Page 11 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
“Did you—” I step into the kitchen, scanning the evidence. “You ateeverything?”
He sets his phone down. “I'm a growing boy.”
I stare at him, blinking like I misheard. "That was three people’s worth of food." My voice tilts upward in disbelief, teetering between awe and accusation. "You ate everything. Even the bagel. Who eats a whole everything bagelafterpancakes?"
“Exactly. One for me. One for Ghost. And one for my mid-morning snack. It’s called planning ahead.” He pats his stomach with exaggerated pride, like he just completed a culinary triathlon instead of demolishing a small buffet. “Besides, you said you didn’t know what I liked. Now you do. All of it.”
My mouth opens, then closes. I don’t know whether to be horrified or… weirdly flattered. I go with horrified.
“I can't believe you ate all that food,” I say, half-laughing, half-exasperated as I yank the empty juice carton from the fridge and toss it into the recycling bin with more force than necessary. “Seriously, Sawyer. That was a buffet, not a sample platter.”
He just beams like a man who’s proud of himself, which, honestly, he probably is. I shoot him a glare, but it’s lacking real heat. Mostly because I’m too busy marveling at how completely he decimated everything I made in record time.
I cross my arms, trying to gather the courage for what I have to say next. “Look, I want to make a deal.”
He raises an eyebrow, arms folding over that annoyingly broad chest, and leans a little closer, like he’s expecting apunchline. “What kind of deal?” he asks, his tone half-curious, half-challenging—like he already knows I’m about to say something he’s going to hate but is bracing for it, anyway.
I cross my arms. “The deal where I figure things out and don’t become some charity case you feed and house.”
His expression shifts. Barely. But I see it—the flicker of insult, quickly buried. “I never said you were a charity case.”
“You didn’t have to,” I snap. “Look around, Sawyer. This place hasviews. I’m usually parked behind a dumpster. I sleep on foam padding and bathe in a locker room. We’re not exactly operating on the same playing field here.” I hesitate before getting to the point, "I want to pay rent."
“Charli,” he says, his voice low and tight, like he's holding back a storm. “I’m not doing this for a payout. I don’t want your money.”
“Iwantto pay rent,” I bite out, my hands trembling as I dig through my duffel bag until I pull out the envelope of cash I’ve been hoarding from my last paycheck. It’s wrinkled, worn at the edges, but it’s what I’ve got—what Iearned. “I might be temporarily screwed, but I still havedignity. I’m not looking for favors or handouts. So take the damn money, Sawyer—or I swear, I’ll pack my stuff and be out of here tonight. Back to the van. At least there, no one looks at me like I’m something to fix.”
That gets him. His jaw goes tight, and his voice lowers like thunder that hasn’t hit yet. “You offering me rent like I’m some slumlord isn’tdignity, Charli. It’s you trying to prove you don’t need anyone.”
I flinch. Because he’s not wrong. But that doesn’t mean he’s right either.
“You don’t get to make this about my pride,” I say, quieter now. “You don’t know what it’s like to have everything slip out from under you and still have to wake up and pretend you’re fine.”
He pushes up from the chair with the slow, deliberate ease that makes every hair on the back of my neck stand up. His steps are measured as he rounds the island, each one drawing him closer until he’s standing directly in front of me—close enough to feel the warmth radiating off his skin, close enough that I have to tilt my chin to meet his eyes. Too close. Way too close. The kind of proximity that scrapes nerve endings raw, that makes it hard to think past the thunder of my pulse.
“I know exactly what it’s like to lose everything,” he says, voice low. “And I also know what it’s like to have someone try to help and get spit in their face for it.”
I breathe through my nose, but it does nothing to stop the burn building behind my eyes. I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall—not here, not in front of him. My throat tightens around the words, my voice barely holding steady as I say, “I’m not spitting in your face. I’m just trying to survive with some part of myself intact.” My fingers curl around the envelope in my hand like it’s a lifeline, the only thing keeping me grounded when everything inside me is unraveling fast and furious. I’m not just defending my pride—I’m clinging to it with everything I have left.
He nods once, his gaze flicking down to the envelope in my hand, then back to my face—so intense it almost undoes me. For a heartbeat, I think he’s going to argue again. That we’ll spiral into another standoff neither of us can win. But instead, he sighs. Not annoyed—something deeper. Like letting go of a burden.
Then he holds out a hand, slow and steady, like he’s offering me a lifeline instead of a deal. His voice softens just enough to catch me off guard. “Fine, then, we compromise.”
The warmth in his eyes flickers—just for a second—as if he can see the tears brimming in mine and is silently begging me not to let them fall. Like if I cry, he might shatter too.
I blink, hesitation twisting in my chest like a knot I can’t quite untangle. My voice comes out slower this time, less defensive, more uncertain. “What kind of compromise?”
“I don’t want your money,” he says, his voice quieter now, the fight draining from his features. “But if you need to feel like you’re holding your own…”
He pauses, glancing toward the stove, then he looks back at me, steady and calm. “You cook.”
He doesn’t smile. Doesn’t soften it with charm. Just leaves the words hanging between us, like a peace offering made of stainless steel and gas burners.
My breath catches, because it’s the one offer I don’t know how to refuse. Not because it makes everything okay—but because it lets me keep my spine straight and my soul intact.
I stare at him. “Are you serious?”
“Dead serious.” His expression doesn’t waver. “You cook like it’s a second language, and Ghost and I have been living on protein bars and frozen food for too long. You need a roof. I need actual food. It sounds like a fair trade to me. Do we have a deal?”
