to stay above her shoulders, because the last thing I need is to complicate things with lust when everything else already feels like a loaded wire.
She grabs a towel off the edge and wraps it around herself, squeezing water from her hair.
Then she sinks down beside me on the edge of the pool, her skin still glistening in the sun, droplets tracing down her arms. She exhales a soft, content breath like the world’s weight has eased—if only for a moment—and leans her head back against her arms without saying a word.
We sit there for a minute in silence, nothing but the hum of cicadas and the ripple of the pool between us. I should leave it there. Should just let the silence win. But I can’t.
"You act like you're in the way. You know you're not, right?"
Her head snaps toward me, eyes flashing. "Of course I'm in the way, Sawyer. I'm sleeping in your house, tripping over your routines, taking up space in a life that was fine without me. I'm in the way, whether or not you want to admit it."
"No. You're not."
She huffs a breath, like she’s gearing up to argue, but I hold up a hand.
"I get it. You’ve been in survival mode so long, you don’t know what it feels like to just exist without apologizing for it.
But you live here now, for however long you want to, Charli.
This isn’t a temporary favor. You don’t have to shrink yourself or earn your keep every second of the day.
Whether or not you believe that yet—I do. "
She looks away, jaw clenched, and her voice drops to something raw.
"I'm just trying to stay out of your way, Sawyer, until I can figure something more permanent out. You didn’t sign up for this. I cannot tell you how much I appreciate the help—really, I do—but I don’t want to be another thing on your list. Another problem you have to manage. "
Her words crack slightly at the end, not quite a whisper, not quite steady. Like she’s fighting back everything she’s been holding in. Like if she says one more thing, the whole dam might break. And damn if it doesn’t twist something in my chest.
I lean forward, elbows on my knees. "No, I didn’t. But I’m not exactly regretting it either."
She freezes.
I see the shift in her eyes. The vulnerability behind the fight. And for the first time since I met her, she doesn’t throw a sarcastic quip back. She just nods.
That little nod feels like progress.
Ghost, ever the attention hog, trots over with a proud little prance, her ears perked and tongue lolling, and drops her soaked tennis ball directly into my lap with a wet, unapologetic plop, like it’s a royal offering from her new kingdom of betrayal.
Charli chuckles. "See? She still loves you."
I sigh and toss the ball across the yard. "Yeah. Barely."
But I catch the smile she tries to hide.
And I let myself hope, just for a second, that maybe she won’t disappear after all.
The kickball season kickoff meeting is tonight, and apparently, we’re all acting like it’s the damn Super Bowl. I show up at Hibiscus Harbor Park, expecting to sneak in, grab my team’s jersey, and duck out before the drama starts.
Instead, the entire parking lot is buzzing with people—tents, coolers, lawn chairs. Someone brought a Bluetooth speaker blasting early 2000s pop.
And the Walking Ladies? They showed up in matching tracksuits and gold sneakers, power-walking laps around the park like it’s a parade route.
At one point, they broke into a full-on synchronized dance routine to “Bye Bye Bye” by *NSYNC—complete with finger points and a dramatic final pose.
The crowd lost it. Someone handed them foam fingers, which they immediately dual-wielded like senior citizen ninjas.
It was the chaos that only makes the night better.
I spot Charli almost instantly across the field.
She’s with Kendall, Sunni, and the rest of her team, The Bad News Babes, huddled in a corner like they’re plotting a heist. She’s wearing her jersey over a tank top and cutoff shorts, and her hair’s up in one of those messy buns that somehow makes her look even hotter.
She doesn’t see me yet, which is good because I need a second to pretend I’m not completely gone for this woman.
And yeah, I’m keeping an eye on every other guy on this field—especially the ones pretending not to look.
Jax's already elbowed Garrett in the ribs for staring too long, and I swear to God if Parker makes one more offhand comment about Charli’s legs, I’m throwing him in the lake.
It doesn’t matter if she’s not mine. I’m still watching.
Still ready. Like I’m guarding something I haven’t even had the guts to claim yet.
Reid claps me on the back with a grin. "Sawyer. You in game shape or still running on those construction site carbs and your daily protein bar subscription? Or are you just here to keep an eye on who’s looking at Charli?"
I roll my eyes. "I’ve got a mean slide kick. Just ask Ian."
Speak of the devil—my brother strolls up with a beer in one hand and a smirk that says he’s seen right through me. "Speaking of sliding, what’s going on with you and Charli? You’ve been eyeing her like a man with a crush and no game."
I scoff. "We’re friends. She’s staying at the house for a bit. That’s it."
Ian’s smirk deepens as he nudges my shoulder with the big-brother familiarity that’s always half-tease, half-truth. "Uh huh. And I just drink whiskey for the hell of it. Come on, man. You like her. Don’t pretend you don’t. I haven’t seen you this twitchy around a woman since… ."
"Don't finish that sentence," I cut in, sharper than I mean to. Ian freezes for a beat, mouth half-open, because we both know whose name was about to fall from his lips. Ava. The one who shredded my heart in a nanosecond and left the pieces in places I’m still finding. He doesn’t say it, bless him, just gives me that big brother look—the one that says he knows better but won’t push. Not tonight.
I shake my head, but he just grins wider and slaps my back. “You don’t have to say anything. I see it. You’re being protective and you don't even realize it. It’s okay, Sawyer. She’s kind, she’s tough, and she makes you smile in a way that’s not fake for once. Let yourself have that.”
His words hit harder than I expect. Not because he’s wrong—but because he’s too damn right.
"It’s complicated," I mutter.
"No, it’s not," he says, dead serious now. "Don’t let your rules about women keep you from something real. I found Mia and I want you to find your forever person, too."
Before I can answer, there’s a sudden eruption of noise from the center of the field. The Bad News Babes and the Good News Guys are being called up for the official team photos—and somehow, we’re scheduled back-to-back.
Just before the names are called, the Walking Ladies—never ones to be outdone—charge the front with inflatable microphones and feather boas, declaring themselves the official halftime entertainment.
They strut, pose, and belt out a wildly off-key but passionate rendition of "We Are the Champions," turning the whole thing into an impromptu concert.
Someone hands them a karaoke machine, and the crowd goes wild, cheering like this is the main event.
Brooke nearly drops her phone, filming the chaos, and even Reid has to pause his trash talk to watch with his mouth open.
The energy is pure mayhem—and somehow completely what Hibiscus Harbor is all about.
Once the Walking Ladies are done—complete with a mic drop and a conga line that somehow ropes in half the snack tent—they strut off chanting "Bad knees, good moves!" and toss glitter confetti into the air like they’re closing out Coachella. The crowd eats it up.
Charli catches my eye from across the field.
The noise dulls around us like someone hit mute for just a second.
Something electric passes between us—sharp and undeniable.
Her gaze locks on mine, and I swear, the air gets thinner.
She lifts a brow and leers at me like she already knows what I’m thinking.
Like she feels it too, even if neither of us dares name it.
"You ready to lose this season?" she calls, her voice playful but threaded with that same spark.
My grin kicks up before I can stop it. That fire? Yeah. It’s mutual. Even if we’re both pretending it’s just about kickball.
I grin. "You wish. Winner cooks dinner. Loser does dishes."
"You better be good at scrubbing, boy," she fires back.
Oh, game on.