Page 14 of Christmas With A Billionaire

Autumn

The morning light streamed through my bedroom windows, and I stirred, feeling the solid warmth of Tyson’s chest against my back. His arm draped heavily over my waist, our legs tangled beneath the covers. For a moment, I kept my eyes closed, savoring the familiar comfort of waking up beside him.

We’d done this countless times over the years - crashed at each other’s places after late nights working or studying. But something felt different this morning. Maybe it was the way his muscles flexed against me as he breathed or how his palm pressed flat against my stomach, fingers splayed possessively even in sleep.

I turned carefully in his arms, studying his face in the soft light. His thick brows relaxed in sleep, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The precise line of his jaw carried a shadow of stubble, and his full lips parted slightly as he breathed. Even asleep, he radiated power - all six-foot-five of him barely contained by my queen-sized bed.

My eyes traced the sculpted planes of his bare chest, remembering how he’d pulled off his shirt before climbing in beside me last night. The sight of his muscular torso had stopped my breath, but exhaustion had pulled me under before I could really appreciate it. Now, I wanted to run my fingers over the ridges of his abs, to trace the tattoo that curved around his ribs - our zodiac sign in artistic script.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, we just looked at each other, neither moving.

“Morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning.” I was acutely aware of how close we were, how his hand still rested on my hip.

His phone buzzed again. With a groan, he reached for it, reading the message over my shoulder. “The magazine crew is arriving at nine.”

Reality crashed back. Today was our feature interview for Art & Design Magazine - the first significant press coverage of the Benefield Project. I glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty.

“I need to get ready.” I started to move, but his arm tightened around me.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled into my hair.

“Since when does Tyson Benefield, king of punctuality, want to sleep in?”

“Since my bed is more comfortable than usual.”

“This is my bed.”

“Exactly.” He pulled me closer, and I momentarily let myself sink back into his warmth.

When I finally extracted myself and headed for the shower, my skin still tingled where he’d touched me. I turned the water extra cold, trying to clear my head. Today needed to be about the project, not about how good Tyson looked sleeping in my bed or how right waking up in his arms felt.

By the time I emerged, he’d already left - probably to change at his penthouse before the interview. A text waited on my phone:“Your car is still at the Benefield Building. I’ll be back to pick you up.”

I texted back:“There’s no time. I’m taking an Uber.”

“I’m bringing breakfast. Don’t stop for coffee.”

Two hours later, I walked into the Benefield Building’s lobby wearing my favorite navy pencil dress, my hair falling in careful waves. Tyson stood talking with a small group, commanding attention in a perfectly tailored navy suit emphasizing his broad shoulders. He’d trimmed his beard, and his smile flashed brightly against his dark skin as he gestured animatedly about something.

He spotted me immediately, breaking off mid-sentence to stride over. “Perfect timing. Come meet everyone.”

The magazine crew consisted of a writer, photographer, and Victoria Maples - the magazine’s executive editor, who’d flown in specifically for this piece. Victoria was stunning in a red power suit, her sleek black hair cut in a sharp bob.

“Ms. Williams,” she shook my hand. “I’ve followed your work at the Art Institute. Your last exhibition on emerging South Side artists was brilliant.”

“Thank you. Please, call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” her smile warmed. “Tyson was just telling us about your vision for the community spaces. But first, we’d love photos of you both in the main gallery.”

The photographer, Edward, directed us through various poses—examining blueprints, discussing artwork placement, and standing before the restored windows. Victoria watched with keen interest.

“The chemistry between you is incredible,” she said during a break. “How long have you known each other?”

“Twenty years,” Tyson answered, his hand resting casually on my lower back. “We grew up together on the South Side.”

“And now you’re revolutionizing the Chicago art scene together,” Victoria’s eyes sparkled. “It’s like a fairy tale.”

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