Page 18 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
Ian clears his throat, suddenly looking a little unsure of himself—a rare expression for my older brother. "Okay, no heart-to-hearts," he says, scratching the back of his neck, "but I do have something to ask you." He shifts in his seat, then meets my gaze with a flicker of hesitation. "I want you to be my best man."
I pause for a second, letting the weight of the moment land before grinning and shaking my head. "C'mon, like I'd ever let anyone else stand up for you. You've been stuck with me since I was in diapers. Of course, I’ll be your best man."
He nods once, his expression softening for a beat. "Good. Because Mia wants to finalize the wedding party this week—and thanks, by the way. It means a lot to both of us." He leans back, grinning. "You have no idea how she gets when her timeline gets off-track."
I snort. “Sounds terrifying.”
The food arrives, delivered by the same waitress who now noticeably avoids eye contact, dropping off our plates with mechanical efficiency and none of the earlier flirtation. Apparently, the lack of interest cut deeper than her lip gloss.
We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the sounds of the restaurant humming around us. It’s the kind of easy quiet that only happens with someone who’s known you long enough to read your mood from the way you chew your food.
Ian wipes his mouth with a napkin, then glances up. “I heard you're flying over to Palmera tomorrow. That true?”
“Yeah,” I say, nudging a fry around my plate. “Since Charli’s catering your wedding, she needs to check out the venue—see the layout, get a sense of the kitchens, hire some vendors, maybe sample the local ingredients. And I figured it’s a good excuse to check on the final resort build details while we’re out there.”
Ian narrows his eyes with that older-brother suspicion that never quite went away, even after all these years. "You gonna tell me what’s going on between you and Charli? First, you insist I give her a job, then she’s living at your place, and at kickball, you couldn’t take your eyes off her." He lifts a brow and gives me that knowing look. "You two seem… close."
I pause, surprised by how quickly Ian cut to the heart of it. I stare at my plate for a beat, then glance up at him. He's waiting, not pushing, but definitely not letting it go. I let out a breath and lean back in the booth.
“Honestly?” I say, scratching the back of my neck. “I don’t know what the hell is going on. She’s... different. Gets under my skin in a way that isn’t annoying, just... real. And I’m feeling things I haven’t felt in years. Not even with Ava. It’s like she flips a switch I didn’t even know was still wired.”
Ian studies me for a long beat, watching me like he’s waiting for something—maybe for me to open up, or maybe just to give myself away. He sets his beer down with a soft clink and says, "Can I give you some advice?"
I laugh, shaking my head. "Isn’t that basically in the job description for older brothers? Giving advice, whether or not it’s asked for?"
“Look, I’ve been where you are—overthinking every look, every moment, trying to make sense of something that hasn’t even had a chance to breathe yet. But trust me, that’s how you ruin it before it even begins. So, here’s what I’ve learned: go with it. Let it happen. Let it be messy or strange or unexpectedly good. Whatever it is, let it surprise you.”
I nod slowly, his words echoing louder than they should. Maybe he’s right. Maybe trying to make sense of it all is just my way of stalling. I stare down at my plate, suddenly not so hungry, the weight of everything sitting heavier in my chest.
"Shit, I don't even know if she's feeling any of this. For all I know, I'm the only one caught up in this mess. Wouldn’t be the first time—I fall hard while she barely sees me. That’d be my luck, right? Falling for someone who doesn’t even realize how much space she’s taking up in my head."
He grins, leaning back like he’s settling in for a show. “So, let me get this straight. The guy who swore off anything serious for the rest of his life, who said he was just in it for fun and freedom, is now sitting here second-guessing himself over a girl?” He chuckles, shaking his head with genuine amusement. “Man, if I didn’t know you so well, I’d say you’re catching feelings.”
“Now that’s just crazy talk.” I toss my napkin at him, but the laugh that follows doesn’t quite mask the storm brewing in my head. Because whatever this is—me and Charli, these moments that spark like live wires—it’s not just a crush. It’s not casual. It’s real, even if it’s unspoken. And that truth is getting harder to ignore. Maybe it’s time I stop over analyzing every glance, every laugh, and let myself lean into it. Let myself want her. Even if the risk of getting it wrong terrifies me more than I care to admit.
Chapter 8
Charli
It's Thursday night, and the country club kitchen hums with a barely contained frenzy. The hiss of sauté pans, the clatter of knives against cutting boards, and the endless ding of incoming order tickets create a kind of culinary battleground. The overhead lights bounce off polished stainless steel, throwing back the harsh glow that makes everything—every flaw, every misstep—impossible to hide. The counters are a mosaic of motion: bowls overflowing with fresh-cut herbs, trays of gleaming seafood waiting their turn, half-prepped garnishes teetering on the edge of order and chaos.
Carl’s voice slices through the noise like a cleaver. “This sauce is a joke! Too thin! Too cold! Redo it before someone sends it back!” He’s pacing the line like a general with something to prove, his tone sharp enough to bruise.
I hunch a little lower, eyes fixed on the parsley I’m chopping into submission. The repetition is a balm, each chop deliberate, focused. It’s the one thing I can control in a space where everything feels like it could spiral into disaster at any second. The air is sultry, the tension thicker than the béchamel Carl just sent flying into the sink, and I keep my knife steady, like it’s the only thing anchoring me to the ground.
I’ve been sitting on this all day. Waiting for the right moment to say something. Which, in hindsight, is dumb. There’s no right moment with Carl. There’s just the one where you hope he’s too distracted to argue.
"Hey Carl," I say, as I wipe my hands on my apron and step away from my station.
He doesn’t look up from the ticket he’s reading, but his entire posture radiates annoyance—shoulders hunched, jaw tight, one foot tapping a silent, irritated beat against the tile floor. His lips are twisted into a grimace like the ticket itself has personally ruined his night. "Make it fast, Whitmore," he growls, the words clipped, like he’s barely holding back a snarl.
I hover at the edge of the line, my hands damp inside my gloves, heart hammering a little harder than it should. I keep glancing at Carl, trying to gauge his mood—not that it ever veers far from foul. He’s already sent two sauces down the drain and snapped at a new hire for breathing too loud. This is going to suck. But I can’t put it off any longer.
I fidget with the hem of my apron, then force the words out. “Just a heads-up... I’ll need the weekend off. You haven’t posted the schedule yet, so I figured now was the time to let you know.”
Now he looks up. His brows arch slowly, like I just told him I planned to stage a coup in the kitchen.
"Oh yeah? And why’s that?"
