Page 5 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
She’s sitting in the front seat, hunched over something in her lap—a notebook, maybe, or a tablet. Her brows are drawn tight, her hair pulled into a no-nonsense knot. Even exhausted, even surrounded by smoke and ruin, she looks like she owns the pavement she’s sitting on.
I tap on the window, and she startles, then glares at me.
"Sorry," I say as she cracks the window open. She squints up at me, wary and tired. Her eyes are puffy, like she hasn’t slept in days, and there’s a stubborn smear of ash on her cheek. "Didn’t mean to sneak up on you. Just saw the van and figured you might be here. I wanted to check in."
"What’s up, Gallo?" she says, crossing her arms with the kind of defiant tilt to her chin that dares me to give her a reason to swing. Her voice is low, clipped, like she’s bracing for more bad news and already pissed off about it.
"Got you a job," I say, leaning one arm against the van, keeping my tone even but firm. "At the country club. High-end kitchen. Real work. Not a pity post, if that’s what you’re thinking. Ian doesn’t do charity hires, and I didn’t twist his arm. Much."
She lets out a soft, disbelieving breath, her expression shifting from wary to something that almost looks like hope—like she wants to believe me but doesn’t quite trust the ground she’s standing on. "You’re serious? Just like that, you lined up a job for me? That’s... I don’t even know what to say."
I take a breath, steadying my voice. "You’re sharp, steady under pressure, and you’ve got instincts most chefs would kill for. That kind of talent doesn’t belong cooking in a fast-food joint or wondering how to scrape together rent. You need a place where you can do what you do best—and this job is an opportunity. One you deserve… at least until I get the Silver Willow back up and running."
She doesn’t answer. Just looks out past me toward the wreckage of the restaurant.
"Ian knows you’ve got chops. Carl might test you at first—he’s old school, likes to bark and puff up his chest—but you’ll shut that down quickly, I’m sure. He’ll either learn to respect you or get out of your way. And if he doesn’t, I’ll deal with him myself."
Her jaw tightens. She’s considering it, even if she doesn’t want to admit it.
Finally, she mutters, "Do I have to wear one of those stuffy-ass double-breasted jackets?"
I grin. "Not unless you want to."
Another pause. Then a sigh. "Fine. But if Carl so much as breathes in my direction, I’m stabbing him with a skewer."
I laugh, "Deal."
She looks at me then, and for a second the noise around us disappears. There’s a flicker in her eyes—doubt, maybe, orgratitude she’s not ready to admit—but it hits me square in the chest. The air tightens between us. Not from the heat of the burned-out restaurant behind us, but from something newer. Unspoken. Unplanned. And entirely too dangerous.
I clear my throat and step back. "Monday. Seven. Don’t be late."
She nods, slow and unreadable, then gently eases the window back up. Her hand lingers on the edge for a second, like she’s thinking about saying something more—but it never comes. The glass slides shut with a soft click, sealing her back into the quiet cocoon of her van, leaving me standing in the alley with a dozen words I didn’t say and the feeling of something I can’t quite name.
As I walk away, I tell myself this was the right thing to do. That offering her this job, stepping into her orbit like this, was about doing the decent thing as an owner of the restaurant. About making sure the people who helped build The Silver Willow don’t fall through the cracks. That stubborn fire in her—I felt it catch something in me I thought I buried a long time ago.
It has nothing to do with how my pulse kicked up when she smiled.
I’m not that guy.
Not anymore.
Back at the office, I spread the plans out across my desk and try to get my head back in the game. A dozen projects are in motion, most of them tied to the resort development on Palmera Island in the Bahamas. The hotel and spa sit on the north tip of the smaller island, Little Palmera, but everything else—theinfrastructure, the community spaces, the long-term vision—is happening on the main island where the staff will live and play.
We’re building it all. Schools. A hospital. A library. Government buildings. Clean water access. The works. It’s one of the biggest projects Gallo Construction has ever taken on, and it means something. Ian didn’t just want luxury. He wanted a legacy. A place where people could thrive, not just clock in and serve cocktails by the pool.
My phone buzzes. First, it’s a site manager from the Palmera Island project—checking on a shipment of imported tile that’s been delayed at the docks. Then it’s the lead architect needing a sign-off on updated schematics for the school complex. By the time I finish a ten-minute call with the plumbing contractor who’s trying to source specialized filtration components for the hospital, my coffee’s gone cold.
It’s a lot, and normally, I’d thrive in it. But today, every call feels like it’s dragging me further away from that parking lot where Charli sat alone, her van still covered in ash.
After the last call, I sit back in my chair, staring at the open blueprints. It's all good work. Solid, honest work. But it doesn’t feel as sharp today. Not after everything that's happened.
Charli’s job is lined up. The projects are moving forward fast. Nevertheless, my mind won’t settle.
I pick up the phone again and start drafting a message to Ian.
Then I stop, stare at the screen for another second, and call him instead—because I know if I don't hear it from him directly, I'll keep second-guessing every detail.
He answers on the first ring this time. "Tell me you’re not hovering already."
