Chapter 9
Sawyer
The morning kicks off with chaos and not the good kind, either.
I'm halfway through my first cup of coffee, Ghost sprawled at my feet like she’s got no plans for the day beyond being treated like the queen she is, when my phone buzzes. I glance down and see the name of my usual pet sitter, Jenna. I answer quickly. She's supposed to be here any minute. "Jenna."
"Hey, Sawyer," she chirps, way too chipper for six-thirty in the damn morning. "I'm so sorry, but something's come up and I can't watch Ghost this weekend." Funny... she doesn't sound the least bit sorry.
I slam my coffee cup down harder than necessary, splashing it over the rim. "Seriously? This is the third time in a row you've flaked on me at the last minute, Jenna."
"I know, I know," she rushes on. "Total emergency. My sister's bachelorette party is in Vegas this weekend. She needs me."
I pinch the bridge of my nose. "Your sister's bachelorette party is the emergency?"
"Family first, right?" she chirps before hanging up.
I stare at my phone, ready to launch it across the kitchen. Ghost whines at my feet, sensing the shift in the air. I start making calls. Fast.
One after another, the usual backups are booked solid. Ian and Mia? Already halfway to Palmera Island. Reid? On call at the hospital all weekend. Parker? Out of town for a fishing tournament. Kane? "Dude, I'm on baby duty."
Charli appears at the entry of the kitchen, her duffel bag slung over one shoulder, wearing a bright, excited smile. Meanwhile, I’m practically pacing a trench onto the floor.
She stops short, eyeing me with amused suspicion. “Uh-oh. What happened? Did the jet blow up? Is there a hurricane? Do we need to build a raft and row to the Bahamas?”
I almost smile. Almost.
"Ghost-sitting situation," I mutter, scrubbing a hand through my hair. "My pet sitter bailed. And everyone else is tied up."
Charli sets her bag down and crosses the room, barefoot, moving with that serene confidence of hers that drives me a little crazy.
She scratches behind Ghost’s ears, and the traitorous mutt immediately melts into a puddle of bliss, rolling dramatically onto her back with her paws in the air and letting out a ridiculous, contented snort that makes Charli laugh and my chest tighten.
"Why can't she just come with us?" she asks, like it’s the simplest solution in the world.
"International travel," I say grimly. "Ghost doesn’t have the paperwork yet. Vaccinations, clearances, the whole nine yards."
"Ah." Charli bites her lip, thinking. Then her eyes light up. "Wait. Becky!"
I blink. "Becky?"
"Yeah, my friend from kickball. She owns Happy Tails Pet Services and works part time at the Hibiscus Harbor Animal Shelter. She’s amazing with animals. Took care of Molly's two insane golden retrievers for a week and lived to tell the tale."
I raise an eyebrow, half skeptical. "How trustworthy is she?"
Charli crosses her arms and gives me a look. "She’s the human version of a golden retriever herself. Completely trustworthy. If anything, she’ll spoil Ghost rotten."
Before I can argue, Ghost flops her head into Charli’s lap, snorting happily and kicking her legs like she’s dreaming of chasing tennis balls across a field. Charli laughs and ruffles her ears, smiling so brightly it’s almost blinding.
"Alright. Call her," I say, defeated.
Charli's already dialing. Two minutes later, she's chatting with Becky, her voice animated and full of energy as she rattles off details like it's no big deal.
Ten minutes after that, there's a knock at the door.
I answer it to find Becky standing there—a petite, freckled whirlwind of energy with a bright smile and a leash in one hand.
"Hi! You must be Sawyer!" she says, offering me a hand to shake. Before Becky can even introduce herself properly, Ghost barrels toward her like a furry missile. Instead of flinching, Becky laughs and opens her arms, catching Ghost mid-jump as the dog plasters herself against Becky’s legs with a happy, rumbling groan.
"Well, someone approves," Becky says, scratching Ghost behind the ears like they've been best friends for years. She looks up at me and grins. "She's perfect. Absolute sweetheart."
Charli steps beside me, smiling proudly, and I swear she looks like she just scored the winning point in a championship game. I glance at Ghost, who's now sprawled across Becky's feet like she's known her forever and I feel some of the tension in my chest ease.
"I'll stay here if that's easier for you," Becky adds, still petting Ghost. "It helps keep her in her normal routine."
"You do house-sitting, too?" I ask, feeling better about this by the second.
Becky nods enthusiastically. "Absolutely. Comes with the package."
I don't hesitate. "You're hired."
Charli beams at me, practically glowing with pride.
She doesn’t even realize it, but that little proud tilt of her chin, the way her shoulders straighten—it’s like she’s just solved a giant, unsolvable riddle and is waiting for her gold medal.
And damn if I don't want to hand her the biggest one I’ve got.
"You’re a lifesaver," I tell Becky, shaking her hand firmly. Then I glance at Charli, letting my mouth curve into a small smile meant just for her. "And you’re not so bad yourself, sunshine. Thanks for the suggestion."
Charli ducks her head and turns away, but not before I catch the faint flush rising on her cheeks.
Ghost, clearly not wanting to be left out of the celebration, launches herself onto the couch with a dramatic grunt, flinging one of the throw pillows onto the floor in the process. Becky and Charli laugh, and I shake my head, a grin tugging at my mouth despite myself.
Charli tries to play it cool when we step onto the tarmac—chin high, shoulders back, all confidence and calm—but the second her eyes land on the jet, the mask slips.
Her stride falters for just a beat. Her lips part in this small, stunned gasp as she tries to turn into a cough, but I catch it.
She stops walking and tilts her head slightly; her gaze tracking the sleek, silver fuselage like she’s not sure if it’s real or part of some elaborate prank.
Her fingers tighten on the strap of her duffel bag, and I can practically see the swirl of disbelief and awe flicker across her face before she schools it back into something more neutral.
But the shine in her eyes gives her away—she’s completely enchanted, and it’s damn near impossible not to smile at the sight.
"This is your plane?" she asks, her voice pitched just above a whisper.
I nod. "It's got my name on it."
She shoots me a look, half annoyed, half in awe. "It looks like a Bond villain’s getaway car had a baby with a penthouse suite."
I grin and motion for her to follow. "Wait until you see the inside."
She tries to act unimpressed, settling into the seat with that practiced cool she wears like armor, but it cracks almost immediately.
Her fingers skim along the buttery leather of the armrest like she’s trying to memorize the feel of it, and her gaze drifts—no, lingers—on the built-in espresso machine in the corner, eyes going wide for half a second before she blinks the wonder away.
When the flight attendant appears with a mimosa on a silver tray, Charli accepts it with a polite nod, but the way her hand trembles just slightly around the glass gives her away.
She presses her lips together, fighting a grin, but her foot taps a quiet rhythm against the floor, and I swear she’s vibrating with barely contained excitement.
It’s like watching someone trying not to smile during a surprise party they secretly hoped for, and I can’t stop watching her soak it all in like she’s breathing in magic.
"You fly like this all the time?" she asks, settling into her seat and gazing out the window like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Only every time," I say, buckling in and opening my laptop. "I don't fly commercial," is all I tell her. That's a story I never plan to revisit.
"Me, neither. It's so... peasantry," she says with a grin, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm as she lifts her mimosa in a mock-toast to luxury with her pinky finger raised in the air.
She shakes her head, clearly trying to keep her expression neutral, but I can see the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It's infectious.
I spend the flight reviewing site schematics and replying to emails, but every so often, I glance over and catch her taking selfies with the cloud-streaked window or snapping a photo of her breakfast tray like she’s documenting proof that this is real. It's ridiculously endearing.
As the island comes into view from the jet, Charli practically presses her face to the window, her eyes wide and glittering like she’s just spotted Neverland.
The closer we get, the more animated she becomes—pointing out the crescent-shaped beaches, the glittering turquoise water, the thick palm groves that blanket the coastline.
Her excitement is so palpable, it vibrates off of her like static.
"Oh my god, look at that water—it doesn't even look real," she whispers, grabbing my arm without realizing it.
I glance over at her, amused by her total lack of chill, and something tight in my chest loosens. I don’t even mind that she’s got a death grip on my forearm. It’s worth it just to see that joy.
When we land in Palmera, a black SUV is waiting for us at the edge of the tarmac. The driver loads our bags while Charli cranes her neck, taking in the palm trees, the turquoise water, and the crisp, salt-tinged air like she’s stepped into another universe.
"It smells like coconuts and money," she murmurs.
I chuckle. "Welcome to paradise."
The drive to the resort is short—maybe ten minutes up the coast. The hotel and spa are perched on a gentle hill overlooking the bay, all gleaming white stucco, soft arches, and sleek wood accents. The landscaping is pristine, the kind that looks effortless but is anything but.
"It opens the week before Ian's wedding," I tell her as we step into the shaded lobby. "Ian wanted a soft opening before the wedding. VIPs, influencers, a few local dignitaries."
Charli hums thoughtfully, already pulling out a small notebook and her phone, snapping photos of everything—the arched doorways, the open-air dining terrace, the ocean view beyond the infinity pool.
She scribbles notes as I lead her through the restaurant and kitchen, the ballroom, the beach ceremony setup, and the private villas.
She barely speaks, but her eyes are wide and bright, her hand moving nonstop. I watch her work, completely absorbed and in her element, and I realize something I haven’t let myself admit before: I don’t just like watching her enjoy this. I love being the one who brought her here.
Once we wrap the tour, I nod toward the concierge and the restaurant manager who have just joined us in the main lobby.
The concierge, a petite woman with a sleek ponytail and a clipboard that looks like it contains state secrets, offers Charli a warm smile.
"Ms. Whitmore, we’re thrilled to have you.
The market is vibrant this time of day—you’ll get a great feel for what’s available. "
Charli glances at me, eyebrows lifting, just shy of unsure. I give her a subtle nod, stepping back to let her lead. The restaurant manager, a tall man with a crisp linen shirt and the relaxed confidence of someone who knows every spice vendor by name, steps forward and shakes her hand.
"We’ll start at the fish market, then hit the produce stalls," he says. "And there’s a woman who makes the best jerk seasoning I’ve ever tasted. You’ll want to talk to her."
Charli glances between the concierge and the restaurant manager, then back at me, her expression caught somewhere between excitement and wide-eyed panic.
Her brows lift, lips parting slightly like she's about to ask if she really has to go. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clutching her notebook a little tighter against her chest as if it might shield her from the reality of being handed the reins. The corners of her mouth twitch up, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes yet—it’s the look that says she’s flattered but also seriously questioning whether she’s about to be in over her head.
"I’m going to check in with the site team here," I tell her. "But I’ve set you up to tour the local markets and kitchens with the concierge and the restaurant manager. They’ll help you source local ingredients and get a feel for the culinary options."
Charli blinks up at me, surprised. "Alone?"
I smile, nudging her gently toward them. "You’ve got this. They know you’re the bride’s choice for catering, so they’ll roll out the red carpet."
She straightens, gives a little nod, and shoots me a look that’s half thrill, half nerves. Her lips curve into a smile, genuine and bright, the kind that makes it impossible not to smile back. "Okay then. See you later?" she asks, her voice light, eyes dancing with a flicker of anticipation.
"Yes, for dinner," I say with a warm smile, hoping to soften the nerves I can see flickering behind her eyes. "You can tell me all about what you find—every spice, every flavor, every wild ingredient that makes you light up. I want to hear it all."
She nods, a slow grin spreading across her face as her shoulders relax. "Okay," she says, then turns to the manager and concierge, her tone playful and just a little sparkly. "Alright, let’s go shake down this island. I’m all yours."
I watch her walk away, chatting with the staff like she’s been doing this her whole life. I should head to the site meeting, but instead, I just stand there for a minute, hands on my hips, staring after her.
What the hell am I doing?
I don’t need a consultant. I have an entire team of project managers, advisors, and marketing strategists.
What the hell was I thinking hiring Charli for the Silver Willow rebuild?
Sure, she’s passionate, talented as hell, but this wasn’t part of the plan.
It was an impulse. A stupid, emotional, knee-jerk reaction to seeing her last night.
One second I was furious that Carl backed her into a corner, and the next I was offering her a role I didn’t even know I needed filled.
I rake a hand through my hair and blow out a breath.
What is this woman doing to me?