Chapter 10
Charli
By the time I make it back to the hotel, my notebook is overflowing with ideas, my phone is at ten percent from all the pictures and voice memos I took, and my cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
I practically bounce through the front entrance, my sandals slapping against the cool tile as I look around for Sawyer.
I spot him in the open-air lounge off the lobby, seated on a low-slung couch with a drink in one hand, his laptop in his lap, and his phone in the other.
He looks up, and the second he sees me, his entire face shifts—the stress lines ease, his mouth tips up in a slow smile, and he puts his phone down like whatever he was doing can wait.
Something flickers inside me at the sight—unexpected and a little disorienting.
It’s a strange blend of comfort and vulnerability, knowing I’m the reason his face softens like that.
I don’t know how to carry it, how to balance the weight of being seen in a way that feels.
.. safe. It makes something in my chest ache in the sweetest, most terrifying way, and I’m not sure whether to run toward it or run away.
"There you are," he says. "How'd it go?"
I drop onto the couch beside him, practically vibrating.
"Sawyer. It was incredible. I went to this little fish market where the owner, some guy named Linus, taught me how to tell when Mahi-Mahi is at its peak freshness.
Then I met this woman who makes her own jerk spice blends and sells them out of her backyard.
Her name is Aunt Vivi, and she gave me a hug that nearly cracked a rib. "
Sawyer chuckles. "Aunt Vivi sounds dangerous."
"Oh, she is. She fed me so many samples I had to pretend I wasn't about to die from the heat just to save face.
Then we found this spice stall tucked between two fruit stands and the guy there grows his own vanilla beans.
Vanilla beans, Sawyer. Fresh. Not in a jar.
I think I blacked out from all the wonderful aromas. "
He leans back, watching me with that amused, slightly dazed expression he gets when he thinks I don't notice him looking. "So, you had fun then?"
"I had the best time. Like... the type of day that makes you remember why you love what you do. I have a hundred ideas already. I just need time to sort through them all. Ian and Mia's wedding reception is going to be amazing."
"I don't doubt it," he says easily, standing and offering me a hand. "Come on. You deserve a celebration."
"Celebration?"
"Dinner. There's a place I want to take you. Local spot. Great food. Amazing views."
"Better than Aunt Vivi's backyard fire pit and semi-legal rum punch?" I tease as I try really hard to ignore the sparks running through my hand and up my arm.
He grins, his voice low and warm. "Tough competition. But yeah. Better."
The restaurant doesn’t have a name—just a painted sign that says EAT in faded blue letters and a chalkboard menu propped against a palm tree. The tables are literally on the beach, dug into the sand, with mismatched chairs and paper lanterns strung overhead.
We kick off our shoes before we even sit down. The sand is cool beneath our feet as we settle at a table on the shoreline. The feel of the waves flowing over our feet and the scent of grilled fish and lime fill the air.
"This is amazing," I say, tucking a napkin into my lap and glancing out over at the ocean.
There's a fullness in my chest I don't quite know what to do with—like something is blooming too big, too fast, and I have no idea how to contain it. I feel seen, celebrated, maybe even protected, and that terrifies me almost as much as it thrills me. I'm not used to being taken care of, not like this. And the part of me that’s still trying to unlearn survival techniques keeps waiting for the other shoe to fall. But here, now, with him, I let myself lean into the moment, even if I’m still learning how to hold it.
A waiter in a floral shirt and khaki shorts strolls up to our table barefoot, a tiny pencil tucked behind one ear and a notepad in hand. "What can I get you two to drink tonight? And any starters to kick things off?" he asks, grinning like he already knows we’re about to order half the menu.
I glance at the chalkboard menu again, practically vibrating with excitement.
As a chef, I live for this kind of thing—local, fresh, simple ingredients done right.
"I’ll have the mango mojito, and we’ll start with the grilled pineapple skewers and the plantain chips with chimichurri," I say, trying not to sound too giddy.
Sawyer orders a dark and stormy with extra lime and surprises me by adding the grilled swordfish with roasted plantains, grilled conch with citrus glaze, and coconut rice to his order.
"Gotta try something new, right?" he says with a wink.
Once the waiter heads off, I turn back to him with a huge grin.
"Glad you like this place," Sawyer says, his eyes tracking the way I take in everything around me—my bare toes in the sand, the paper lanterns overhead, the way I sigh like I could stay here forever. He takes a sip of his drink. "This place is kind of magical, huh?"
"It's amazing, Sawyer." I tell him as our waiter rushes back with our appetizers and drinks.
"For you." He places our food and drinks down with a flourish.
I take a bite of grilled conch with citrus glaze and moan. "Oh my God, this sauce. I want to bathe in it. Or bottle it and sell it. Or maybe both."
Sawyer laughs, the sound low and amused as he lifts his glass toward me. "Noted. I’ll have my legal team draw up the patent for Charli's Sauce of Sin," he says, his eyes crinkling with warmth and a spark of playful admiration that makes my stomach flutter.
I nearly choke on a sip of my drink, laughing as I set the glass down.
"That sounds like a whole other kind of business," I say, my voice laced with amusement and something softer underneath—like maybe I’m starting to believe that someone backing me up, someone being in my corner, might not be such a bad thing after all.
Sawyer raises his hands in mock defense, grinning. "Hey, I'm just here to support your empire-building.""
We're both still laughing when I suddenly freeze, mid-bite. "Shit! Shit, shit, shit!"
Sawyer sets down his glass, his expression calm, cool, and collected—like a man who could fix anything, anytime, anywhere. "What? What’s wrong?" he asks, his voice steady, unfazed by my sudden panic.
"I... I never told Carl I quit. I got so excited about the trip and then, with the consulting thing and packing and everything else, I totally forgot to actually tell Carl that I quit. Shit."
Sawyer leans back in his chair, one brow raised. "You didn’t tell Carl?"
I cover my face with both hands. "I didn’t. Ugh. I feel like a jerk. I mean, he deserved it, sure, but still. I should've at least sent a text or something."
"Don’t worry," Sawyer says, clearly enjoying this way too much. "I took care of it."
I blink at him. "What do you mean, you took care of it? Carl is still alive, right?" I ask in mock fear. Sawyer is a billionaire, after all.
"I called Ian this morning before you were up and told him about Carl. Told him to make it official with Carl so he couldn’t pull anything shady while we were gone."
My jaw drops. "Wait. You quit my job for me?"
He grins. "No. I ended your toxic employment situation with extreme prejudice. Ian will handle it. You've got nothing to worry about."
I stare at him for a long second. "You’re serious?"
"Very. And according to Ian, Carl is now pulling doubles all weekend. Karma’s a real bitch."
I burst out laughing, leaning back so hard my chair nearly tips.
"Oh, my God. That’s the most satisfying thing I’ve ever heard.
" The laugh bubbles out of me before I can stop it, part genuine amusement, part dizzy relief. Because even though my mind had been spiraling, Sawyer’s unshakable calm and quiet efficiency somehow made it all okay.
I don’t know how to handle that—the way he steps in, handles things, fixes what feels unfixable.
It shakes something loose inside me, something I've tried hard to keep locked down.
And while part of me wants to shove it aside, the other part.
.. the louder part... wants to lean in, just a little more.
Sawyer clinks his glass gently against mine, which has been suspiciously full no matter how many sips I take. "To fresh starts. And making sure jerks like Carl work every shift they tried to dump on you."
I smile at him, my chest warm in a way that has nothing to do with all the alcohol.
"To fresh starts," I echo, taping my glass to his a bit too hard and some of my mojito spills over the rim. "Oops."
Under the stars, with the sound of waves, the warmth of the drinks, and the hum of laughter, it really does feel like a new beginning.
By the time we get back to the hotel, I’m tipsy in the best way—giddy and flushed, my laughter a little louder, my steps a little less graceful. Sawyer walks beside me, steady as ever, one hand lightly touching the small of my back, guiding me across the lobby with quiet confidence.
We reach my door, and I stop, fumbling in my bag for the stupid key card. “Why do hotel keys always hide?” I mutter, giggling as I finally fish it out and hold it up in triumph. "Found it."
Sawyer chuckles, leaning his shoulder against the door frame, arms crossed as he watches me with that calm, collected air he wears like a second skin. "Maybe it knows you’ve had one too many mojitos."
I roll my eyes and swat lightly at his arm. “I’m perfectly fine.” I straighten, suddenly aware of how close we are, how quiet it is between us now that the door is right next to us.
The tension that’s been humming under the surface all night sharpens, pulling tight.
My breath catches as I look up at him, his face half-lit by the soft hallway light, eyes locked on mine.
Neither of us moves. I don’t know who leans in first—maybe we both do—but suddenly my mouth is on his in a soft, uncertain kiss.
And then he’s kissing me back, deep and hungry, his hands bracing my hips as my fingers tangle in the front of his shirt.
It’s heat and want and something far more dangerous—all the things we haven’t said poured into a kiss that feels inevitable.
My back hits the door, and I let out a breathless sound, lost in the way he touches me like he already knows every part of me.
He pulls back just enough to search my face, his voice rumbles low. "You sure about this, Charli?"
I nod without hesitation, breathless. "Yes."
Sawyer doesn’t wait another second. He grabs my hand and pulls me toward the door next to mine, slides the keycard, and opens it. With one swift movement, he pulls me inside; the door clicking shut behind us. The air between us sizzles with heat, the tension breaking like a dam bursting.
He kisses me again, this time with no hesitation—just need. Just want. My hands find the hem of his shirt, his fingers dig into my hips, and for a moment, we stop pretending we don’t want this.
In this moment—lips bruised, hearts racing—I know we’ve already crossed a line we can't uncross.