Page 15 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
Before I can answer, there’s a sudden eruption of noise from the center of the field. The Bad News Babes and the Good News Guys are being called up for the official team photos—and somehow, we’re scheduled back-to-back.
Just before the names are called, the Walking Ladies—never ones to be outdone—charge the front with inflatable microphones and feather boas, declaring themselves the official halftime entertainment. They strut, pose, and belt out a wildly off-key but passionate rendition of "We Are the Champions," turning the whole thing into an impromptu concert.
Someone hands them a karaoke machine, and the crowd goes wild, cheering like this is the main event. Brooke nearly drops her phone, filming the chaos, and even Reid has to pause his trash talk to watch with his mouth open. The energy is pure mayhem—and somehow completely what Hibiscus Harbor is all about.
Once the Walking Ladies are done—complete with a mic drop and a conga line that somehow ropes in half the snacktent—they strut off chanting "Bad knees, good moves!" and toss glitter confetti into the air like they’re closing out Coachella. The crowd eats it up.
Charli catches my eye from across the field. The noise dulls around us like someone hit mute for just a second. Something electric passes between us—sharp and undeniable. Her gaze locks on mine, and I swear, the air gets thinner. She lifts a brow and leers at me like she already knows what I’m thinking. Like she feels it too, even if neither of us dares name it.
"You ready to lose this season?" she calls, her voice playful but threaded with that same spark.
My grin kicks up before I can stop it. That fire? Yeah. It’s mutual. Even if we’re both pretending it’s just about kickball.
I grin. "You wish. Winner cooks dinner. Loser does dishes."
"You better be good at scrubbing, boy," she fires back.
Oh, game on.
Chapter 6
Charli
Something is happening. I don’t know what, and I’m definitely not prepared for it—but it’s there, curling under my skin and whispering questions I’m not ready to ask out loud.
It’s in the way Sawyer looks at me across the kitchen while I’m chopping herbs, like I’m doing something magical instead of just mincing parsley. It’s in the way he lingers in the doorway when I walk through the house, like he wants to say something but never quite does. It’s in the way his dog follows me like a shadow and the way he watches that, like he can’t quite believe it either.
And it’s definitely in the way he smiles at me. Not the practiced, polished grin he flashes at investors or contractors or those polished strangers at boardroom tables. No, this smile is something else entirely—softer around the edges, almost shy, like it slips out before he can stop it. It’s slower, quieter, like it carries some unspoken secret meant just for me. And every time I catch it, I feel it like a spark low in my belly, a flicker I try to ignore but never quite can.
But every time I catch myself feeling it—that pull, that possibility—I remind myself just how ridiculous it is. Becausethere’s nothing actually happening. Not really. No lingering touches, no whispered confessions. Just... moments. Fleeting, charged, and probably imagined. I’ve read too many romance novels, watched too many late-night love stories where the brooding boss falls for the underdog. That’s not real life. That’s fantasy. And real life? Real life is me, sleeping under someone else’s roof, trying to survive one day at a time while pretending I’m not falling for the one man I can’t afford to want.
He’s Sawyer Gallo. Construction mogul. Billionaire. One of the most powerful, influential men in Hibiscus Harbor. The type of man people write headlines about. The kind who commands a room just by walking into it. What the hell would he want from me?
I’m the woman sleeping in his guest room because my life literally went up in flames. I live out of a duffel bag. My alarm clock is my internal panic. I avoid mirrors because I’m afraid of what I’ll see—the exhaustion, the fear, the failure. I’m trying to piece my life back together with hope and hustle, but there’s no blueprint. No safety net. Just a daily need to survive, to prove I still belong somewhere in a world that feels like it spit me out and slammed the door behind me.
He’s only being nice. That’s it, girl.
Nice guys exist. Even if they look like six-foot-four heartbreaks with broad shoulders and a voice that does things to your insides. Even if they stare at you like they want to memorize your face. Even if they sit next to you by the pool and say things that make you feel like maybe you’re not broken beyond repair.
I shake my head as I scrub a pan in the giant farmhouse sink, bubbles threatening to spill over the edges like the thoughts in my head. The warm water is soothing, the steady rhythm of scrubbing grounding me in a way nothing else has in days. But it’s not enough to drown out the chaos in my chest. I need to get my head on straight. Focus on what matters. Not the waySawyer’s voice makes something low in me flutter. Not the way he watches me when he thinks I’m not looking. Just the things I can control—getting to work on time, cooking like my life depends on it, and keeping my heart locked down where it can’t get bruised.
There is nothing going on between me and Sawyer Gallo. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. Except maybe the way my pulse kicks up every time he walks into the room. Or the way I catch him watching me like I’m a puzzle he can’t quite figure out—but wants to. Or the way our shoulders brush when we pass each other in the hallway and neither of us moves away. Nothing except the thousands of unsaid things hanging in the silence between us, waiting to be spoken. But no, definitely—definitely—nothing.
But a tiny voice I keep trying to silence keeps wondering—what if?
After kickball practice one night at Hooplas, the team is still sweaty, flushed, and slightly buzzed from hard seltzers and fried pickles. We’re loud, taking up too much space and laughing like we don’t have work in the morning.
The Walking Ladies have claimed a table nearby, wearing custom glittery visors and sipping bright pink cocktails while loudly rating everyone's kickball form on a scale of one to "needs Jesus." One of them tries to show off a new TikTok dance and nearly knocks over a barstool, which earns a round of applause and a chant of "MVP!" from our table.
Mia clinks her glass to get everyone’s attention, her smile practically glowing. She’s perched on the edge of her barstool like she can barely keep the news in another second, eyes brightand practically vibrating with excitement. She waits until the din of laughter and side conversations fades into a curious hush, then grins like a woman about to drop the world’s juiciest secret.
“We have a date!” she announces, grinning from ear to ear, practically bouncing on her barstool. “Ian and I are getting married in two months at the hotel and spa on Palmera Island!”
The table erupts like a volcano of squeals and cheers, and I swear Sunni chucks a mozzarella stick at someone in celebration. Molly knocks over her drink in the process of hugging Mia from across the table, and Kennedy’s already googling beachy bridesmaid dresses on her phone. Someone behind us yells, “Shut up, Bad News Babes!” but Kendall just shouts back, “Put it in a Hallmark movie, loser!”
Mia’s cheeks flush, glowing brighter than the neon lights behind the bar. She covers her face with both hands and peeks out through her fingers like she can’t believe it’s finally real. The entire table bangs the bottoms of their seltzer cans on the table, chanting, “Ba-ha-mas! Ba-ha-mas!” while Riley starts mock-fanning Mia like she’s royalty.
It’s a moment that feels so ridiculous and perfect. I want to bottle it and keep it forever.
