Page 41 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
The ref, who volunteered from the rec center, throws his whistle in the air and calls it: “Practice game’s a tie! Get off the field!”
Of course, no one hearsthe word ‘tie’. They hearvictoryin their own heads.
“We were winning!” Sawyer shouts.
“You werelosing! You hadn’t scored since the first inning!” I shoot back.
“Technicalities,” he says, jogging beside me as we sprint toward the shelter.
Behind us, everyone is arguing over who was ahead.
Brooke is claiming statistical advantage.
Trevor is insisting they were “on the comeback trail.”
Sunni’s waving her notes and yelling, “Iwrote it all down! We were up two!”
The Walking Ladies are cackling and stuffing crumpled bills into Betty’s purse. “Gladys won the collision pool,” one of them says.
By the time we’re under the pavilion, soaked and laughing and high on competition, it’s clear: no one knows who won. So, naturally, everyone claims they did. It’s chaotic. Loud. Petty. And perfect.
Sawyer leans close, rain dripping from his hair, his smile lazy and smug. “We’ll settle this at the real game.”
“Oh, we will,” I say, pushing a wet curl out of my face. “And when my team wipes the field with yours, I’m demanding my prize in food.”
He grins. “Food, huh? That’s what does it for you? Wasn't what I was thinking.” He winks at me and suddenly I'm getting wet in places that have nothing to do with the downpour.
“Victoryandfood? Obviously.” I try to blow it off, but I think he's on to me.
Lightning flashes again. The rain pounds harder.
And for the first time in a long time, I feel completely, utterly at home.
Even soaking wet, in a t-shirt stuck to my back, surrounded by chaos.
Especially then.
Later that evening, the rain hasn’t let up.
It drums against the roof of the covered patio in steady bursts, fat droplets splashing against the railings, mist curling around the screens like fog rolling in off the ocean. It’s cozy, warm, and the air smells like wet earth and sea salt.
Sawyer and I are curled up on opposite ends of the outdoor sectional, both of us with laptops balanced on our knees and half-empty mugs of coffee on the table between us. Ghost is flopped on the rug, paws twitching as she dreams, probably of belly rubs and bunny-shaped chew toys.
My screen is filled with notes—menu drafts for Mia and Ian’s wedding, supplier lists, flavor pairings, and my proposed layout for the new Silver Willow kitchen. It’s… a lot. But it’s good. The good that makes me sit up straighter, making me feel like I belong here.
My phone buzzes, startling me.
Unknown number.
I almost don’t answer—but curiosity wins. “Hello?”
“Well, I’ll be damned. Charli Whitmore. You still making gumbo that could bring a man to his knees?”
The pride in his voice wraps around me like a well-worn apron—familiar, comforting, and full of warmth. It's the pride that comes from someone who's seen you at your worst and still brags about you like you hung the moon. It makes my throat tighten and my heart ache in the best possible way.
“Rusty?”
He chuckles, the sound warm and scratchy, just like I remember. “Heard through the grapevine you had a hell of a time lately. Fire at the Silver Willow. You okay, kid?”
