Page 53 of American Beauty

My client fills the doorway—no joke. Broad shoulders that seem to stretch wider than the frame itself, a towering presence with a muscular build that speaks of years of rigorous training. Everything about him exudes power, from the way he carries himself to the confident smirk playing at his lips. His tailored charcoal suit molds to his form with perfection, the crisp white shirt beneath hinting at wealth that doesn’t need to be flaunted.

He’s not just large. He’s commanding.

I step forward, smoothing my expression into something polished and professional, and extend my hand. “Hello, I’m Magnolia Steel. You must be Mr. McRae.”

His handshake is firm, his palm warm against mine. “Tyson,” he says, his deep voice laced with an unmistakable Australian accent.

That accent. It slams into me with the force of a wave, and for a moment, the world around me blurs.

My heart stutters in my chest, but I school my expression, refusing to let anything show. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

He nods, his sharp gaze sweeping across the office with a quick assessment. “Nice place. New?”

“Very new.”

His gaze sweeps over the room, a slow smirk tugging at his lips. “Classy and sophisticated. Just what I expected.”

“Chic is my style.”

I gesture toward the sleek leather chair across from me. “Please, have a seat.”

As he settles in, I take a breath and launch into my spiel. “I’d love to hear more about your vision for the project. What are you looking to achieve with the space?”

He’s filled with easy confidence as he launches into his plans—the boutique hotel, the concept, the luxury touches he wants to incorporate. He talks a good game, throwing around words likeexclusive and bespoke, but there’s something about the way he speaks that comes off as calculated.

That voice—hisvoice—keeps replaying in my head like a terrible song I can’t shake. The cadence, the confidence, the arrogance. And his face.

And then it hits me.

Tyson McRae.

Not just any Tyson McRae.ThatTyson McRae.

The one from Sydney who sent Alex over the edge that night at the wedding. The one always provoking him. The one who hates him so much that he intentionally hurt him, ending his career.

How did I not recognize him sooner?

In my defense, I only caught a glimpse of him that night. It was dark, and my focus wasn’t on Tyson. It was on Alex—on holding him back, on stopping him from making a mistake he couldn’t undo.

Now he’s sitting across from me, larger than life, taking up space in more ways than one.

I force my lips into what I hope is a smile, but inside, my mind is spinning.

What the hell is he doing here?

Tyson leans back in the chair, stretching in a way that feels deliberate—like he’s casually putting all that broad-shouldered, muscled-up physique on display for me. “I want it redone top to bottom. And I’d like you to be the one to handle it.”

Suspicion prickles at the edges of my thoughts.

Charleston is brimming with seasoned designers who’ve spent years establishing themselves. Designers with bigger portfolios, stronger connections, and an entire team at their disposal. If money’s no object for a man like Tyson McRae—and I know it isn’t—why would he come to me?

There’s only one answer.

My fingers tighten around the pen I’ve been twirling, the motion a poor attempt at grounding myself. “That sounds like an exciting project. But I have to ask—why me? There are a lot of established firms in Charleston that specialize in boutique spaces.”

His lips curve, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve done my research, and I know talent when I see it. Your designs are fresh and uncomplicated. I’m not interested in a stale, cookie-cutter hotel design. I want something unique… with soul.”

I nod, feigning calmness. “I appreciate that. It’s always my goal to create something personal and meaningful for my clients.”

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