Page 9 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I blinked at her. “Because it’s the best.”
She gave me a look like I’d missed the point entirely. Maybe I had. But it’s the truth.
Then I showed her the pool. The infinity edge spills toward the beach and the Atlantic beyond it, the water catching the sky like glass. She gasped when she saw it—actually gasped—and ran her fingers through the spray of the side fountain like a kid who’s never seen one before. The wonder in her eyes did somethingto me. Made me remember what it was like to be amazed by something so simple.
But it wasn’t until we stepped into the kitchen that I saw her completely light up like the Fourth of July. And I meanlight up. The chef’s kitchen was part of the original design—state-of-the-art appliances, double ovens, gas range, prep sinks, the whole deal. I’d had it installed for entertaining, even if I never used it.
She opened drawers and cabinets like a kid in a candy store, murmuring about the setup, the counter space, the organization. But when she opened the oversized fridge and found only frozen pizzas, protein shakes, and beer, she turned slowly to look at me, like I’d just told her I microwaved filet mignon.
“This is criminal,” she said, shutting the fridge with dramatic offense.
I shrugged. “I don't cook.”
She muttered something about sacrilege under her breath, but I could tell—despite her exhaustion, despite everything—she was happy to be here. Even if she’d never admit it to me.
I don’t bring people here. Not unless there’s a contract to sign or they’re family. And definitely not someone who looks at me like I’m an intrusion into her life, even while I’m standing in my own home.
And yet, when I found her in that damn van—Fuck me.
I couldn’t get the image out of my head. Curled under a paper-thin blanket, faded floral pillow, and a prayer for insulation in the back of a van, surrounded by barely there comforts and nothing but fierce, stubborn pride. It was survival, but barely. I live in a place with three spare bedrooms that haven’t seen a soul in years. It just wasn’t right. She’d tried to make it livable, tried to keep her head down and push through. Thinking about all of that wrecked me more than I ever thought it would.
I barely know her. A few run-ins over the years, mostly at events Ian hosted. She’s friends with Mia. Close with Kendall and the rest of the Bad News Babes. That’s it. That’s all I had before tonight. But something about seeing her like that flipped a switch I didn’t even know I had.
She’s beautiful—of course she is—but not in the flashy, magazine-cover way I’ve gotten used to over the years… sinceher. No, Charli is nothing like Ava was. She’s a different kind of beautiful in a small-town, sun-warmed, fire-in-her-veins kind of way. Stubborn. Sharp. Quietly fierce and totally unwilling to let anyone see her struggle.
Now she’s here. In my space. In my life. I didn’t plan this. Hell, I didn’t even want this. But the second she walked through that door, something changed and I have no idea how to change it back.
I run a hand through my hair and drop onto the leather couch, dragging a sigh from my chest. Ghost padded down the stairs a few minutes ago, gave me a long stare like she was disappointed in me, then trotted back upstairs. I’m assuming to settle beside Charli’s door.
Even the damn dog has picked a side… how did I lose that battle?
I know I should be focused on other things—the resort projects in the Bahamas, the Silver Willow rebuild, the dozens of site meetings and calls waiting for me tomorrow, but all I can think about is her.
What the hell am I doing?
Apparently, I’m working from home tomorrow.
I pull out my phone and shoot off a quick email to Margo, my assistant. I ask her to reschedule any non-essential meetings and convert the rest to video calls. I don’t even explain why—it’s not her business—but I know she’ll handle it.
Then I fire off another message to Kendall. She’s one of my best property managers, sharp as hell and dependable. We were supposed to meet at the office tomorrow to go over the site plans for the new community housing build, but I ask her to come by the house instead. She’ll probably side-eye me when she shows up, but she’ll come, nonetheless.
Phone still in hand, I lean back against the cushions, staring at the ceiling for a long minute.
Then I stand, shut off the downstairs lights, and head upstairs to my own room.
Ghost doesn’t stir from her post outside Charli’s door. Just lifts her head and gives me a look like she’s daring me to disturb her new best friend.
I keep walking.
I wake up slow, sunlight already bleeding through the curtains. For a second, I forget there’s anyone else in the house. It’s quiet—too quiet—except for the smell. Something warm and buttery drifts through the air, threading into my sleep-hazed brain and yanking me upright. Eggs. Bacon. Coffee. And something else I can’t quite place but know instantly is going to taste amazing.
I scrub a hand over my face, swing my legs over the side of the bed, and remember—Charli. She’s here. In my house. Making breakfast, apparently. And weirdly, it doesn’t make me uneasy to have her in my space. It makes me curious.
I throw on sleep pants and a T-shirt and jog down the stairs barefoot. The scent gets stronger as I near the kitchen, and sure enough, when I round the corner, I find Charli at the stove, moving like she’s done this a thousand times.
Ghost is sprawled out in the corner by the window, her sleek body stretched out on the cool tile, tail thumping lazily against the floor like she’s already claimed her morning spoils. A half-chewed toy rests near her front paws, and her eyes flick between Charli and me with the smug satisfaction only a dog can pull off. She’s clearly been fed, adored, and fully welcomed into this new dynamic—and she’s loving every minute.
I stop in the doorway, caught for a second by the way the morning light filters through the windows and wraps around Charli. She’s barefoot, hair piled on top of her head in a messy knot, sleeves rolled up, completely focused on whatever she’s doing at the stove.
