Page 6 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
"Only a little," I admit. "I just want Monday to be smooth."
"HR’s got it locked down. She’s good to go," Ian says. "You really think she’ll take to the club kitchen?"
"She’s already survived worse."
There’s a pause, then he says, "Speaking of survival, we need to finalize the hospital interior specs on Palmera. The ministry wants everything submitted by next week."
I sigh, leaning forward and scanning the blueprints. "Yeah, I saw the email. I’ll get with the design team. We still need to nail down the housing units for the school staff."
"Right. And don’t forget the water system for the south end. The filtration units are delayed again."
"Already on it."
"This project’s becoming a beast," he mutters. "But when it’s done... it’s going to be something real."
I nod to myself. "That’s the point. Build something that outlasts us. Between Palmera and the Silver Willow, I’ve got my hands full. My calendar doesn’t have room for any more surprises."
He’s quiet for a beat. Then, "You think she fits into all that?"
"Who, Charli?" I lean back, staring at the ceiling. "Yeah. I do."
"Guess we’ll find out."
"We will."
“Remember, Sawyer, you’re not just rebuilding the restaurant, you’re rebuilding something in you, too.”
“Okay, I’m done with the big brother talk for the night. See ya tomorrow.”
I can hear him laughing when we hang up, and for the first time since the fire, I feel something close to solid under my feet. Not because anything’s easy. It’s not. The resort timeline is tight, the logistics are insane, and there are a dozen fires—not the literal kind—that need putting out. But there’s movement. There’s momentum, and for the first time in days, I feel like I’m not just reacting—I’m building again.
Still, even with that momentum, my thoughts drift back to her. To Charli. To the way she clenched her jaw instead of askingfor help, the way she didn’t even flinch when I told her she’d be working with a chef known for being territorial.
I don’t just want to rebuild a restaurant. I want to build a future, and somehow, Charli Whitmore will be part of that blueprint.
Even if she doesn’t know it yet.
I get more coffee, then drag the construction plans closer.
Time to rebuild. Everything.
Chapter 2
Charli
I’ve gotten really good at pretending that sleeping in my van is some kind of adventure. Like I’m roughing it by choice and not necessity.
It’s been a few weeks since the fire, and I still wake up smelling smoke. Not the sharp, immediate kind—the kind that clings to you. No, this is phantom smoke. Memory smoke. It lives in my hair, my skin, the folds of my clothes. It lives behind my eyes every time I shut them. Sometimes, in that quiet second between dreaming and waking, I swear I hear the fire alarm again. That shrill, gut-slicing sound. Then I remember where I am—cramped in the back of my van, curled beneath a thrift-store blanket that still smells faintly of rosemary and lemon zest. I remember everything.
The van’s not exactly luxury, but it’s dry. Mostly. The passenger door sticks, the back window fogs over even when it’s not cold, and I have to park on a slight incline or the cooler won’t drain properly. I keep it stashed in the far corner of the country club’s back lot, nestled between a crumbling stone wall and a half-dead palm tree no one had the energy to chop down. Out of sight, out of judgment. It’s quiet, a little overgrown, andmercifully overlooked by the grounds’ crew. Perfect for keeping secrets.
My shift starts in an hour, but I’ve been up for two already. Showered in the staff locker room. Changed into my chef whites. Checked my knives. All routine, all muscle memory. It helps. It keeps my hands busy so my brain doesn’t spiral into what-ifs and why-mes.
The job at Hibiscus Harbor Country Club is fine. The kitchen’s well-stocked, the equipment state-of-the-art, the ingredients fresh. It should be a dream gig. And maybe it would be, if not for Carl.
Carl thinks he runs the place. Hell, maybe he does. He’s the type of chef who was probably born in a double-breasted jacket, complete with an attitude seasoned in bitter jealousy. On our first day working together, he called me “kid” and tried to move my onions while I was mid-prep. I nearly sliced his hand open with my boning knife. He hasn’t tried it again, but he still throws jabs every chance he gets.
“You’re ten minutes early,” Carl says to me, not looking up from his clipboard. “Trying to earn extra brownie points with Ian?”
