But what if I’m reading too much into it?
He acts like he’s been burned before. So have I. What if this crashes and burns and I’m left standing in the ash again?
But what if it doesn’t?
I wrap my arms around myself and close my eyes. What do I want?
I want to feel safe. Wanted. Chosen. And when I’m with him, I get this stupid, fluttery hope that maybe that’s possible.
When I finally shut the water off, I’m wrung out—physically, emotionally, all of it. I towel off, slip into one of the soft hotel robes, and step out of the bathroom to find Sawyer still at the little desk, tapping away at his phone. His brows are knit in concentration, but the second he sees me, his expression softens.
“All yours,” I mumble, toweling off my hair.
“Thanks,” he says, standing and stretching, his shirt riding up just enough to distract me for a half-second too long. “I’ll be quick.”
He brushes a kiss to my cheek as he passes, his hand briefly resting on my waist before he disappears into the bathroom.
I crawl onto the bed and flop face-first into the pillows. The sheets are cool and crisp, the mattress cloud-soft, and I didn’t realize just how tired I am until now. My muscles ache in that good, used way—from swimming, laughing, living.
But my brain? Still spinning.
This could go wrong in a hundred ways. He could wake up tomorrow, realize this is messy, and regret every second and then kick me to the curb, literally and figuratively. I could fall for him only to discover he’s not ready. Or worse—heisready, and I’m not.
But it could also go right. It could be something worth the risk.
My eyes drift closed, his voice echoing in my memory. "I’m not letting you go. Not now, not ever." And somehow, that terrifies me more than anything.
I fall asleep before he even gets out of the shower, still tangled in all the ways this could break me—or save me.
Chapter 15
Sawyer
By the time I step out of the shower, towel slung low on my hips, the lights in the room are dim and quiet, and Charli’s already fast asleep.
She’s curled on her side, her hair a halo against the pillow, one hand tucked beneath her cheek, the other sprawled toward where I should have already been. I stand there for a long beat, just watching her, towel forgotten, my chest tightening with something I don’t want to name.
I could go back to my own room. Slip out quietly. Pretend I never asked to stay.
But I don’t want to.
Instead, I grab my boxers and slip into them, then ease down onto the mattress beside her. She shifts in her sleep, unconsciously gravitating toward the heat of me, her forehead brushing against my bicep as she exhales a soft sigh.
I pull the covers over both of us, slide an arm beneath her, and gently wrap the other around her waist. Her body melts into mine like she belongs there. Like she’s always belonged there.
It’s not the heat or the lust or even the high of this island escape—it’s the calm.
She grounds me.
I press a kiss to her temple and close my eyes. And for the first time in what feels like years, I fall asleep with something that feels a lot like peace.
The next morning, we’re back on the jet.
Charli’s settled across from me, curled up in one of the wide leather seats, barefoot with her knees tucked under her, hair piled in a messy bun, and a mimosa clutched between both hands like it’s a precious artifact. She’s grinning at something out the window—probably the ocean or clouds or the way the sun looks when it spills over the wings.
“You know,” I say, watching her with more amusement than I’ll ever admit, “you’re allowed to be a little less excited about flying in a private jet. It’s not like it’s your first time anymore.”
She shrugs, grinning. “It’s not about the jet. It’s about the view. And the drinks. And the zero legroom issues. And the fact that someone brought me a croissant without me having to ask.”
