Page 7 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I grit my teeth and tie my apron. “Just trying not to get fired.”
I keep my head down. Smile when I need to. Swallow the sting of every jab he throws and let it slide off my shoulders like oil in a hot pan. I stay out of his way because I need this job. Because dignity doesn’t pay the bills, and silence is sometimes the only thing keeping me afloat.
And because no one knows I sleep in the back of a van with a cracked ceiling vent and a cooler for a fridge.
Not my best friend Kendall. Not the Bad News Babes. Definitely not Sawyer Gallo, who somehow managed to look both annoyed and concerned when he told me about this job, like I’d personally offended him by being jobless.
I can’t afford pride anymore. But I can still afford secrets.
So, I tie my hair back, sharpen my knives, and pretend that I’m just another chef clocking in. That I don’t flinch when Carl mutters about people who get jobs through "connections." That I don’t feel my heart cave in a little more every time I pass the road where the Silver Willow used to live.
It’s just past ten when I crawl into the back of the van, tug off my chef coat, and stretch out on the makeshift bed I rigged from foam padding and a camping mat. The overhead vent creaks as a breeze whistles through, and I pull my thrifted blanket tighter around my shoulders.
Tomorrow’s another shift. More prep. More Carl. More pretending. But for now, it’s quiet. Safe. I reach for the dog-eared novel I’ve been re-reading from Annie Carlisle—my comfort author when the world feels too sharp—and flick on the clip light I keep wedged between the side panel and a roll of duct tape. It sputters once before catching, casting a warm, uneven glow across the pages. I settle back against the wall, letting the words wrap around me like armor. The van creaks, adjusting in the breeze, and I pretend—for just a few minutes—that this is normal. That I chose this. That I’m okay.
Then—
Knock knock.
I freeze.
Not loud, but firm. Sharp. A practiced kind of knock—measured, intentional. Not someone walking by. Not someone drunk stumbling off the golf course after hours. A knock with purpose, the kind that slices through the stillness and sends a jolt of dread straight to my spine.
I hold my breath and stay perfectly still. Maybe they’ll leave.
Another knock. Louder this time. More like a bang.
“Charli?”
What the hell is Sawyer doing here? Of course it’s him. Smug, bossy, boots-always clacking Sawyer Gallo. Come to rescue the poor, pathetic chef.
I jerk upright, heart thudding in my chest like it’s trying to escape. My elbow knocks over my flashlight and it clatters to the floor, the beam wobbling across the van’s interior. I curse under my breath and sit up too fast, smacking the crown of my head on the wall of the van with a hollowthunk. Pain blooms, but I grit my teeth and press a palm to the sting, already flushed with embarrassment. The last thing I need is him seeing me like this.
“Charli, I know you’re in there.”
Shit. I scramble to shove the blanket aside and reach for my hoodie. The knock comes again, followed by the unmistakable sound of his voice—lower now, tinged with concern.
“Look, I’m not trying to ambush you,” he says, voice softer now, like he’s trying not to spook a stray animal. “I forgot my presentation binder for tomorrow’s contractor meeting and came back to grab it. Saw your van still parked here. Lights off, curtains drawn. I just... wanted to make sure you were okay. Can you open up? Please?”
I unlock the door, cracking it just enough to see his face illuminated by the overhead light from the parking lot. His expression is all kinds of complicated—relief, frustration, and something else I can’t name.
Before I can say anything, he pushes gently on the door, leaning inside like he owns the air I breathe.
His eyes sweep over the space. My makeshift setup. The pillow—lumpy but clean, wrapped in a faded floral case that used to belong to my mom. The water bottle dented from being dropped more times than I can count. The tote of toiletriesI keep tucked under the seat, organized with almost military precision. There’s a stack of cookbooks beside the foam pad I sleep on, and a tiny battery-powered fan clipped to a milk crate I use as a nightstand. It’s not much, but it’s mine. And right now, it’s all I have.
“Damn it, Charli,” he growls, leaning closer and holding the door open to keep it from closing in his face. “You’re living in this?” His eyes sweep the space again, harder this time, jaw tight, voice low and commanding. “This isn’t survival—it’s barely shelter. You should’ve told me.”
I cross my arms, hugging myself more than anything. “Why would I? Did you come here just to judge me?” The words come out sharp, brittle—defense shaped like defiance. My spine stays straight, but everything inside me feels like it’s unraveling. I’ve worked too hard, kept too many pieces of myself hidden to have them exposed by someone like him, in a place like this.
“How did you end up living in a van in a parking lot next to a dumpster?” He inhales sharply, like he’s trying to tamper down his anger. “I have to know. You need to tell me.”
I take a moment to decide if I even should tell him, but I’m just too tired to fight with him about it. “My landlord sold the house I was renting out from under me. I have nowhere else to go, so I decided to live in my van until I can save enough money to buy my own place.” I look around my makeshift home and then back at him. “Besides, there’s nothing wrong with my home. There’s a whole movement called ‘hashtag van life’ and I’m all for it. Don’t come here with your nose in the air and insult my life. You barely know me.”
He turns, meeting my gaze head-on, and his expression hardens like concrete. The muscles in his jaw twitch, and there’s something raw in his eyes—shock, disbelief, fury barely held in check. “No,” he grits out. “I came here because I saw your van, and now I’m standing in the middle of your damn bedroom onwheels.” He sweeps his hand around the space, every motion tighter than the last. “Is—this where you’re living?” His mouth moves like he wants to say something but can’t. His eyes sweep the van again, landing on the makeshift bed. His jaw flexes, and something behind his eyes breaks.
I lift my chin and try to hold on to the little pride I have left. “It’s temporary,” I say, though the words taste like rust. “I’m working. Saving. I don’t need anyone’s approval.”
He steps closer, and I feel the heat radiating off him. Not anger at me—at the situation. At himself, maybe. “You’re one of the best chefs I’ve ever seen, and you’re sleeping in a tin can with a fan clipped to a milk crate? That’s not survival, Charli—that’s barely scraping by. You didn’t say a word.”
