Page 147 of American Beauty

Violet’s ready to settle down. Ready to build something real. But what about her best friend?

Magnolia wasn’t ready for that months ago. Hell, not even close. She’d made that much clear. She wanted freedom, not chains. And I respected her feelings. I still do.

She has said some things since that make me wonder where her head is now.

But being parted from her changed me. I realized there isn’t a single version of my future that doesn’t have her in it. I want her in my life. Always. Every single day.

I want to marry her even more now than I did when we were tangled up together in Australia. Putting a ring on her finger is the only way to quiet this fire in my chest—to let the whole damn world see that she’s mine. The need to call her my wife hums beneath my skin, constant and aching, like a second heartbeat I can’t shut off.

The smell of dinner pulls me back to the moment, and I let myself get lost in watching her move around the kitchen. If this is what married life looks like—Magnolia making dinner while I stare at her like a lovesick idiot—I want it.

All of it.

I’d be in there with her if my ankle wasn’t wrecked—stealing bites, wrapping my arms around her from behind, making a mess of whatever perfect plan she had for dinner. But for now, I settle for sitting here on this sofa watching, feeling the want for her deep in my bones.

Magnolia plates everything, sliding a big helping of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a buttery biscuit on one plate like she’s feeding an army.

She glances over her shoulder, catching me staring.

“What is it?” she asks, one brow lifted.

I grin, pushing up from the couch and hobbling my way over to the kitchen table.

“You’re good at this.”

“At what? Feeding you?” she says, laughing as she sets the plates down. “I know how much you love food.”

“I meant you’re good at making me want to never live without you,” I say, pulling out a chair and lowering myself into it with a groan. “At this rate, I’m gonna end up proposing over a plate of mashed potatoes.”

Magnolia freezes for half a second—long enough that my heart stutters—before she smiles, soft and a little shy, like she’s trying to hide it but can’t.

She didn’t perceive it as a joke. Or maybe she did—but part of her liked it anyway.

I tuck that thought away to ponder on later and tear into the Southern heaven she has served to me on a dinner plate. “Damn, woman… you can cook. Who taught you this kind of sorcery? Because no way it was Robin or Charlene.”

Magnolia shakes her head. “Definitely not. I learned after I moved away to college. I realized there were other ways of living. Better ways.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I taught myself how to cook by watching the Food Network. Took notes. Burned a lot of things. Ate a lot of pasta before I figured out how to season chicken.”

She says it like it’s just a thing she did, not the true accomplishment that it is.

I sit there for a second, staring at her—this woman who had no one to teach her how to love, how to nourish, how to nurture, and she still did it all. For herself.

Life handed her lemons, and she made limoncello with her bare damn hands.

That’s Magnolia for you.

I’m halfway through my second biscuit when Magnolia glances up, resting her chin in her hand.

“So, big guy… now that you’re on the mend, what’s next?”

I set my fork down and lean back in my chair, letting out a breath. God, I hate this question. Mostly because I don’t have an answer. Or I do—and I don’t like it.

“Taking over my dad’s position and working for Sebring Hotels has always been my family’s expectation, but, babe… it feels so hollow to me. Like I’m just taking up space because my last name’s on the building.”

Magnolia doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She just waits, her eyes steady on mine, like she’s giving me all the room I need to say the hard things.

“Even if I wanted it—which I don’t—it’s not a job for someone like me. My dyslexia makes the task of filling my father’s shoes completely out of reach. I’ve always been able to fake it when I had to, but not in that world. Contracts. Spreadsheets. Legal documents. Meetings where everyone expects you to catch the fine print in real time. It’s exhausting and humiliating. Half the time, I’m drowning and too damn proud to admit it.”

Magnolia’s expression softens, her hand reaching across the table, brushing the back of mine with her fingertips. “You don’t have to force yourself into a life you don’t want. But if it’s not Sebring Hotels, what is it? What’s your passion?”

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