Page 23 of The Billionaire's Secret Desire
"This is your plane?" she asks, her voice pitched just above a whisper.
I nod. "It's got my name on it."
She shoots me a look, half annoyed, half in awe. "It looks like a Bond villain’s getaway car had a baby with a penthouse suite."
I grin and motion for her to follow. "Wait until you see the inside."
She tries to act unimpressed, settling into the seat with that practiced cool she wears like armor, but it cracks almost immediately. Her fingers skim along the buttery leather of the armrest like she’s trying to memorize the feel of it, and her gaze drifts—no, lingers—on the built-in espresso machine in the corner, eyes going wide for half a second before she blinks the wonder away.
When the flight attendant appears with a mimosa on a silver tray, Charli accepts it with a polite nod, but the way her hand trembles just slightly around the glass gives her away. She presses her lips together, fighting a grin, but her foot taps a quiet rhythm against the floor, and I swear she’s vibrating with barely contained excitement. It’s like watching someone trying not to smile during a surprise party they secretly hoped for, and I can’t stop watching her soak it all in like she’s breathing in magic.
"You fly like this all the time?" she asks, settling into her seat and gazing out the window like a kid on Christmas morning.
"Only every time," I say, buckling in and opening my laptop. "I don't fly commercial," is all I tell her. That's a story I never plan to revisit.
"Me, neither. It's so... peasantry," she says with a grin, her voice dripping with playful sarcasm as she lifts her mimosa in a mock-toast to luxury with her pinky finger raised in the air.
She shakes her head, clearly trying to keep her expression neutral, but I can see the smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. It's infectious.
I spend the flight reviewing site schematics and replying to emails, but every so often, I glance over and catch her taking selfies with the cloud-streaked window or snapping a photo of her breakfast tray like she’s documenting proof that this is real. It's ridiculously endearing.
As the island comes into view from the jet, Charli practically presses her face to the window, her eyes wide and glittering like she’s just spotted Neverland. The closer we get, the more animated she becomes—pointing out the crescent-shaped beaches, the glittering turquoise water, the thick palm groves that blanket the coastline. Her excitement is so palpable, it vibrates off of her like static.
"Oh my god, look at that water—it doesn't even look real," she whispers, grabbing my arm without realizing it.
I glance over at her, amused by her total lack of chill, and something tight in my chest loosens. I don’t even mind that she’s got a death grip on my forearm. It’s worth it just to see that joy.
When we land in Palmera, a black SUV is waiting for us at the edge of the tarmac. The driver loads our bags while Charli cranes her neck, taking in the palm trees, the turquoise water, and the crisp, salt-tinged air like she’s stepped into another universe.
"It smells like coconuts and money," she murmurs.
I chuckle. "Welcome to paradise."
The drive to the resort is short—maybe ten minutes up the coast. The hotel and spa are perched on a gentle hill overlooking the bay, all gleaming white stucco, soft arches, and sleekwood accents. The landscaping is pristine, the kind that looks effortless but is anything but.
"It opens the week before Ian's wedding," I tell her as we step into the shaded lobby. "Ian wanted a soft opening before the wedding. VIPs, influencers, a few local dignitaries."
Charli hums thoughtfully, already pulling out a small notebook and her phone, snapping photos of everything—the arched doorways, the open-air dining terrace, the ocean view beyond the infinity pool. She scribbles notes as I lead her through the restaurant and kitchen, the ballroom, the beach ceremony setup, and the private villas.
She barely speaks, but her eyes are wide and bright, her hand moving nonstop. I watch her work, completely absorbed and in her element, and I realize something I haven’t let myself admit before: I don’t just like watching her enjoy this. I love being the one who brought her here.
Once we wrap the tour, I nod toward the concierge and the restaurant manager who have just joined us in the main lobby. The concierge, a petite woman with a sleek ponytail and a clipboard that looks like it contains state secrets, offers Charli a warm smile. "Ms. Whitmore, we’re thrilled to have you. The market is vibrant this time of day—you’ll get a great feel for what’s available."
Charli glances at me, eyebrows lifting, just shy of unsure. I give her a subtle nod, stepping back to let her lead. The restaurant manager, a tall man with a crisp linen shirt and the relaxed confidence of someone who knows every spice vendor by name, steps forward and shakes her hand.
"We’ll start at the fish market, then hit the produce stalls," he says. "And there’s a woman who makes the best jerk seasoning I’ve ever tasted. You’ll want to talk to her."
Charli glances between the concierge and the restaurant manager, then back at me, her expression caught somewherebetween excitement and wide-eyed panic. Her brows lift, lips parting slightly like she's about to ask if she really has to go. She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, clutching her notebook a little tighter against her chest as if it might shield her from the reality of being handed the reins. The corners of her mouth twitch up, but the smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes yet—it’s the look that says she’s flattered but also seriously questioning whether she’s about to be in over her head.
"I’m going to check in with the site team here," I tell her. "But I’ve set you up to tour the local markets and kitchens with the concierge and the restaurant manager. They’ll help you source local ingredients and get a feel for the culinary options."
Charli blinks up at me, surprised. "Alone?"
I smile, nudging her gently toward them. "You’ve got this. They know you’re the bride’s choice for catering, so they’ll roll out the red carpet."
She straightens, gives a little nod, and shoots me a look that’s half thrill, half nerves. Her lips curve into a smile, genuine and bright, the kind that makes it impossible not to smile back. "Okay then. See you later?" she asks, her voice light, eyes dancing with a flicker of anticipation.
"Yes, for dinner," I say with a warm smile, hoping to soften the nerves I can see flickering behind her eyes. "You can tell me all about what you find—every spice, every flavor, every wild ingredient that makes you light up. I want to hear it all."
