Page 28 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
Then dinner. Another beachside table, toes in the sand, candlelight flickering between us. I want to see her in that sundress she wore last night, with her hair down and skin still warm from the sun. I want another slow evening with her, full of laughter and long looks and that quiet, electric awareness that’s always humming just beneath the surface.
I glance down at her again, watching the way her lashes flutter slightly like she’s dreaming, and I feel a tug low in my chest.
Yeah. Today’s going to be unforgettable, and it’s not about snorkeling or parasailing or even dinner. It’s about her.
Charli stirs against me. She shifts slightly, then tenses. Her breath hitches. I feel it the moment she wakes up—not in that gentle, sleepy way, but in the full-body jolt of sudden panic.
She snaps upright, her eyes wide and unfocused for a beat before she realizes where she is and who she’s with. "Shit," she mutters, her voice hoarse as she scrambles for the edge of the bed. She grabs her clothes from the floor in a blur, tugging them on in jerky, panicked motions. I push up onto my elbows.
"Charli—"
She doesn’t let me finish. Doesn’t even look at me.
The door opens, slams shut, and she’s gone.
Just like that.
My chest is still rising and falling with the memory of her body against mine, and now there’s just the echo of that door and the sound of silence.
I stare at the closed door for a long beat, then let out a breath and laugh softly at myself.
She’s panicking. Full-blown, brain-scrambled panic. I know it because I’ve felt it too—the second-guessing, the internal screaming of what did I just do? I should feel stung, maybe even insulted. Instead, I find myself shaking my head with a grin.
I pull on some sweatpants and pick up the phone. “Room service. Breakfast for two. Extra coffee.”
By the time I’ve showered, shaved, and pulled on a clean button-down and shorts, the cart is rolling down the hallway with a waiter pushing it and a metal dome over each plate. I stop him just outside Charli’s room.
“I’ll take it from here,” I say, reaching into my wallet and slipping a ridiculous tip into his hand.
The guy grins and walks away, and I stand there for a beat before knocking.
“Room service,” I call in a sing-song voice.
The door creaks open, revealing Charli’s confused face and tangled wet hair.
I don’t wait for an invitation. I push the cart inside like I own the place because I kind of do and guide it past her stunned expression and right into the center of her room. I have to keep my eyes averted from her towel or this will never work.
“I think we should talk.”
Chapter 12
Charli
Iwake up with a start, heart pounding like I’ve run a marathon. The sheets are soft. The room is quiet. The air smells faintly of cedar and clean linen, and the pillows are way too plush to be mine.
Oh. My. God.
It takes a nanosecond second to register the arm draped across my waist and the warmth of bare skin pressed along my cheek. Another half a second before I remember whose bed this is.
Sawyer’s.
My stomach flips. Not in the butterflies kind of way, but in the "how do I get the hell out of here without spontaneous combustion" kind of way.
I squeeze my eyes shut, replaying the night in a furious mental montage: the dinner, the laughter, the alcohol, the kissing, the clothes on the floor, the way he touched me like I was something sacred. Like he wanted me. Really wanted me. And then I went and?—
Oh God.
My face heats like I stuck it in an oven. What did I do?
