Page 139 of American Beauty

Chapter 36

Magnolia Steel

I wake,blinking against the soft light spilling through the curtains. For a moment, there’s nothing but warmth—the heavy weight of Alex’s arm slung across my waist, the press of his chest against my back, the deep, steady cadence of his breathing.

I stay still, because I know the second I move—the second I let the real world in—it’ll all come rushing back.

And it does. The anxiety settles in my gut like a stone, heavy and cold.

My business.

My clients.Client.

The life I’ve worked so hard to build in Charleston now seems a million miles and a lifetime away. All because of him.

Tyson-fucking-McRae.

A man who wouldn’t take no for an answer. A man who made me afraid in my own city, who pushed me to a point where the only place I feel safe now is tucked beneath the arm of this man lying next to me.

I hate the loss of control, the way fear has rooted itself in my bones like it has any right to be there. And most of all, I hate that Alex has to bear the weight of this too. No matter how manytimes he tells me I’m not a burden, some dark, bitter part of me still wonders if I am.

I shift, not wanting to wake him. But the second I move, his hold tightens. His hand slides from my waist to my belly, pulling me back against him like he can sense me slipping away even in sleep.

I close my eyes and let myself sink into the moment for just a second longer—into the safety of him. Because today, I have to figure out how to take back the pieces of my life without falling apart.

A low, sleepy rumble vibrates against my back.

“Morning, favorite.” His voice is gravel-rough, still thick with sleep. His arm curls tighter around me, pressing me closer to the hard wall of his chest.

I bite back a laugh, the sound escaping anyway. “Don’t squeeze me too hard. I gotta pee.”

He lets out a reluctant groan but loosens his grip. His hand lingers for a second longer than necessary, brushing along my ribs before he releases me.

I slip out of bed, the cool air whispering over my skin. Padding toward the bathroom, I sense his eyes on me—his gaze almost as tangible as his touch.

When I emerge a few minutes later, the room’s energy is different. Empty. Because I don’t find Alex waiting for me.

I find Alex in the kitchen, leaning against the counter, one crutch tucked under his arm, the hotel phone pressed to his ear. He’s shirtless, wearing only a pair of black athletic shorts that hang low on his hips, the sharp cut of his abs catching my attention.

His black hair is a little wild, like he’s been running his hand through it, unruly and beautiful without even trying. There’s something about the sight of him, casual and rumpled and real, that sends a soft ache through my chest.

Home.

That’s what he looks like to me now.

He catches sight of me—barefoot, hair twisted into a messy bun on top of my head, drowning in one of his T-shirts—and his entire face softens.

He covers the receiver with his hand and tips his chin toward me. “What do you want for breakfast?”

My stomach knots. Food sounds like the last thing I could handle. “Just coffee.”

His eyes narrow a little. Not angry—more like disapproving. Protective in that quiet, stubborn way that’s become second nature between us.

“You need food. No negotiation.”

I roll my eyes, but it’s useless. Alex Sebring doesn’t bluff. Not in taking care of me.

And not when it comes to breakfast.

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