Chapter 16
Charli
“You’re sure you’re not upset?”
Sawyer’s voice has that careful edge—like he’s trying not to step on a landmine but also fully expecting one to explode. He’s leaning in the doorway of my borrowed office space, arms crossed, eyes scanning my face like I might be hiding a meltdown behind my mascara.
Spoiler: I’m not.
“Babe.” I don’t even look up from my laptop. “You already showed me the picture. Twice. It’s a cute shot. I look fantastic. I mean, look at that lighting—it’s practically a free photoshoot. Honestly, they should thank us for raising the aesthetic bar for their trashy magazine.”
He lets out a breath like he’s been holding it for hours, raking a hand through his hair in that nervous way he thinks I don’t notice. “It’s not about looking fantastic. It’s about protecting you.”
“I mean, I do, though... look fantastic.”
“Charli.”
I finally glance up and blink at him, my smile slow. “Sawyer, I’m not mad. I’m not spiraling. I’m not even a little bit bothered. It’s just a picture.”
“It’s a tabloid,” he argues, stepping inside my new office. “You were blindsided. You should’ve had a say in whether your face was plastered on some trashy website with a headline implying we’re planning a double wedding.”
I laugh—actually laugh—because honestly, it’s kind of absurd. “I mean, if they had caught us mid-make-out session, maybe I’d care. But it’s one picture. Of four people. Drinking wine. At dinner. Looking suspiciously like a double date. Which, spoiler alert, it was.”
His brow furrows. “But the article—”
“—Is garbage written by someone who probably lives off energy drinks and TikTok rumors? Sawyer.” I shut the laptop and swivel my chair toward him. “Seriously. I’m still buzzing from dolphins and mimosas and you bringing me office supplies. You think I’m going to let a headline kill my vibe?”
He watches me for a long second. “You’re handling this way better than I expected.”
“You? Lose your mind over a minor thing? No. Couldn’t be.”
That earns me a twisted smile, which is exactly what I was aiming for. He walks over and leans against my desk, his eyes still searching my face. “I just didn’t want you to feel... exposed.”
“I’ve been exposed plenty of times, Sawyer,” I say with a wink. “Most recently up against the wall of your yacht.”
He groans and presses the heels of his hands to his eyes. “Why did you say that? Now I can't get it out of my mind.”
“Because I’m delightful,” I say, crossing my arms. “And because you love it when I throw you off your axis.”
He chuckles. “Okay, maybe a little.”
“Look.” I reach for his hand and thread our fingers together. “I get it. You are trying to protect me. And I appreciate that. But I’m not fragile. I will not fall apart because some photographer caught us looking happy.”
“You were glowing,” he mutters.
“I still am. You gave me a consulting job, the Silver Willow is coming back, and I’m catering the wedding of the century.
Not to mention, I got to snorkel with dolphins, have breakfast in a robe, and sleep in your arms for two entire nights.
That headline could’ve said ‘Broke Chef Runs Away with Rich Rebound’ and I still wouldn’t care. ”
Sawyer chuckles, pulling me out of my chair and into his arms. “That one’s actually kind of catchy.”
“Please don’t encourage them.”
His arms tighten around me, his voice quieter now. “Just promise me that if it ever gets to be too much, you’ll tell me. You won’t just bottle it up.”
“I promise.” I tilt my head back to meet his eyes. “And for the record, I’ve had to deal with much worse than a splashy headline. Remember Carl ‘the human ulcer’ and the country club? Or living in my van?”
“Fair point.” He leans down, brushing his nose against mine. “Still. I’ll do everything I can to keep you from ever feeling like that again.”
“That’s sweet. Slightly overbearing, but sweet.”
“I aim to please.”
“And yet you haven’t brought me another croissant today.”
He pulls back just enough to give me a pointed look. “You’re insatiable.”
“For pastries? Absolutely.”
He presses a kiss to my forehead, lingering there for a beat. “I have to get back to work for a bit. Are you good in here?”
I glance around the office—my new laptop, my stack of wedding menus and notes from Mia, the new phone Sawyer set up for me I still haven’t figured out how to unlock without accidentally calling Ian three times.
“I’m more than good.”
“Okay. I’ll be down the hall if you need me. And if any more headlines pop up, I’ll personally launch that reporter into the Atlantic.”
“Deal. But only after I get a better shot of us for the next round of gossip.”
Sawyer just shakes his head as he walks out, muttering something about “dangerous women with a good ass.”
I turn back to my laptop and open a spreadsheet filled with recipe costs and ingredient lists—and for once; I don’t feel like I’m drowning.
Because today, I’m building. Rebuilding. Standing on solid ground with my name on a wedding contract, a job I love, and a man who didn’t run the second things got real.
Let them talk.
They have no idea what’s really happening behind the headlines.
But I do.
And it’s pretty damn good.
The first thing I notice when I get to kickball practice is the look Sawyer gives me across the field. It’s part challenge, part sneer, and 100% trouble.
“I hope you brought your A-game, Gallo,” I call across the field, hands on my hips.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he says, stretching dramatically. “I was born with an A-game. But I hope you brought some Band-Aids. You’re gonna need them.”
My team—made up of the Bad News Babes—is already cracking up. Sunni shouts, “Ten bucks says he pulls a hamstring before the second inning!”
“You’re on,” I call back, tossing the ball into the air and catching it with a snap. “And while we’re making bets, I say we win by at least five runs.”
Sawyer jogs over like he’s got all the time in the world. “Five? That’s cute.”
“I thought so.” I wink.
That’s when the others arrive. Mia and Ian walk up hand-in-hand, matching sunglasses and smug energy.
“Are we talking bets?” Ian asks, grinning. “Because I’m putting my money on Team Good News Guys.”
Sawyer groans. “Et tu, brother?”
Kate and Hudson show up next, Hudson already loosening his shoulders. “I’ve got a twenty that says the girls' team loses it—we've got a ruthless glint in our eyes.”
“I always have that glint,” I call.
Brooke and Trevor roll in, dressed like she’s coaching the Super Bowl. “We’re taking side bets on injuries and the number of times Sawyer swears in front of children.”
“Don’t forget fashion violations,” Trevor adds.
Kane and Grace are the last to arrive, and Kane surveys the field like he’s planning a heist. “I’ll bet dinner for two that our team wins, but only if we don’t pull something.”
“I never pull anything,” Sawyer says.
“Except attention,” I mutter.
The Walking Ladies sit on a blanket with a cooler full of hard seltzers and a portable speaker. “We’re here for chaos,” Betty calls. “And maybe to profit off it.”
“Ten bucks on a full collision at home plate,” Gladys says.
“This is going to be the most dramatic kickball practice in Hibiscus Harbor history,” I declare, already brimming with adrenaline.
Sawyer steps closer, drops his voice just for me. “Winner gets whatever they want.”
I narrow my eyes. “Dangerous words, Gallo.”
He grins. “You do bring out my competitive side.”
“Oh, honey,” I say, pressing the ball to his chest. “You haven’t even seen competitive yet.”
We’re halfway through a surprisingly intense practice game—trash talk flying, seltzers cracking open from the sidelines, and one minor wipeout when Ian tried to slide into third—when the clouds roll in.
Not just any clouds. These are Florida-special, thick and dark and swirling like they’ve got a personal vendetta.
A low rumble of thunder rolls across the field. I glance at Sawyer, who’s jogging toward me from the pitcher’s mound.
“Storm’s coming,” he says.
“No kidding. Want to call it?”
He smirks. “You scared?”
I shove his shoulder just as the sky flashes white with lightning and the unmistakable crack snaps across the field like a warning shot.
“I think that’s our cue!” Mia yells from the sidelines.
The ref, who volunteered from the rec center, throws his whistle in the air and calls it: “Practice game’s a tie! Get off the field!”
Of course, no one hears the word ‘tie’. They hear victory in their own heads.
“We were winning!” Sawyer shouts.
“You were losing! You hadn’t scored since the first inning!” I shoot back.
“Technicalities,” he says, jogging beside me as we sprint toward the shelter.
Behind us, everyone is arguing over who was ahead.
Brooke is claiming statistical advantage.
Trevor is insisting they were “on the comeback trail.”
Sunni’s waving her notes and yelling, “I wrote it all down! We were up two!”
The Walking Ladies are cackling and stuffing crumpled bills into Betty’s purse. “Gladys won the collision pool,” one of them says.
By the time we’re under the pavilion, soaked and laughing and high on competition, it’s clear: no one knows who won. So, naturally, everyone claims they did. It’s chaotic. Loud. Petty. And perfect.
Sawyer leans close, rain dripping from his hair, his smile lazy and smug. “We’ll settle this at the real game.”
“Oh, we will,” I say, pushing a wet curl out of my face. “And when my team wipes the field with yours, I’m demanding my prize in food.”
He grins. “Food, huh? That’s what does it for you? Wasn't what I was thinking.” He winks at me and suddenly I'm getting wet in places that have nothing to do with the downpour.
“Victory and food? Obviously.” I try to blow it off, but I think he's on to me.
Lightning flashes again. The rain pounds harder.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel completely, utterly at home.
Even soaking wet, in a t-shirt stuck to my back, surrounded by chaos.
Especially then.
Later that evening, the rain hasn’t let up.