Chapter 7
Sawyer
Ihate meetings that don’t solve anything.
Chance Carter is pacing across the back of the firehouse conference room, tension rolling off him in waves.
He’s got a folder in one hand and a half-empty coffee in the other, and if his jaw gets any tighter, he’s going to crack a molar.
Captain Morgan, on the other hand, is leaning back in a chair like this is just another Thursday.
The contrast between the two men is stark. Chance, still early in his career as an arson investigator, moves with the restless energy of someone who wants to prove himself. Morgan, seasoned and unshakable, has the air of a man who's seen too many fires to be rattled by just one more.
I plant my hands on the edge of the table, leaning in with a simmering edge in my voice. “So, let me get this straight—you still have nothing? No suspects, no solid leads, no movement at all?”
Morgan exhales slowly, flipping through a small stack of black-and-white photos of the scene like they’ll suddenly whisper a confession so he can get me out of his hair.
His jaw tightens. "Not no leads," he mutters, tone edged with frustration.
"Just no good ones. Everything we’ve got is either a dead end, a rumor, or circumstantial as hell. Nothing we can act on—yet."
“It’s been weeks,” I snap, unable to keep the edge out of my voice.
My hands curl into fists at my sides, and I have to force myself not to slam them down on the table.
Every day that passes without a lead feels like another insult, like whoever torched the Silver Willow is laughing while we fumble in the dark.
"You’re telling me there’s not a single viable lead?
Not one person worth questioning again?"
Chance stops pacing, drags a hand through his hair, and exhales hard, his frustration practically vibrating in the air.
"We know, Sawyer. Trust me—none of us are sleeping easy. Every dead end eats at us like we’re the ones who lit the match.
We’re not giving up—but damn, we’re sick of hitting walls. "
“Someone torched my restaurant,” I bite out, my voice low and sharp.
“They’ve set fires to homes, a yacht, and half a dozen other places.
You think I care how your team feels about it—I care about stopping the person responsible before someone ends up dead.
” When I want answers, I get them. That’s how it works when you’re used to calling shots, writing checks, and solving problems before they start.
But this? This helpless waiting game? It’s driving me up the damn wall.
Morgan shoots me a hard look, his jaw tightening. “We’re doing everything we can, Sawyer. Getting theatrical won’t change the facts.”
“Doesn’t seem like you're doing a damn thing,” I snap, the words slipping out sharper than intended, laced with the frustration that’s been building for weeks.
I’m not used to running into this kind of wall—especially not when I’m the one footing the bill.
When I push, things move. When I demand, I get answers.
But here I am, stuck in the same damn place, with nothing but burned blueprints and empty promises. It grates more than I want to admit.
Chance leans his hip against the table, his voice lower. “Look, Sawyer, if you want to loop in the state Fire Marshal’s office, I won’t stop you. We could use the extra eyes. Extra resources.”
Morgan cuts him a glare. “We don’t need the state crawling up our asses.”
“What we need,” Chance says, voice low and tight, shooting Morgan an unmistakable side-eye, “is a damn miracle—or a break. And if that comes from outside the department, I say bring it on.”
The room hums with quiet tension. I glance between the two men. The frustration is a steady thrum behind my ribs. I don’t care whose jurisdiction gets bruised. I want answers.
“I’ll make the call tomorrow,” I say, straightening. “If someone’s burning down this town for fun, I’m not sitting around waiting for anything else to go up in smoke.”
Morgan stands, slow and deliberate. “We’ll figure it out.”
“Hope so,” I say. “Before someone ends up dead.”
I walk out before I say something that’ll land me in hot water, the smell of stale coffee still lingering behind me. The sun’s too bright outside, too clean for how dirty this whole thing feels. But one thing is clear: if I want answers, I might need to dig for them myself.
Pelican Point’s just one town over, and while Hooplas will always have my loyalty, Jumpin’ Jacks makes a damn good burger—good enough that even I’ll admit it’s worth the short drive. Ian wanted to talk without distractions, away from familiar eyes and ears, so this was the obvious choice.
Jumpin’ Jacks is packed, as usual. It’s the chaos that somehow feels like comfort—loud conversations, laughter echoing off the wood-paneled walls, the sizzle of burgers hitting the grill, and the ever-present scent of saltwater that clings to everything.
Ian’s already at a booth near the back, framed by a neon sign advertising the drink special of the day.
He’s sipping a beer, head tilted down as he scrolls through something on his phone with the focus that says he's either reading emails or checking the scores.
I slide into the seat across from him and bump the table with my knee, making his beer wobble.
He glances up with a lopsided grin. “You're late.”
“You’re lucky I came at all,” I grumble, grabbing a menu I don’t need. I know this place like the back of my hand.
The waitress comes over, barely hiding the flirt in her smile as she zeroes in on Ian and me like we’re the main course. Her voice drops half an octave when she asks if we’re ready to order, and she twirls her pen like she’s in a romcom audition.
Ian doesn’t even blink. Just gives her the same polite smile he uses on overly enthusiastic investors.
I glance up, murmur my order, and hand the menu back without so much as a second look.
I’m too hungry for games, and frankly, the only woman I’ve been thinking about lately is back in Hibiscus Harbor planning a wedding menu.
The waitress waits another beat, clearly hoping for some kind of spark.
But when neither of us so much as flicker in her direction, she flounces off with a huff and an exaggerated sway of her hips.
Ian raises an eyebrow. "We still got it."
"I never wanted it," I mutter, reaching for my water and taking a long sip before setting the glass back down. I glance at Ian. "Alright, big brother—what’s this about? Did you drag me out here to talk business, or is this one of your surprise bonding moments?"
Ian leans back, folding his arms behind his head, a mischievous glint in his eye. "So, I’ve got something for you. And no, it’s not more construction reports or a last-minute emergency—though you look like you miss those. This one's personal."
I cock an eyebrow, a half-smile tugging at the corner of my mouth. “Personal, huh? That sounds suspiciously like feelings, and I was promised burgers, not heart-to-hearts.”
Ian clears his throat, suddenly looking a little unsure of himself—a rare expression for my older brother.
"Okay, no heart-to-hearts," he says, scratching the back of his neck, "but I do have something to ask you.
" He shifts in his seat, then meets my gaze with a flicker of hesitation. "I want you to be my best man."
I pause for a second, letting the weight of the moment land before grinning and shaking my head. "C'mon, like I'd ever let anyone else stand up for you. You've been stuck with me since I was in diapers. Of course, I’ll be your best man."
He nods once, his expression softening for a beat. "Good. Because Mia wants to finalize the wedding party this week—and thanks, by the way. It means a lot to both of us." He leans back, grinning. "You have no idea how she gets when her timeline gets off-track."
I snort. “Sounds terrifying.”
The food arrives, delivered by the same waitress who now noticeably avoids eye contact, dropping off our plates with mechanical efficiency and none of the earlier flirtation. Apparently, the lack of interest cut deeper than her lip gloss.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the restaurant humming around us. It’s the kind of easy quiet that only happens with someone who’s known you long enough to read your mood from the way you chew your food.
Ian wipes his mouth with a napkin, then glances up. “I heard you're flying over to Palmera tomorrow. That true?”
“Yeah,” I say, nudging a fry around my plate.
“Since Charli’s catering your wedding, she needs to check out the venue—see the layout, get a sense of the kitchens, hire some vendors, maybe sample the local ingredients.
And I figured it’s a good excuse to check on the final resort build details while we’re out there. ”
Ian narrows his eyes with that older-brother suspicion that never quite went away, even after all these years.
"You gonna tell me what’s going on between you and Charli?
First, you insist I give her a job, then she’s living at your place, and at kickball, you couldn’t take your eyes off her.
" He lifts a brow and gives me that knowing look. "You two seem… close."
I pause, surprised by how quickly Ian cut to the heart of it. I stare at my plate for a beat, then glance up at him. He's waiting, not pushing, but definitely not letting it go. I let out a breath and lean back in the booth.
“Honestly?” I say, scratching the back of my neck.
“I don’t know what the hell is going on.
She’s... different. Gets under my skin in a way that isn’t annoying, just..
. real. And I’m feeling things I haven’t felt in years.
Not even with Ava. It’s like she flips a switch I didn’t even know was still wired. ”
Ian studies me for a long beat, watching me like he’s waiting for something—maybe for me to open up, or maybe just to give myself away. He sets his beer down with a soft clink and says, "Can I give you some advice?"
I laugh, shaking my head. "Isn’t that basically in the job description for older brothers? Giving advice, whether or not it’s asked for?"
“Look, I’ve been where you are—overthinking every look, every moment, trying to make sense of something that hasn’t even had a chance to breathe yet.
But trust me, that’s how you ruin it before it even begins.
So, here’s what I’ve learned: go with it.
Let it happen. Let it be messy or strange or unexpectedly good. Whatever it is, let it surprise you.”
I nod slowly, his words echoing louder than they should. Maybe he’s right. Maybe trying to make sense of it all is just my way of stalling. I stare down at my plate, suddenly not so hungry, the weight of everything sitting heavier in my chest.
"Shit, I don't even know if she's feeling any of this. For all I know, I'm the only one caught up in this mess. Wouldn’t be the first time—I fall hard while she barely sees me. That’d be my luck, right? Falling for someone who doesn’t even realize how much space she’s taking up in my head."
He grins, leaning back like he’s settling in for a show.
“So, let me get this straight. The guy who swore off anything serious for the rest of his life, who said he was just in it for fun and freedom, is now sitting here second-guessing himself over a girl?” He chuckles, shaking his head with genuine amusement.
“Man, if I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you’re catching feelings. ”
“Now that’s just crazy talk.” I toss my napkin at him, but the laugh that follows doesn’t quite mask the storm brewing in my head.
Because whatever this is—me and Charli, these moments that spark like live wires—it’s not just a crush.
It’s not casual. It’s real, even if it’s unspoken.
And that truth is getting harder to ignore.
Maybe it’s time I stop over analyzing every glance, every laugh, and let myself lean into it.
Let myself want her. Even if the risk of getting it wrong terrifies me more than I care to admit.