Page 96 of Steel Beauty

I grin, glancing her way. “I do, but this one’s different. Tonight’s the biggest surprise yet.”

We turn off the main road and on to a long, tree-lined driveway that winds gracefully toward a house nestled into the landscape, its lights glowing softly in the distance. Charleston’s gaze shifts, taking in every detail, her curiosity sparking like a live wire. “Where have you brought me?”

I glance at her, the corner of my mouth tugging into a grin I can’t quite hide. “Be patient. You’ll find out soon enough.”

She narrows her eyes, a teasing glint mixed with curiosity. “Let me guess—it’s an Airbnb. You rented this place for a private weekend getaway.”

Her hand slides over my leg, and her eyes dance with mischief. “A weekend away from the world. Just the two of us. I’m very into that.”

I smirk, keeping my cards close. “Good to know.”

I steer the G-Wagon into the garage and cut the engine, the soft hum fading into silence. As I look over at her, I catch the spark of curiosity lighting up her face. She glances around, clearly intrigued.

“This is a great surprise.”

We step out of the car, the air fresh and slightly cool. As we make our way inside, the space wraps around me like a warm embrace. Stepping into the kitchen, a sense of ease settles over me.

This isn’t just a house. It’s my home.

Charleston’s eyes brighten as she looks around, her gaze sweeping over the room. “This place is stunning.”

“Go on. Explore.”

Charleston glances around the kitchen, running her fingers along the cool marble countertops. “I’m going to cook for you this weekend. Something Southern, of course. I bet you’ve never had cooking like mine before.”

I lean casually against the counter. “Look forward to it. I’m sure it’ll be incredible.” I hold back from mentioning that Laurelyn has cooked Southern food for me more times than I can count. There’s no way I’m bursting her bubble.

She wanders from the kitchen into the living room. Her gaze lands on a framed photo resting on the mantel, and she picks it up, her expression softening as she studies it. “This is you and your family?” she asks, staring at the photo.

“Beautiful chaos,” I say, waiting for her to put the pieces together.

Her gaze sweeps the room again, taking in the small, personal touches scattered throughout and the warmth that speaks of a lived-in home. Slowly, she turns back to me, her eyes widening slightly as realization dawns.

Her laugh comes soft, almost disbelieving. “This isyourhouse?”

I nod, the truth lifting even as I brace for her reaction. “This is home.”

“Julius Caesar!” She scans the space again, her laughter growing as she shakes her head. “You’re filthy stinking rich.”

I step closer, cradling her face gently in my hands, my eyes locking with hers. “My name’s not Julius Caesar.”

Her gaze sharpens, searching mine. For a moment, everything else fades, the world narrowing to the two of us. “Are we really doing this?”

I nod, the gravity of my decision settling firmly in my chest. “I want you to know all of me. Not just the parts I’ve let you see.”

Her lips part slightly, and I catch the faintest tremble in her breath. Her eyes, usually so steady, are filled with uncertainty, betraying a vulnerability I’ve never seen in her before. It twists something deep inside me, the urge to reassure her nearly overwhelming.

“But only if you’re ready,” I add, hoping to ease the fear I can see rising in her.

Her breath catches, and hesitation crosses her face, something raw and unguarded. “I’m scared.” The words are so quiet they barely reach me.

My thumb brushes softly against her cheek. “So am I.”

The honesty of my confession is heavier than I expected.

The silence stretches, every second pulling tighter until she exhales. “I want to know everything—the good, the bad, all of it.”

Her words hit me harder than she realizes. She wants all of me, but a small voice in the back of my mind wonders if she truly knows what she’s asking for. There’s so much I’ve kept hidden—the anxiety that grips me without warning, the depression that drags me down when I least expect it, the constant frustration of living with dyslexia in a world that doesn’t slow down for it. And the anger—always there, simmering beneath the surface, fueled by the man who stole my career and the dreams I’d built my life around.

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