Chapter 18
Charli
After practice, everyone agrees to meet at Hooplas—the only place in town with dollar tacos, loud music, and enough beer on tap to make a grown man weep.
The place is already packed by the time Sawyer and I walk in, our fingers laced together like we didn’t just spend the last hour hurling kickballs at each other like flirtatious maniacs.
The second the door opens, we’re hit with a blast of sound: country music, lots of laughter, the clattering of pool balls, and the unmistakable war-cry of the Walking Ladies.
“He was a Navy SEAL, Gladys!” Betty hollers from across the bar, holding up her margarita like it’s a gavel. “Of course he knew how to tie a knot!”
Gladys snorts into her beer. “That man couldn’t find the clasp on my bra with a GPS and a tutorial video. I’ve seen toddlers with mittens on figure out puzzles faster than he could work a hook-and-eye.”
Florence and Joan nearly fall off their barstools laughing—one of them in a neon pink visor and the other sporting a pair of light up flamingo earrings that flash every time she sips her drink.
I can’t tell who’s who anymore because they’ve started swapping accessories like they’re in a senior citizen version of a Vegas magic act.
Every time someone heads to the bathroom, the outfit dynamics shift, and a new woman emerges like a sparkly, giggling transformer.
I don't know how many margaritas these ladies have taken down, but we're about two songs away from needing a designated spotter and a team of orthopedic surgeons on standby just to make sure no one gets hurt.
Sawyer leans in and murmurs against my ear, “Remind me to never get on their bad side.”
“Too late,” I reply, grinning. “Florence already has you listed under ‘tall drink of trouble.’”
He throws his head back and laughs, then pulls me close and presses a kiss to my temple.
I melt against him, feeling that familiar wave of contentment.
It’s loud and chaotic, but I feel weirdly grounded—like the storm of the past few months has settled, and this is what the calm looks like. I like the calm.
We snag the last open booth near the dartboards, sliding in across from Hudson and Kate, who are already arm-wrestling over a nacho platter.
Kane and Grace take the bar stools at the end, nursing their drinks and showing everyone that walks by pictures of their new baby while Declan and Riley dance along to the music without shame or rhythm.
They keep stepping on other people's toes and moving in the opposite direction of the rest of the line dancers.
Sawyer stretches an arm along the back of the booth, tugging me into his side. Our fingers stay linked on the table, his thumb brushing slow circles along the back of my hand.
“Okay, this place is my favorite hangout,” he says, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
I hum in agreement, leaning into the warmth of him. “I mean, where else can you get bad karaoke, stiff drinks, and unsolicited relationship advice from a group of octogenarian women in leopard-print blouses and orthopedic shoes?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He laughs as he sips his beer the waitress, Steph, brings him.
Just then, Mia slides into the booth beside me, tucking a loose curl behind her ear and flashing a grin.
“All right, Chef Whitmore,” she says, plunking down a wedding planning binder thicker than a small child. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before my next tequila shot, so let’s talk flower arches and flambés.”
Sawyer groans. “Please don’t let her say the word ‘flambé’ in public again. She's going to be my sister-in-law soon.”
Mia ignores him, sliding the binder closer and flipping it open.
“So, I was thinking, instead of a formal plated dinner, we do multiple interactive food stations. You know, like build-your-own taco bars, custom risotto bowls, maybe a fire pit where someone in a ballgown torches marshmallows for s’mores. Thoughts?”
I blink twice until I realize what this is. “Yes, those are all... ideas.. Also, how much tequila did you already have?”
She gives me a toothy grin. “Enough to make me fearless. Not enough to regret it... yet.”
I laugh, flipping through the pages, deciding to indulge her. “Okay, if we’re doing s’mores, we need a graham cracker crunch station. And those mini cast iron skillets for table side baking? I’ve got a supplier.”
“This is why I love you,” Mia says, leaning in to clink her glass against mine.
I glance at Sawyer and give the smallest shake of my head.
There is zero chance we’re actually setting up a live s’mores bonfire in the middle of a ballroom, but I’m not about to rain on Mia’s tequila-fueled Pinterest parade.
Let her dream big—tomorrow, she’ll thank me for keeping the marshmallow inferno off the final menu.
Sawyer watches us with a soft smile, which tugs at the corners of his mouth and never quite leaves his eyes. He squeezes my hand again, and I know without looking that he’s proud. Not just of what I’m doing, but who I’m becoming.
And for the first time in a really long time, I think I’m proud of me too.
People start trickling out of Hooplas, saying their goodbyes and hugging like they won’t see each other again in twelve hours. Sawyer rode with Garrett, who’s standing near the exit, twirling his keys in a not-so-subtle way of telling him he's ready to go.
“I’m out,” Garrett says. “You riding back with me?”
"Yes. My stuff is in your car," he tells him. Sawyer leans down and kisses my cheek. “I’ll see you back at the house?”
I nod, giving his hand a squeeze. “I’ll be right behind you.”
He and Garrett leave, and I gather my things, still smiling to myself. I’m halfway to the door when a woman in designer heels and an expression like she just sniffed something offensive steps into my path.
“Charli, is it?” she says, extending a hand like I might be contagious. “I’m Ava.”
I pause. “Ava…?”
“Sawyer’s former fiancée.” Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. She flicks a perfectly manicured hand in the air like she's bored with listing her own résumé. “You may have heard of my family—the Sinclair’s. Real estate, luxury hotels, international investments.”
“Oh.” I blink, every nerve on high alert. “Nice to meet you?” I don’t know why she’s here, or what she hopes to accomplish by cornering me like a Bond villain in heels—but my gut says this isn’t a courtesy call. This is performance art, and I’m her unwilling audience.
She laughs—a sound that drips condescension. “You’re a chef, right? I heard someone mention it earlier.” She points over her shoulder to the other patrons.
“Yep. I'm a chef.” I force a polite smile.
“Interesting.” She says it like it’s the verbal equivalent of a hairball. “I suppose everyone has to start somewhere. Sawyer and I made up today in his office, by the way. Did he mention it?”
I keep my smile frozen, even though my fingers twitch at my sides and my chest tightens. “No. He didn’t.”
I couldn’t possibly be jealous, I remind myself. He’s Sawyer Gallo—ridiculously handsome, absurdly wealthy, practically a walking magazine spread in human form. I shouldn't be rattled by someone like Ava. Should I?
But there’s something about the way her eyes gleam, the smug curl of her mouth, that starts to stoke something hot and sharp inside me.
I don’t show it. Not one damn flicker. But inside, my blood simmers.
Not because I believe her, but because she came over here like she had the right to say any of this to me.
Because she thought she could rattle me.
Because she thought I’d be less. And because she waited until he left the bar before saying a damn word to me. Like a snake in the grass.
Oh, honey. You really shouldn’t have.
She tilts her head with faux innocence and flicks her hand in the air like she's shooing away a fly. “That’s odd. You’d think if he were really serious about you two, he’d mention someone like me. But maybe he didn’t want to intimidate you with the comparison.”
It’s a petty, calculated blow. And it lands—but I don’t show it. I just give her a once-over and smile sweetly. “Maybe he didn’t mention you because you’re irrelevant to him. You are to me.”
Her nostrils flare slightly, but she recovers fast. “We’ll see, won’t we?” she says, turning on her heel and gliding toward the door.
I stand there for a beat, letting the air settle around me and hoping she makes it to her car before I get out there and kick her boney ass.
Of course she showed up. Of course, she had to play games. I've dealt with people like her my entire adult life. My skin is thicker than hers. But I’m not letting her rattle me—not tonight.
Even if a little voice in the back of my mind whispers that maybe she did get a little in my head.
By the time I get home, the quiet hits me like a wave—cold and jarring.
The warmth and noise of Hooplas still cling to me like glitter, but the second the door clicks shut behind me, that energy fades, replaced by a silence so dense it practically echoes.
The contrast is disorienting, like stepping from a crowded carnival into an empty cathedral.
My skin still buzzes with the chaos of the night, but my heart feels heavy, like it already knows something’s not right.
Sawyer looks up from the couch where Ghost is curled against his side, his legs stretched out and a glass of whiskey balanced on one knee.
The second he sees my face, his entire demeanor shifts—the easygoing curve of his mouth falters, his body tenses, and the glass in his hand dips slightly.
Concern shadows his eyes, and he sets the whiskey aside, already half-rising. "Charli? What's wrong?"
I let out a slow breath as I unclip my purse and place it gently on the console table; the keys clinking softly in the bowl by the door.
My fingers tremble slightly as I toe off my shoes, the silence in the house only amplifying the heaviness in my chest. I brush a curl off my forehead, still damp from the humidity outside, and glance at Sawyer, who’s now standing, brows drawn together, sensing something’s off.
My voice is quiet but steady. “I met your ex-fiancée, Ava, tonight.”
His brows snap together. “You what?”
“She came up to me after you left,” I say quietly. “Introduced herself. Ava.”
The storm that flashes across his face is immediate and unfiltered. “She what?”
“She said some things,” I continue. “Mostly about how the two of you made up today in your office. About how she’s a Sinclair, as if that means anything to me. About how I’m a chef, and she’s clearly more ‘appropriate’," I use air quotes, "for you.”
Sawyer drags both hands through his hair with a sharp exhale, his jaw clenching so tight I can practically hear his teeth grind.
"That woman has completely lost her fucking mind," he growls, pacing two short steps before whirling back to face me, his eyes dark and stormy.
"What the hell was she thinking, going behind my back and pulling this shit? "
He strides over to me, his voice low but seething. “Charli, nothing happened in my office except her showing up uninvited and telling me how sorry she was for the past. I didn’t want her there, I swear, and I sure as hell didn’t ask for her to talk to you.”
I nod. “I know. She just… caught me off guard.”
He exhales slowly, like he’s trying to rein himself in.
Then he cups my face gently in his hands, his thumb brushing along my jaw.
“I’m sorry she did that. I should’ve warned you she might pull something like this.
But Charli, she means nothing to me. Nothing.
Not anymore. You’re the one I want. The only one I want. ”
Something in my chest eases as I look up at him. He pulls me into his arms, and I melt into him, the safety of his hold washing over me like a balm.
When he kisses me—slow and sure and grounding—it feels like an anchor. Like a promise, and just like that, I know the truth.
Ava doesn’t matter. Not even a little bit.