Chapter 13
Sawyer
The dock glows under the golden hour light, all warm pinks and golds shimmering on the water.
My yacht, The Marigold, rocks gently at its slip, already prepped by the crew and stocked for the trip across to Nassau.
When Charli and I arrive, she’s practically glowing—still riding the high from parasailing, hair windblown, cheeks sun-kissed, and a smile that’s been permanently etched onto her face since we landed.
Ian and Mia are already waiting for us, standing arm-in-arm on the deck near the bow.
Mia waves when she spots us, her oversized sunglasses perched on her head and a sheer white cover-up fluttering in the breeze over her bright coral dress.
Ian gives a small wave, his other hand tucked casually in his pocket.
Charli beams and jogs the last few steps toward Mia, the two women immediately diving into excited chatter like they haven’t seen each other in months instead of a couple of days.
They hug, link arms, and start strolling down the deck, already absorbed in some conversation that involves the words "menu inspiration" and "flower arches. "
Ian watches them go with an amused shake of his head. “Mia’s been vibrating with wedding energy since the moment we landed. I swear, if I could marry her tonight and still throw the big event in two months, I would.”
I chuckle, glancing over at Charli, who’s now gesturing animatedly about something floral and culinary. “Charli seems happy, doesn't she?”
“Yeah, she does,” Ian says, then shoots me a sidelong glance, the corners of his mouth twitching like he already knows the answer to the question he hasn't asked. “You do too.” He says it with a kind of quiet certainty, like he’s not fishing—he’s confirming.
I lift an eyebrow and grin. “Is that your subtle, older-brother way of poking around in my love life? Trying to figure out what’s really going on with me and Charli?”
Ian smirks, lifting his beer bottle slightly like a toast. “Just being a nosy older brother. Comes with the territory—and honestly, I live for this shit.”
I lean against the railing, watching the sun cast a halo over the water, then glance at Ian, the breeze tugging at the edges of my shirt. “I’m taking your advice,” I say quietly, the weight of the admission anchoring the moment between us.
He squints, a mischievous glint in his eye.
“Which part? The part where I said to stop overthinking, or the part where I told you to let it be messy?” He leans in.
“Because honestly, I said both—and I’m not above taking full credit if this ends in a beachfront wedding and me giving an embarrassing best man speech. ”
“Both,” I admit, raising an eyebrow in mock defense. “I’m letting it happen. Seeing where it goes. And yeah, maybe it’s messy. But it feels good. Real.”
Ian snorts, bumping his shoulder against mine like we’re ten again. “Damn, look at you getting all emotionally evolved. Who are you, and what have you done with my emotionally constipated little brother?”
I roll my eyes. “You’re just jealous. I’ve got better hair and emotional growth.”
Ian nods slowly, then claps a hand on my shoulder, a teasing glint in his eyes. “Good. Because I haven’t seen you like this since… well, ever. Honestly, I thought you were going to end up a rich hermit with excellent taste in scotch and terrible taste in dating apps.”
“I definitely didn’t plan on this,” I say, eyes drifting back to Charli.
“But she’s not like anyone else. She’s got this spark—funny, sharp as hell, and stubborn in a way that makes me grin even when I shouldn’t.
And somehow, when she’s around, I don’t feel the weight of everything.
She makes the world feel softer. Like it might actually be good. ”
Ian’s smile is easy, no judgment in it. “Then don’t screw it up,” he says, lifting his beer bottle again and giving me a pointed look. “Because if you do, I’m not letting you live it down. You know that, right?”
I bark a laugh, shaking my head. "Thanks for the vote of confidence," I say, lifting my beer in a mock toast, trying to play it cool—but the truth is, his words mean more than I’ll admit.
“Hey, I’m rooting for you, baby brother. But just know—if you screw this up, I’ll be the first one in line to say I told you so. Lovingly, of course.”
Before I can answer, Mia calls out from the top deck, “You two coming, or are you having a bro-mantic heart-to-heart down there?”
“Little of both, babe,” Ian calls back.
Charli’s laugh echoes down to us. “Get up here, Gallo! You promised sunset drinks!”
I glance at my brother one last time, and he gives me a knowing look. “Go get your girl.”
And I do.
Dinner in Nassau is at a rooftop terrace of a private waterfront restaurant, all glittering lights and lazy candle flames that sway with the ocean breeze.
The scent of grilled seafood and citrus wafts through the air, mingling with soft jazz drifting from hidden speakers.
The table is tucked into the far corner with an unobstructed view of the marina; the water reflecting the warm glow of the setting sun, yachts bobbing lazily as dusk settles in around them.
Palm trees line the edges of the rooftop, casting long shadows that dance in the golden hour light, adding to the atmosphere of secluded elegance.
The staff, polished and attentive, seem to know exactly when to top off a wine glass or clear a dish without ever intruding on the conversation.
The conversation flows easily—Mia and Charli discussing dress fittings, Ian and I trading contractor horror stories, and all of us laughing in that relaxed way that only happens when the wine is good and the company is better.
The warm breeze lifts strands of Charli's hair as she leans in to show Mia something on her phone—probably a menu sketch or a spice vendor she found earlier that had her practically buzzing with excitement.
Mia gasps, then claps a hand over her mouth before they both dissolve into giggles again.
Their heads bent together in conspiratorial delight, the candlelight casting halos over their animated faces.
For a moment, I don't hear the music or the surf—I just watch her, laughing and lit up, and wonder how I ever lived in a world where that sound didn't exist.
It’s perfect—until a faint click draws my attention, sharp and unwelcome, slicing through the lull of soft conversation like a warning bell.
I glance to the right and spot him—paparazzi. Not local. He’s crouched just beyond the terrace railing with a long-lens camera, snapping photo after photo like he’s trying to catch a scandal of some sort.
Recognition hits like a punch to the gut.
His name’s Russell Frasier—freelancer with a reputation for selling salacious shots to the highest bidder.
He’d once camped out for three days outside a Monaco hotel trying to catch a glimpse of a tech billionaire’s mistress.
If he’s here, it's intentional. And he’s not just looking for a photo—he’s hunting for a headline. Well, he's not going to find one here.
Ian sees it a beat later. His jaw ticks, eyes narrowing as he mutters, "Is that Frasier? You've got to be fucking kidding me."
“I’ll handle it,” I mutter.
“Not alone, you won't,” Ian says, already pushing up from his chair.
We head for the railing together, fast and focused, our movements smooth and coordinated because it’s not the first time we’ve had to deal with someone crossing a line.
There’s an ease to it, like slipping into an old rhythm—no hesitation, no confusion, just a silent agreement that neither of us will let this slide.
We may be brothers, but in moments like this, we’re a unit—calculating, protective, and absolutely in sync.
“Hey!” I bark, my voice sharp as a crack of thunder. The man startles, fingers still glued to the shutter. “You get one warning. That is it.” I take a step forward, the heaviness of my anger rolling off me in waves. “Put the camera down and walk away before this gets real messy.”
Ian folds his arms, stepping beside me like a damn linebacker, his stance wide and grounded like he’s daring the guy to test him.
“Do you and your camera want to get tossed into the ocean, or are you walking out of here with that camera still intact?” His tone is deceptively calm, edged with the warning that makes grown men rethink their life choices.
The guy stammers something unintelligible, holding up one hand like it might save him. "Hey, sorry, man—I didn’t know it was private! I’ll delete the pictures," he blurts, voice pitching up with panic.
"Not good enough," I say coldly, stepping forward again. "You knew what you were doing. You’re lucky all you’re walking away with your camera."
"Delete them. Now," Ian adds, folding his arms with slow menace.
The photographer fumbles with his camera, clearly shaking, and holds it out for us to see as he deletes the last several shots. "There. Gone. I swear. Please don’t call security."
"Security’s the least of your problems if you show your face again," I mutter.
The guy backs up so fast he nearly trips over his own feet, then turns and bolts like the coward he is.
We return to the table as Charli and Mia watch wide-eyed, clearly trying to decipher what just happened.
I slip an arm around Charli’s shoulders as I sit, brushing a kiss to her temple, the tension still crackling faintly in the air.
Her posture relaxes slightly at the contact, but I can feel the questions simmering under her silence.
Across the table, Mia squeezes Charli’s hand, offering a wordless reassurance, while I settle back in my chair, my jaw still tight with residual anger.
“Everything okay?” she asks quietly.