Page 12 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
It’s not. Not even close.
But my hands ache to touch his countertops again. My soul wants to lose itself in the click of gas burners and the smell of garlic and butter in the air. His kitchen is the space chefs dream about—high-end, warm, alive.I look at the stove. Then at him.
Then I nod. “Deal.”
He grins. “Deal.”
“And I’m not making pancakes every morning,” I add, though my voice is softer now. A little frayed around the edges. Like I’m trying to hang on to the last thread of control in a situation that’s slipping through my fingers faster than I want to admit. It’s not a threat, not really—just a line I need to draw to feel like I’m still me.
“We’ll negotiate that part.” He laughs.
I roll my eyes, but something inside me softens. The air between us isn’t heavy anymore. It’s charged, sure, but lighter somehow. Like the storm broke and left something better in its place.
“Guess I better start planning dinner,” I mutter, already opening the fridge.
He leans back against the counter, watching me like he’s seeing something more than just a woman in borrowed clothes and tired eyes. And maybe he is. But I can’t afford to think too hard about that right now.
As I'm about to put my shoes on, the doorbell rings—sharp, sudden, and too damn early for the second wave of surprises this morning. I freeze mid-lace, heart giving a little jolt as I look up. Sawyer, still leaning against the counter, raises a brow like he meant to say something but forgot.
His expression is half sheepish, half amused. "That’s probably Kendall," he says, like it’s no big deal. Like it’s not my best friend walking into the mansion. I definitely shouldn’t be in right now, dressed in chef whites and still a little damp from my luxury shower experience.
Panic flutters in my chest. I smooth a hand down my shirt, run fingers through my damp hair, and try not to look like someone about to be exposed.
“We have a meeting,” he says.
For half a second, I think about ducking out—just slipping down the hall and pretending I forgot something upstairs. But there’s no time. She’s already stepping inside with the kind of ease that says she’s been here before, more than once. It’s irrational, but something sharp and hot twists in my chest.Jealousy. Ugly and uninvited. I squash it down fast, burying it beneath practiced indifference and the quiet shame of knowing exactly why it’s there.
“Hey! I got your message that you wanted to meet here instead of in your office.” Kendall’s voice floats in, bright and casual as always, until she spots me.
She stops short. Her eyes flick over me—my clothes, my damp hair, the fact that I’m standing in Sawyer Gallo’s kitchen.
“Charli?” she says, blinking like she’s not sure if I’m a hallucination. “What areyoudoing here?”
I school my features into something neutral, but my voice betrays me before I can get a handle on it. "I—I’m just... helping out," I stammer, the words tripping over each other like they forgot how to behave. I can feel the heat crawling up my neck as I avoid her eyes, trying to sell a lie neither of us is buying.
Kendall narrows her eyes. “Helping out.Right.”
Sawyer walks around the corner right then, like he timed it. "Morning, Kendall," he says with a casual ease that somehow makes everything worse. Then he grins—broad, warm, completely oblivious. "That breakfast Charli made? Incredible. You should’ve been here earlier. She cooked enough for a small army, and I didn’t leave a crumb behind."
My heart sinks as Kendall’s head jerks toward me again, her brows rising with renewed curiosity, suspicion blooming right behind them. I try to send Sawyer a look that saysplease shut up, but he’s already turning to grab a forgotten mug off the counter like we’re all just roommates hanging out on a lazy Sunday morning.
Kendall’s gaze swings between us like she’s watching a tennis match, and then her eyes land squarely on me, sharp and unblinking. “You’reseeingeach other?”
I open my mouth. Nothing comes out. Heat crawls up my neck. “I—we’re not—he’s just—” My voice trips over itself,stammering like a broken record. I feel the words clawing for a way out, but none of them sound right. Kendall’s brows rise higher, her mouth already twitching like she knows the answer, and I’m caught in the middle of the world’s worst improv scene.
Sawyer, thank God, jumps in before I self-destruct completely. “She’s staying here temporarily,” he says, with the calm of someone dropping a truth bomb wrapped in politeness. Then he glances at Kendall and adds, like he’s reading aloud from a case file, “I found her sleeping in her van behind the country club last night.”
It lands like a slap. He doesn’t mean it to hurt—I know he doesn’t—but it feels like he just peeled the curtain back and held my secret up to the light. Like he’s telling on me, even though I know he thinks he’s just explaining. My breath catches and I force myself to hold still, to not flinch. But I swear, for a split second, the floor tilts.
Kendall’s jaw drops. “WHAT!?!You were sleeping in your van?”
The shame rises so fast it scorches. It grabs hold of my throat and tightens until I can barely get the words out. My eyes sting and I drop my gaze, staring at a spot on the floor like maybe it'll open up and swallow me. My voice cracks when I finally speak, so quiet it's almost a whisper. "I didn’t want anyone to know."
Her voice is tight now, but there’s a shimmer of hurt behind the steel. “Charli. You’re mybest friend. You think I wouldn’t help you?” She blinks fast, like she’s fighting tears of her own, voice trembling just enough to crack through my defenses. "You really thought I wouldn’t want to know you were living like that? That I wouldn’t do something—anything—to help?"
I whisper. “I didn’t want to feel like a burden.”
She doesn’t yell. She doesn’t cry. But her voice goes firm, full of the steel that comes from love. “I’m paying your kickballfees for the season. Don’t argue. Don’t fight me on this. You’re playing. The Bad News Babes need you. I need you.”
