Chapter 6
Charli
Something is happening. I don’t know what, and I’m definitely not prepared for it—but it’s there, curling under my skin and whispering questions I’m not ready to ask out loud.
It’s in the way Sawyer looks at me across the kitchen while I’m chopping herbs, like I’m doing something magical instead of just mincing parsley.
It’s in the way he lingers in the doorway when I walk through the house, like he wants to say something but never quite does.
It’s in the way his dog follows me like a shadow and the way he watches that, like he can’t quite believe it either.
And it’s definitely in the way he smiles at me.
Not the practiced, polished grin he flashes at investors or contractors or those polished strangers at boardroom tables.
No, this smile is something else entirely—softer around the edges, almost shy, like it slips out before he can stop it.
It’s slower, quieter, like it carries some unspoken secret meant just for me.
And every time I catch it, I feel it like a spark low in my belly, a flicker I try to ignore but never quite can.
But every time I catch myself feeling it—that pull, that possibility—I remind myself just how ridiculous it is.
Because there’s nothing actually happening.
Not really. No lingering touches, no whispered confessions.
Just... moments. Fleeting, charged, and probably imagined.
I’ve read too many romance novels, watched too many late-night love stories where the brooding boss falls for the underdog.
That’s not real life. That’s fantasy. And real life?
Real life is me, sleeping under someone else’s roof, trying to survive one day at a time while pretending I’m not falling for the one man I can’t afford to want.
He’s Sawyer Gallo. Construction mogul. Billionaire. One of the most powerful, influential men in Hibiscus Harbor. The type of man people write headlines about. The kind who commands a room just by walking into it. What the hell would he want from me?
I’m the woman sleeping in his guest room because my life literally went up in flames.
I live out of a duffel bag. My alarm clock is my internal panic.
I avoid mirrors because I’m afraid of what I’ll see—the exhaustion, the fear, the failure.
I’m trying to piece my life back together with hope and hustle, but there’s no blueprint.
No safety net. Just a daily need to survive, to prove I still belong somewhere in a world that feels like it spit me out and slammed the door behind me.
He’s only being nice. That’s it, girl.
Nice guys exist. Even if they look like six-foot-four heartbreaks with broad shoulders and a voice that does things to your insides.
Even if they stare at you like they want to memorize your face.
Even if they sit next to you by the pool and say things that make you feel like maybe you’re not broken beyond repair.
I shake my head as I scrub a pan in the giant farmhouse sink, bubbles threatening to spill over the edges like the thoughts in my head.
The warm water is soothing, the steady rhythm of scrubbing grounding me in a way nothing else has in days.
But it’s not enough to drown out the chaos in my chest. I need to get my head on straight.
Focus on what matters. Not the way Sawyer’s voice makes something low in me flutter.
Not the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking.
Just the things I can control—getting to work on time, cooking like my life depends on it, and keeping my heart locked down where it can’t get bruised.
There is nothing going on between me and Sawyer Gallo.
Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except maybe the way my pulse kicks up every time he walks into the room.
Or the way I catch him watching me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out—but wants to.
Or the way our shoulders brush when we pass each other in the hallway and neither of us moves away.
Nothing except the thousands of unsaid things hanging in the silence between us, waiting to be spoken. But no, definitely—definitely—nothing.
But a tiny voice I keep trying to silence keeps wondering—what if?
After kickball practice one night at Hooplas, the team is still sweaty, flushed, and slightly buzzed from hard seltzers and fried pickles. We’re loud, taking up too much space and laughing like we don’t have work in the morning.
The Walking Ladies have claimed a table nearby, wearing custom glittery visors and sipping bright pink cocktails while loudly rating everyone's kickball form on a scale of one to "needs Jesus.
" One of them tries to show off a new TikTok dance and nearly knocks over a barstool, which earns a round of applause and a chant of "MVP! " from our table.
Mia clinks her glass to get everyone’s attention, her smile practically glowing.
She’s perched on the edge of her barstool like she can barely keep the news in another second, eyes bright and practically vibrating with excitement.
She waits until the din of laughter and side conversations fades into a curious hush, then grins like a woman about to drop the world’s juiciest secret.
“We have a date!” she announces, grinning from ear to ear, practically bouncing on her barstool. “Ian and I are getting married in two months at the hotel and spa on Palmera Island!”
The table erupts like a volcano of squeals and cheers, and I swear Sunni chucks a mozzarella stick at someone in celebration.
Molly knocks over her drink in the process of hugging Mia from across the table, and Kennedy’s already googling beachy bridesmaid dresses on her phone.
Someone behind us yells, “Shut up, Bad News Babes!” but Kendall just shouts back, “Put it in a Hallmark movie, loser!”
Mia’s cheeks flush, glowing brighter than the neon lights behind the bar.
She covers her face with both hands and peeks out through her fingers like she can’t believe it’s finally real.
The entire table bangs the bottoms of their seltzer cans on the table, chanting, “Ba-ha-mas! Ba-ha-mas!” while Riley starts mock-fanning Mia like she’s royalty.
It’s a moment that feels so ridiculous and perfect. I want to bottle it and keep it forever.
Then Mia turns to me, eyes sparkling with something that’s part mischief and part pure excitement. “Charli, I want you to cater the wedding.”
I freeze, my hard seltzer halfway to my mouth. “Wait—what?”
She laughs and grabs my hand, squeezing it tight. “I’m serious. You. The food. The vibe. It has to be you.”
My heart stutters. The table quiets for a split second as everyone turns to look at me, and suddenly I feel like the spotlight just swung straight in my direction. “You want me to—cater your wedding?”
Mia nods, her smile soft and full of certainty. “You’re the only one I trust with it. You’ve got talent, Charli. Real, soul-deep, knock-your-socks-off talent. I want food that means something, that feels like us. And you? You get that.”
A lump wedges itself in my throat. The part of me that still doubts I’m enough wants to argue, to deflect, but the louder part—the one that remembers the fire and the smoke and the feeling of nothingness—rises instead.
“Okay,” I whisper, and then louder, with more conviction, “Hell yes. I’d be honored. ”
Mia beams. “Great. You’ll need to come to the island to get the lay of the land. Ian and I will cover everything—flights, lodging. You can see the layout, sample the local ingredients, and get a feel for the setup.”
I blink again. “Wait. You’re flying me to the Bahamas?”
“Technically, you’re flying to an island Ian’s company owns and his brother’s company built from the ground up,” she says with a teasing grin. “But yeah—consider it a little working vacation. With palm trees.”
A grin splits across my face. “Okay, yeah. I’m definitely in.”
And just like that, for the first time in a long time, something in my chest loosens. Hope curls into the space where fear used to live. I’m going to the Bahamas. I have a job. And maybe this could be the start of something real again.
Later that evening, when I get home, I find Sawyer outside by the pool, his laptop open in front of him, its glow painting his face in sharp relief.
He’s hunched over the screen, jaw tight, brows drawn together like he’s in the middle of some high-stakes negotiation—or wrestling the laptop into submission with his mind.
The muscles in his shoulders are tense, every line of his posture sharp and businesslike.
I open the sliding glass door and he glances up and sees me, and smiles one of those easy ones that makes my chest do that annoying flutter thing I keep trying to ignore.
"Hey Charli," he says, his voice low and smooth, tinged with something I can't quite name. "How was practice?"
"It was fine. I don't want to talk about that, though.
" I say quickly, brushing the comment aside as I practically bounce in place, the energy spilling out of me like soda from a shaken can. My whole face lights up, and I can’t keep the grin off my lips.
“You will not believe what Mia just asked me to do. Like—stop everything, this is huge."
He closes the laptop slowly, attention shifting fully to me.
The hard edges of concentration in his face soften just a little, and the faintest smile touches his mouth.
"Tell me," he says, voice low and open—like he actually wants to hear every single word. Like he’s ready to stop the world for a minute just to listen.
I step closer, grinning like an idiot, barely able to contain myself.
“She asked me to cater her and Ian’s wedding.
On Palmera Island. I don't even know where that is exactly, but I know it's in the Bahamas! The Bahamas, Sawyer! Can you believe it?” My voice goes high with disbelief, the words tumbling out faster than I can manage them. My heart is practically thumping against my ribs, my hands fluttering with unspent energy. “She wants me to go down there and check out the hotel and everything—like I get to go see the venue and sample food and talk to vendors and just... be there. For real. I’ve never even had a passport stamp and now I’m going to the freaking Bahamas for work! ”
His brows lift, impressed, but it's more than that—there’s genuine pride in his voice, the kind that makes my chest go tight in a way I don’t want to examine too closely. “That’s huge. I’m really proud of you, Charli.”
“The freaking Bahamas! I’ve never been anywhere like that before.”
Sawyer leans back in his chair, his eyes narrowing slightly as a new thought seems to settle in.
“You know,” he says slowly, like he’s working it out in real time, “this actually lines up pretty well with my schedule. There are a few things on the island I need to check on—construction details that are better handled face to face.” He nods once, as if solidifying the idea. “Yeah. We can go together.”
I blink. “Really?”
He nods once, then shrugs. “Sure! We'll make a weekend out of it. We can take the jet. Faster than commercial, and easier all around.”
I gape. "You’re offering to fly me to the Bahamas?
On a private jet?" My voice comes out half-choked with disbelief, like the words themselves are too big to fit in my mouth.
I blink a few times, trying to process what he just said—trying to reconcile the sheer surrealness of this moment with the reality of my life lately.
He just said it so casually, like it’s no big deal.
Like hopping on a private jet is the kind of thing normal people do.
I mean, I just spent the last few weeks showering in a locker room and stretching paychecks like taffy—and now he wants to fly me to the Bahamas like we’re characters in some romance novel?
My jaw works like it wants to say something else, but nothing comes out. I feel half like I might faint and half like I might laugh hysterically.
He watches me with that unreadable expression of his, then gives a small shrug. "It'll be my pleasure," he says with a spark in his eyes and again, I'm trying not to read that much into it.
"Hell, yeah! Thank you!" I throw my arms around his neck before I can second-guess it, barely noticing the way he stiffens for a fraction of a second before his arms come around me. His body is warm, solid, and just familiar enough to make something in my chest hitch.
I pull back quickly, cheeks flushed, suddenly overwhelmed.
"I—sorry, I just... this is huge." I take a step back, trying to compose myself. "I need to start planning—like now. I’ve got a menu to brainstorm, a to-do list to make, and an ingredients list to research. I’ll be in my room if you need me.
" I turn on my heel and head inside, already mentally running through the appetizer options, trying like hell not to feel the weight of his gaze on my back as I go.