Chapter 20
Charli
Island time is supposed to be slow and breezy, right?
Ha.
I’ve been in this kitchen since the wheels of Sawyer’s private jet kissed the runway this morning. And honestly? I wouldn’t have it any other way.
The moment I stepped off that plane—Sawyer’s plane, because of course he insisted—I was swept straight into wedding madness.
The chaos only an event this grand, and this Gallo, could pull off.
The resort’s kitchen is gorgeous—gleaming marble countertops, professional-grade everything, and an ocean view that should be distracting but isn’t. Because I haven’t looked up in hours.
I’ve been chopping, stirring, organizing, double-checking counts, and whispering silent threats to the walk-in fridge.
The wedding is tomorrow. Everything has to be perfect.
No pressure or anything, just feeding one hundred fifty people—including the most fashionable, well-fed, discerning crowd on either side of the equator.
And I’m not just doing dinner. There’s brunch, a cocktail hour, midnight snacks, and don’t even get me started on the groom’s cake that took me three weeks to perfect.
Still, despite the pressure, there’s a strange sense of peace here—somewhere between the sound of crashing waves through the open windows and the smell of fresh herbs clinging to my skin. I’m in my element. It’s intense, but it’s mine.
What’s not here, though, is Sawyer.
He’s off being Best Man of the Year, hosting Ian’s surprise bachelor party on Garrett’s yacht.
Which sounds like a hilarious, testosterone-fueled disaster waiting to happen.
I can picture it now—Sawyer trying to keep Ian from jumping off the bow into shark-infested waters while Garrett bets someone to shotgun champagne.
All while pretending they don’t have half a dozen camera-happy influencers watching from nearby boats.
I smile to myself, wiping my hands on a towel. It’s ridiculous how much I miss him after just a few days.
I miss the way he smiles, like he’s already heard the punchline to a joke I haven’t told yet.
I miss the feel of his hand on the small of my back when he passes behind me, even in our own damn kitchen.
I miss his voice—low, steady, teasing. I even miss his grumbly rants about contractors and timelines and the way his brow furrows when he’s pretending not to care but absolutely does.
He called before boarding the yacht. Said he wouldn’t be reachable until late tonight. Told me not to overdo it and to have fun.
Right.
I’ve had three espresso shots and no meals, and I’m currently negotiating with a sous chef about how many edible flowers are too many. Spoiler: he says there's no such thing. I think we’re bonding.
I glance at my phone, resisting the urge to text Sawyer something stupid just to feel connected. But he’s probably halfway to rum-drunk by now and chasing Ian down the dock with a life vest. So I send him a mental “stay safe” and go back to my lists.
Because tomorrow is a big day. For Ian and Mia. For Sawyer. For me.
And if I close my eyes, just for a second, I can feel the weight of it all—the joy, the nerves, the insane, wonderful chaos of falling in love with a man who never wanted to fall again.
I open my eyes, smile, and reach for the next tray of hors d'oeuvres.
Let the wedding madness begin.
It’s the wedding day.
I’ve been in this kitchen since sunrise, conducting a culinary symphony of sauces, garnishes, seafood, meats, and pastries. The heat is oppressive; the noise is relentless, and my feet ache in ways I didn’t know were possible—but somehow, it's the magic that makes me feel the most alive.
I didn’t go to the ceremony. Not because I didn’t want to—God, I did—but because this.
.. this is where I belong. This kitchen, this food, this chaos—it’s how I honor Ian and Mia.
Not in a dress, not in a chair facing the altar, but right here, behind the scenes, making damn sure every bite their guests take is unforgettable.
It's my way of loving them. Of showing up.
With roasted garlic aioli and basil-infused risotto.
Still, I heard the ceremony was breathtaking.
Ocean breeze drifting through swaying palms, soft fabrics billowing like a fairytale, candlelight catching crystal goblets and casting glittering reflections everywhere.
Word is, the string quartet played something so emotional that even the bartenders were dabbing at their eyes with cocktail napkins.
Apparently, Mia looked like she walked straight out of a bridal fantasy, and Ian—big, tough Ian—cried the second he laid eyes on her.
Not that anyone’s surprised. He’s a Gallo.
Once they’re in, they’re in for life—messy, loud, emotional declarations and all.
Now, the guests are trickling in, dressed to the nines and glowing with tropical tans, and everything smells so divine that it’s practically illegal.
I’ve got citrus-glazed shrimp skewers glistening like jewels, grilled pineapple crostini stacked like edible sunshine, and delicate phyllo cups filled with whipped goat cheese and sun-dried tomato jam that makes people close their eyes on the first bite.
And the drinks? Flowing with such synchronized precision, it’s like the universe hired a Broadway choreographer with a flair for rum and garnishes.
Sawyer hasn’t appeared yet, but I know he’s around somewhere.
Probably chasing down a groomsman who forgot his shoes or talking his mother out of redoing the entire floral arrangement five minutes before dinner.
The type of classic chaos that seems to follow the Gallo family like confetti.
I’d bet anything he’s out there in a tailored suit, looking too damn good and being charming enough to stop a meltdown with nothing but that lopsided grin of his.
And even though I haven’t laid eyes on him today, I feel him everywhere.
In the comforting order of the prep station.
In the warm brush of sunset through the windows that feels like his touch.
In the soft clink of glassware that reminds me of his laugh.
In every heartbeat that’s out of sync without him, like I’m missing a beat I didn’t realize he kept steady for me.
It’s his brother’s wedding. And it’s the start of something brand new for us, too.
Whether he knows it or not... I’m all in.
The kitchen is humming. Everything is where it should be—timers beeping in a steady rhythm, staff moving like a well-oiled machine, the smell of butter and rosemary thick in the air.
I’m plating tiny lamb chops, completely in the zone, when I hear it: the sharp, deliberate click of high heels on tile.
Not the soft sneakers of a server, or the quick clip of a planner on a mission.
No, this is a sound that screams look at me.
I glance up, already bracing myself. Expecting maybe someone from the wedding team. Definitely not the person standing in the doorway like she owns the resort.
It’s Ava. Of course it is.
She’s dressed like she just wandered off the runway at Milan Fashion Week—silk, heels, hair too perfect for this tropical humidity. And that smug little smile? Just as I remember it from Hooplas. Only now, it’s softer. Slower. Like she’s trying a new approach.
Great. Because if there’s one thing I didn’t pencil into today’s chaos, it’s Sawyer’s ex walking into my kitchen with god-knows-what on her agenda. Immediately, every muscle in my body goes tight.
“Charli, right?” she asks, voice sweet like syrup but twice as sticky. “I just wanted a word. I know this is… not ideal timing.”
Ah, ya' think? That might just be the understatement of the damn decade. I'm in the middle of serving dinner at a wedding reception. Yeah, let's have a heart to heart.
I nod once, warily. “Make it quick.”
Ava flicks her hand in the air, waving off the clatter and bustle of the kitchen like it's background noise in her own personal monologue.
"I just came to say... I shouldn’t have made fun of your career," she begins, her voice smooth, rehearsed. "It was rude. And petty. You’re clearly talented. The food has been superb." Her tone is polite, but there’s something performative about it—like she’s checking a box on a redemption tour instead of offering genuine contrition.
I blink. Is this actually an apology? A real one?
And now, of all times? She couldn’t wait until the cake was cut or, I don’t know, never?
Why is she even here? Did Ian invite her?
Is she just showing up unannounced like a wedding crasher with an emotional vendetta? Seriously—what is this woman’s endgame?
Then she smiles that too-perfect smile. “But I also came because… there’s something I think you deserve to know. About Sawyer and me.”
I tense because here it comes. I keep my expression neutral. “Go on.”
“I wasn’t just some awful girl who ditched her fiancé at the airport all those years ago,” she says somberly. “I was scared, pregnant, and terrified. I couldn’t tell him and I panicked.”
My heart thuds, the word slamming into me like a freight train.
“Pregnant?” I repeat, my voice barely above a whisper, laced with disbelief.
I blink, trying to reconcile the word with the perfectly put-together woman in front of me.
My stomach dips, and for a second, the entire kitchen—the sizzling pans, the clatter of plates, the shouts of my staff—fades into a low hum.
All I can hear is the pounding of my heart in my ears.
“I have a daughter. Well... we have a daughter,” Ava says, her voice suddenly trembling as she reaches into her purse.
Her fingers fumble for a second—just long enough to betray the nerves behind her polished exterior.
When she finally produces the photo and hands it to me, I see it: a little girl, only four or five, with big brown eyes that mirror Sawyer’s so closely it knocks the breath out of my lungs.
She has messy curls, a dimple on her left cheek, and a gap-toothed smile that hits me like a gut punch.
I stare at the picture, stunned, my pulse roaring in my ears.
“She’s at that age where she's been asking who her father is,” she whispers, her voice quivering with something that almost passes for vulnerability.
“She’s got questions I can’t keep answering with half-truths and bedtime stories.
She deserves to know him—really know him.
To have that piece of her life filled in. To have a family that isn’t just me.”
The words tumble out before I can stop them, sharp and stunned. "Does he know about her?" My voice cracks around the edges, disbelief tangling with something darker—betrayal, maybe. I don’t want to believe it, but I can’t ignore the thundering silence that follows.
Ava gives me a small, almost sheepish smile. "Yes, he knows. He's known all along. He's been paying child support ever since she was born—quietly, consistently. He’s done the responsible thing."
I stare at the photo, the breath catching in my throat.
Sawyer has a daughter. A whole human being he helped create.
A little girl he’s known about for years, and never once mentioned to me.
My chest tightens as a strange, bitter ache spreads through me—a cocktail of hurt and disbelief.
Why didn’t he tell me? Why did I have to find out like this, from Ava, of all people?
The weight of that omission feels heavier than anything else.
Not just because he kept a secret, but because it was this secret.
A child. His child. How could he look me in the eyes, whisper all those promises, make me feel like I was part of something real.
.. and never say a word about the most important person in his life?
My throat burns with unshed tears, but I force myself to hold it together.
Not here. Not now. Not in front of her. I just keep staring at the photo, as if the answers might be hidden in that little girl’s eyes.
Ava gives a small, sad smile, but there's an unmistakable glint of triumph beneath it. “I thought you should know. Since you’re playing house with him now.” Her words drip with carefully measured condescension, like she’s gifting me a truth I’m too na?ve to see.
“Wouldn’t it be better for her to have a real family?
” she continues, her voice soft but smug.
“For him and our daughter to be together. To be what they should have been all along—a family.”
I say nothing and just hand the photo back to her.
Ava sighs, hesitating at the doorway. "Anyway.
.. thank you for listening." She pauses, her expression tightening just a little before she adds, more quietly, "Just..
. please do the right thing. For her. She deserves a chance to know her father.
She deserves a family." Her voice falters at the end, the practiced sadness giving way to something that almost sounds like hope.
Then she turns and walks out, the scent of her perfume lingering behind her like a parting shot.
I stand there, unmoving. Staff whirl around me, asking questions. I answer automatically. I plate hors d’oeuvres. I finish the prep. But my mind is spinning. What do I do now?
This isn't about me. It’s about that little girl. She deserves a father. A real one. Not some guy whose girlfriend stood in the way.
I know what it’s like to grow up without someone to lean on.
My mother died when I was eight, and my father.
.. well, he treated me like I was more burden than a daughter.
I spent most of my childhood trying not to take up space, trying to earn scraps of affection that never came.
I know exactly how lonely and hollow that kind of life feels.
And I won’t—can’t—be the reason another little girl grows up thinking she’s unworthy of love.
Wondering what she did wrong. So, I make the only decision I can.
After the last dish is served, I wash my hands, pack my things, and grab the next commercial flight off the island and back to Hibiscus Harbor.
I leave the island.
I leave Sawyer.
Because if there’s one thing I’m good at—it’s starting over.
Even when it breaks my heart.