Page 68 of American Beauty

“I can take not being the best, but here’s the thing. He was born into privilege and money. Had the best coaches. The right teams. Everything I had to fight tooth and nail for was handed to him on a silver platter.”

There’s fire behind his frustration, but beneath it, there’s something else. Something deeper.

Ty lets out a bitter laugh. “But you wouldn’t understand that.”

My brows knit. “What does that mean?”

He glances at me, his gaze assessing. “You have no idea what it’s like to come from nothing.”

I let out a short, humorless laugh. “You think you know me?”

He doesn’t answer, just keeps driving, waiting for me to prove him wrong. So I do.

“My parents didn’t give a damn about me. I raised myself. I didn’t come from nothing—I came from less than nothing. You aren’t the only one who worked their ass off for every single thing they have. So don’t tell me I don’t understand.”

Silence swallows the space between us as Ty’s hands flex on the wheel. I sense him processing, recalibrating.

“You and I have far more in common than you and Alex ever did. I’m sorry that I assumed otherwise.”

For the first time, I might understand Tyson McRae a little.

The gallery is a world of its own—high ceilings, soft classical music floating through the air, and the low hum of cultured conversation. The scent of polished wood and expensive wine lingers, wrapping the space in quiet sophistication.

Ty walks beside me, hands in his pockets, scanning the room with a calculating interest. We weave through the crowd, stopping in front of the first piece that catches our attention.

It’s bold—shadows and sharp edges, a story trapped beneath layers of paint. I tilt my head, studying it.

“I like the movement in this one. I think it’s my favorite piece.”

“The Unseen Queen.” Ty leans in, tilting his head. “You can’t see her face, but you can tell she’s fierce. That’s real power. Not needing to be perfect to own the whole damn room.”

I glance at him beside me, surprised to hear him say that. He understands more about art than I expected. “Exactly.”

“Should I buy it?”

“I don’t think you have a choice. It would be perfect surrounded by the colors and fabrics I’ve chosen for the hotel.”

We move through the gallery, lingering on the same pieces, drawn to the same styles. It’s an odd realization—our tastes align.

“You have a great eye for this.”

“That’s high praise coming from you.”

He listens as I explain what I love about certain pieces and the artist’s use of light. His attention doesn’t waver, not even for a second. It’s unnerving, the way he seems to listen with his whole body, like every word I say matters.

He leans in, a half-smile playing at his mouth. “You’re even more beautiful when you talk about what sets your soul on fire.”

The compliment is unexpected. I try to brush it off with a small shake of my head, but my pulse betrays me, quickening.

We aren’t moving on from what happened in that hotel room. Not really. It’s still there between us, crackling under the surface, daring one of us to be reckless enough to reach for it again. This—whatever this is—is not business. It’s a slowflirtation with disaster, and we’re both playing along like we don’t know better.

I give him a look that’s intended to be stern, but I think it comes off more like playful. “You’re terrible at keeping things professional.”

“You’re not exactly discouraging me, sweetheart.” He smirks, not even pretending to apologize. “If you really wanted me to stop, you wouldn’t be smiling right now.”

He’s right, and worse? He knows he’s right.

We linger a moment longer at the last canvas, both of us quieter now, something unspoken hanging between us.

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