Page 29 of Beloved Beauty

He clears his throat. “When’s the big day?”

“November 8th,” I say.

He lifts a brow. “Wow. That’s soon.”

I glance down at Magnolia. “Look at her, mate. Can you blame me for rushing it?”

His only reply is a grin.

“Magnolia needs time to settle in before next season kicks off. Rugby’s demanding—I’ve done this long enough to know how much it takes out of you. I just want her to have solid footing before the madness starts.”

Theo nods. “And how’s life here been for you, Magnolia?”

She smiles. “The move has been an adventure, but I love it here. It’s different but in a way that is right. I’ve gained a whole family I adore. Life is good.”

Theo nods. “This is going to make many people believe in love again.”

Magnolia laughs. “Then that’s the best thing we could ask for.”

Click. He captures the moment—her hand still in mine, her head tilted toward me, the look between us a thousand quiet truths deep.

And I’m glad. Because the story’s out now. The real one.

And it’s just getting started.

The quartet slips into something slow and we make our way to the dance floor. My hand settles low on her back, and she leans in. Her cheek brushes my shoulder, and her breath warms my collar.

My chest is quiet. No tightness. No ache. No weight dragging behind every thought.

It’s just us and the music and inner peace.

But peace doesn’t last forever. Not for me. Beyond the terrace lights and laughter, I see him.

Tyson-fucking-McRae. Half shadowed. Watching.

He’s still. Too still. But the second our eyes meet, he backs away, disappearing behind the trellis.

I pull Magnolia a little closer. Whatever this is with Tyson isn’t over. Not even close.

Chapter 10

Magnolia Steel

Fresh paint and sawdust cling to the air as I walk through the new lobby. It’s a construction zone right now—scattered ladders, drop cloths, half-installed light fixtures—but to me? It’s possibility.

I pause in the doorway, lift my phone, and snap a reference photo of the natural light spilling through the east-facing windows. It’s the exact glow I want to mimic in the guest suites—clean, calm, effortless.

“Can we strip the varnish on those beams?” I ask the contractor, gesturing up toward the overhead arch. “I want a rawer texture. Less gloss.”

He nods, making a note, and I move on, stylus in hand, tapping notes into the iPad Alex gifted me on the day I joined Sebring Hotels. Your vision deserves its own space, he’d said, pressing a kiss to my temple. And this is only the beginning.

It still stuns me sometimes how he believes in me. He never wavers, even when I second-guess myself. I told him I wanted to work, that I needed to keep designing, to stay rooted in something that was mine, and he agreed. But more than that, he cleared space for me to fly.

I duck into what will soon be a cozy library lounge off the main hall and I trail my fingers across a swatch of reclaimed wood. Cool to the touch, a bit uneven, a texture that makes a place feel lived in. I smile and jot a note: match tones to warm slate. Add linen contrast. Soft layering.

It’s good to do this again. To be needed and heard. To create something that starts in my head and ends in brick and light and fabric and paint.

Not so long ago, I wasn’t sure I’d ever have this again. The career. The trust. The confidence. Now? I’m better than back. I’m building. And this time, it’s on a foundation that won’t crack under pressure.

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