Page 118 of American Beauty

“You worry I won’t?”

“A little.” His voice is careful, almost too casual. “Travel can be exhausting. You’ve got the business consuming a lot of your time. I wanted to make it easy for you to stay. To work here. To want to be here.”

I go to him, putting my arm around his shoulders. “I’m going to be here every minute I can. You got it?”

He nods, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to soften the tension. “Promise?”

I go up on my tiptoes and press a kiss to his mouth. “Promise.”

We spend the afternoon walking around the city. Nothing fancy––a museum, a bookstore, a quiet bench at the edge of Klyde Warren Park where we split a slice of caramel cake we didn’t need but definitely wanted.

By early evening, I see it—the subtle shift in his gait. The quiet hitch in his breath when he thinks I’m not paying attention. The way he favors his good ankle.

He hasn’t said anything, but I suspect he injured it again when he fought with Tyson.

“Are you okay?” I slow down beside him as we cross the street. “You’re limping.”

He gives me that signature half-smile that’s pure trouble. “I’m fine.”

“Alex, you’re not.”

He stops on the sidewalk and turns to face me. “Listen, babe. I’m about to be in a boot for weeks. I’ve got days ahead of me stuck in bed with an ankle that’ll hate me. The pain is going to be worse than last time and believe me when I tell you it was no walk in the park. So let me have this. Let me have you and Dallas tonight.”

“Okay.”

“And besides––” He leans closer, voice dropping low enough to make me shiver. “I don’t mind being stuck in bed… if you’re in it with me.”

I swat his chest, laughing as he catches my wrist mid-air and brings it to his lips, brushing a kiss over the inside. His eyes don’t leave mine.

God, I love him.

We walk a little slower. His limp worsens, but he doesn’t complain. He lets me fuss over him and carry the small bag from the bookstore. He chooses to take the longer route back to the hotel because the light hitting the buildings is beautiful and he wants more time with me before the sun sets.

Oh, how this man loves sunrises and sunsets.

And right now—bathed in gold, his hand wrapped around mine, that crooked smile tugging at the corner of his mouth—I understand why. There’s something sacred in the in-between. The hush before the night. The knowing that something is ending, but something else is about to begin.

The restaurant is special,the kind of place you hear whispers about––soft lighting and candlelit corners, dark wood floors that hush beneath your heels, a wine list so extensive it reads like a novel written in vintage years and sommelier secrets.

We’re only a few sips into the wine when Alex leans back in his chair, swirling the deep red. His smile is slow, a hint of smug beneath the softness.

“How many strings did you have to pull to get us in here tonight?”

He nods, taking a slow sip. “Called in a few favors. Threatened to cry. Whatever it took.”

I laugh, adjusting the strap of my dress. “You’re ridiculous.”

His eyes scan me like he’s memorizing every detail. “I wanted our only night in Dallas to be special.”

“It is.”

He’s wearing a slate-blue button-down, the top few buttons undone enough to tease the ink that creeps along his collarbone—bold lines and curves that disappear beneath the fabric like a secret only I know. A navy sport coat hugs his shoulders, tailored but effortless. His hair’s still damp from the shower, pushed back in that way that says he tried… but not too hard. Because he doesn’t have to. He’s all quiet confidence and devastating calm, and somehow, that wrecks me more than anything else.

To anyone watching us, we look like we’ve had it easy. Like we belong here—two polished people sitting at a corner table, wine glasses in hand, laughing like the world never tried to break us.

But that’s the illusion.

Getting here wasn’t easy. It was raw and brutal. It was sleepless nights, unanswered messages, and heartbreak that settled deep in our bones.

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