Chapter 16 #2
It drums against the roof of the covered patio in steady bursts, fat droplets splashing against the railings, mist curling around the screens like fog rolling in off the ocean. It’s cozy, warm, and the air smells like wet earth and sea salt.
Sawyer and I are curled up on opposite ends of the outdoor sectional, both of us with laptops balanced on our knees and half-empty mugs of coffee on the table between us. Ghost is flopped on the rug, paws twitching as she dreams, probably of belly rubs and bunny-shaped chew toys.
My screen is filled with notes—menu drafts for Mia and Ian’s wedding, supplier lists, flavor pairings, and my proposed layout for the new Silver Willow kitchen. It’s… a lot. But it’s good. The good that makes me sit up straighter, making me feel like I belong here.
My phone buzzes, startling me.
Unknown number.
I almost don’t answer—but curiosity wins. “Hello?”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Charli Whitmore. You still making gumbo that could bring a man to his knees?”
The pride in his voice wraps around me like a well-worn apron—familiar, comforting, and full of warmth. It's the pride that comes from someone who's seen you at your worst and still brags about you like you hung the moon. It makes my throat tighten and my heart ache in the best possible way.
“Rusty?”
He chuckles, the sound warm and scratchy, just like I remember. “Heard through the grapevine you had a hell of a time lately. Fire at the Silver Willow. You okay, kid?”
My throat tightens even more. “Yeah, I’m doing okay. It was… scary. But I’m bouncing back. I've got a new gig in restaurant consulting, and I’m now catering a wedding. A big one.”
“Hot damn. That’s my girl,” he says, voice thick with pride. “I just had to hear your voice for myself. Make sure you weren’t going down with the flames.”
I smile, the knot in my chest loosening. “I’m good, Rusty. Better than I’ve been in a long time.”
There’s a pause. “I still think about that night you showed up, rain-soaked and furious, with nothin’ but a backpack and a grudge,” he says, pride swelling in every word.
“You had fire in your eyes and zero patience, but damn if you didn’t walk into that kitchen like you belonged there.
I knew then—you were gonna raise hell and make magic doing it. ”
I laugh. “You let me sleep in the supply closet.”
“One pot of gumbo and my regulars were ready to rewrite you into their wills,” he says with a laugh, pride unmistakable in his voice.
“You taught me how to dice an onion without crying.”
He snorts. “Lies. I still cry every damn time.”
We talk a few more minutes—easy, comfortable. When I finally hang up, I’m smiling, my chest a little lighter. And when I glance up, Sawyer’s watching me.
Hard.
I raise an eyebrow. “What?”
“Who was that?” Sawyer asks, his tone low and almost too nonchalant—like he's trying not to sound like he's fishing but failing miserably.
Uh. Oh.
He can’t be jealous. Can he? I mean, he’s Sawyer-freaking-Gallo—gorgeous, broody, billionaire. The kind of man women trip over themselves for. The idea that he might actually be jealous over a sixty-five-year-old chef from Pelican Point? That’s... absurd. Right?
I blink. “That was Rusty. My old boss. From the Rusty Anchor over in Pelican Point.”
He tilts his head, an unreadable expression. “The way you were smiling…”
I laugh softly and close my laptop. “You are jealous.”
He doesn’t answer. Just keeps watching me like he’s trying to solve a particularly irritating puzzle.
I set the laptop aside and crawl closer, kneeling beside him on the couch. “Rusty is like… my mentor. My culinary fairy godfather. I showed up at his restaurant the day after my dad kicked me out on my eighteenth birthday. No money. No plan. Just me and a whole lot of rage.”
Sawyer’s eyes soften as he listens to my story.
“He gave me a cot, a knife, and a lesson in humility,” I say. “That man saved my life and taught me to cook. But trust me—there’s nothing romantic there. He’s at least sixty-five and still calls me ‘kiddo.’”
Sawyer’s shoulders ease, but only a little. He leans back, jaw tight, voice low and brooding. “Still. I’ve never seen you light up like that, talking to anyone but me.”
“Jealous looks good on you,” I murmur, sliding into his lap. “But you don’t have to be.”
He wraps his arms around my waist. “I know. But I kind of like the idea that you’re all mine.”
I smile and press a kiss to his jaw, lingering there for a breath before trailing my lips slowly toward the corner of his mouth.
“I am,” I whisper against his skin, savoring the warmth of him, the way his arms tighten slightly around me.
Then I kiss him again—deeper this time, slow and sure, my fingers sliding up to tangle in the back of his hair.
He responds immediately, mouth meeting mine with a quiet hunger, a low sound rumbling from his chest as I shift in his lap, pressing closer.
It’s not rushed, not wild—just heat and connection and something that feels like a promise, wordless and sure.
When we finally break apart, our foreheads rest together, breath mingling between us.
Outside, the rain keeps falling, but inside, everything feels warm and perfect.