Page 10 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
She hums softly—off-key and under her breath—and I swear it does something to my chest.
For a second, I say nothing. Just stand there, taking it all in. She doesn’t just cook-she inhabits the kitchen. Like the stove is an old friend, the skillet is an extension of her will.
Then I shake myself out of it. “Hey,” I say, clearing my throat so I don’t scare her. “What are you doing?”
Without missing a beat or even looking over her shoulder, she replies, “Making a quilt. What the hell does it look like I’m doing?”
I raise both hands, grinning. “Okay, fair enough.”
She finally glances back at me with a grin and nods toward the island. “Sit. You look like someone who’s lived on vending machines and black coffee for far too long.”
I do as I’m told, and within seconds she sets a plate in front of me—fluffy scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, a stack of golden pancakes with a pat of butter melting on top, a toasted everything bagel, and a steaming mug of coffee that smells like actual heaven.
I raise a brow and glance at the spread. "Planning to feed a small army?"
She shrugs, flipping another pancake onto a plate. "Didn’t know what you liked, so I made everything." She stops in front of me. “I could throw it all away, if you’d like. No skin off my nose.”
I blink down at the plate. “No, no. I’ll eat it. Where’d you get all this food?”
She laughs. “They have these places called grocery stores. That’s where they keep all the food and if you pay them, they’ll even deliver it to your house.”
She tosses a dish towel over her shoulder like she owns the place, and not gonna lie—it suits her. Her bare feet pad across the kitchen tile as she hums something under her breath and cracks more eggs into a bowl. Ghost lets out a low, satisfied groan from her spot by the window, clearly content with this new morning routine.
I sip the coffee she handed me, letting the silence stretch, but it’s not awkward. It’s... grounded. Comfortable in a way I forgot existed. And for a guy who’s built his life on control and structure, that’s saying something.
Then it hits me. “Kendall’s coming by this morning,” I say suddenly, glancing at the time on my phone.
Charli freezes mid-pour with the orange juice. “Wait—Kendall? KendallGreene?”
I nod. “We had a meeting scheduled at the office. I told her to meet me here instead. Why? Is that a problem?” By the look on her face, there’s clearly a problem.
Her eyes go wide. “You invited one of my best friends here while I’m staying here like some unexpected stray cat?”
I lift a shoulder, biting back a smile. “What’s the big deal?”
Charli presses her fingers to her temples. “I just...”
“What, Charli?” I ask, taking another sip of coffee.
“I’ll clean all of this up later.” She groans, then bolts from the kitchen like Ghost just challenged her to a race. She vanishes like smoke, and all I can think is-I broke the calm. Again.
Yeah. This day’s off to a damn good start. Which is exactly what should worry me.
Chapter 4
Charli
By the time I shower—reallyshower, in an actual bathroom with endless hot water, soft lighting, and towels that feel like clouds—I feel almost human again. The employee locker room at the country club is nice enough, it’s clean, but it’s not as luxurious as this place. There’s space to breathe, to unwind, to justbe. I scrub every speck of breakfast from under my nails, use shampoo that doesn't come from a vending machine, and tame my hair into something that doesn’t screamferal raccoon. For the first time in what feels like forever, I don’t feel like I’m on borrowed time.
Almost.
I dry off using a towel that probably costs more than my entire wardrobe and pull on my clean chef whites. When I step back into the hallway, the scent of coffee still lingers, warm and familiar, but the kitchen is… quiet.
I pad barefoot down the stairs, dreading the possibility of awkward silence or more well-intentioned pity. But what I find stops me cold.
Sawyer is leaning back in one of his ridiculously sleek kitchen chairs, his plate empty—no,spotless—and a second empty plate beside it that definitely didn’t belong to him earlier, is spotless,too. A mug of coffee sits steaming on the counter, and I’m almost positive he polished off all the orange juice, too. The only thing left on the counter is the dish towel I tossed earlier, neatly folded.
He looks up from whatever’s on his phone and grins. “Morning again.”
