Page 45 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
I nod. “Yeah. Just thinking about how we’re going to wipe the floor with your team at next week's game.”
She snorts. “You're delusional but cute. I like that.”
I glance back at the now-empty bleachers and feel something inside me finally settle. This must have been the closure I didn't realize I needed.
Ava's gone and I hope for good because the only future I’m interested in is the one that is standing right next to me with her hand in my back pocket.
And right now, that future’s looking pretty damn perfect.
Chapter 18
Charli
After practice, everyone agrees to meet at Hooplas—the only place in town with dollar tacos, loud music, and enough beer on tap to make a grown man weep. The place is already packed by the time Sawyer and I walk in, our fingers laced together like we didn’t just spend the last hour hurling kickballs at each other like flirtatious maniacs.
The second the door opens, we’re hit with a blast of sound: country music, lots of laughter, the clattering of pool balls, and the unmistakable war-cry of the Walking Ladies.
“He was a Navy SEAL, Gladys!” Betty hollers from across the bar, holding up her margarita like it’s a gavel. “Of course he knew how to tie a knot!”
Gladys snorts into her beer. “That man couldn’t find the clasp on my bra with a GPS and a tutorial video. I’ve seen toddlers with mittens on figure out puzzles faster than he could work a hook-and-eye.”
Florence and Joan nearly fall off their barstools laughing—one of them in a neon pink visor and the other sporting a pair of light up flamingo earrings that flash every time she sips her drink. I can’t tell who’s who anymore because they’ve started swapping accessories like they’re in a senior citizen version ofa Vegas magic act. Every time someone heads to the bathroom, the outfit dynamics shift, and a new woman emerges like a sparkly, giggling transformer.
I don't know how many margaritas these ladies have taken down, but we're about two songs away from needing a designated spotter and a team of orthopedic surgeons on standby just to make sure no one gets hurt.
Sawyer leans in and murmurs against my ear, “Remind me to never get on their bad side.”
“Too late,” I reply, grinning. “Florence already has you listed under ‘tall drink of trouble.’”
He throws his head back and laughs, then pulls me close and presses a kiss to my temple. I melt against him, feeling that familiar wave of contentment. It’s loud and chaotic, but I feel weirdly grounded—like the storm of the past few months has settled, and this is what the calm looks like. I like the calm.
We snag the last open booth near the dartboards, sliding in across from Hudson and Kate, who are already arm-wrestling over a nacho platter. Kane and Grace take the bar stools at the end, nursing their drinks and showing everyone that walks by pictures of their new baby while Declan and Riley dance along to the music without shame or rhythm. They keep stepping on other people's toes and moving in the opposite direction of the rest of the line dancers.
Sawyer stretches an arm along the back of the booth, tugging me into his side. Our fingers stay linked on the table, his thumb brushing slow circles along the back of my hand.
“Okay, this place is my favorite hangout,” he says, lips brushing the shell of my ear.
I hum in agreement, leaning into the warmth of him. “I mean, where else can you get bad karaoke, stiff drinks, and unsolicited relationship advice from a group of octogenarian women in leopard-print blouses and orthopedic shoes?”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” He laughs as he sips his beer the waitress, Steph, brings him.
Just then, Mia slides into the booth beside me, tucking a loose curl behind her ear and flashing a grin.
“All right, Chef Whitmore,” she says, plunking down a wedding planning binder thicker than a small child. “We’ve got fifteen minutes before my next tequila shot, so let’s talk flower arches and flambés.”
Sawyer groans. “Please don’t let her say the word ‘flambé’ in public again. She's going to be my sister-in-law soon.”
Mia ignores him, sliding the binder closer and flipping it open. “So, I was thinking, instead of a formal plated dinner, we do multiple interactive food stations. You know, like build-your-own taco bars, custom risotto bowls, maybe a fire pit where someone in a ballgown torches marshmallows for s’mores. Thoughts?”
I blink twice until I realize what this is. “Yes, those are all... ideas.. Also, how much tequila did you already have?”
She gives me a toothy grin. “Enough to make me fearless. Not enough to regret it... yet.”
I laugh, flipping through the pages, deciding to indulge her. “Okay, if we’re doing s’mores, we need a graham cracker crunch station. And those mini cast iron skillets for table side baking? I’ve got a supplier.”
“This is why I love you,” Mia says, leaning in to clink her glass against mine.
I glance at Sawyer and give the smallest shake of my head. There is zero chance we’re actually setting up a live s’mores bonfire in the middle of a ballroom, but I’m not about to rain on Mia’s tequila-fueled Pinterest parade. Let her dream big—tomorrow, she’ll thank me for keeping the marshmallow inferno off the final menu.
