Page 112 of American Beauty

His thumb brushes over my lips. “You’re mine.”

The words settle deep, reverberating through every inch of me.

I don’t respond. I don’t need to. Because we both already know it’s true.

Chapter 30

Alex Sebring

Laughter risesover the clink of ice and the thrum of bass-heavy music. Whiskey and beer hang in the air, the lighting low and moody. Normally, I’d love to come and relax, a drink in hand, at a place like this. But tonight, I have bigger things on my mind.

It should be the perfect setting for a casual night out, but there’s nothing casual about this. Because tonight, I’m meeting Violet. And according to Magnolia, she isn’t just her best friend—she’s her other half, her ride-or-die, the person who knows everything about her, including how broken her heart was while we were apart.

This woman isn’t just important. She’s critical. And if she doesn’t like me? Well, that’s a problem.

Magnolia’s fingers tighten around mine. “You’re quiet. Are you good?”

Nerves buzz under my skin, but I shut it down, the way I used to before stepping onto the rugby pitch. “All good.”

Magnolia lifts a brow, unconvinced. “You sure? You’re doing that thing where you get all broody and silent.”

I smirk. “I’m always broody and silent.”

She steps in closer, tipping her head up to meet my eyes. “Listen, be yourself, okay?”

“That’s vague, lovie.”

“Okay, let me be clearer—be yourself, but also maybe brace yourself.”

“Very reassuring.”

She winks. “Glad to help.”

Magnolia tugs me through the crowd, weaving past groups of people pressed around high-top tables, and past the bar where a bartender is pouring a row of tequila shots for a group of friends already swaying to the music.

The further we move into the space, the more my pulse picks up.

It’s ridiculous.I’mridiculous. I’ve played in stadiums filled with thousands of roaring fans, faced down by some of the toughest players in the world. But this meeting? I’m on edge.

This matters. Because, unlike Robin and Charlene, Violet gives a damn about Magnolia.

She was the one checking in on her while she was in Sydney. And she’s the one Magnolia was calling, texting, relying on when I wasn’t there.

Her approval counts. It’s essential.

The usual Friday night chaos fills the bar, and we scan for an open table.

“There.” She points toward a high-top table near the back. It’s one of the few unclaimed ones, tucked away from the noisiest part of the bar.

“Good find.”

A bit of quiet is a good thing—especially considering what’s about to happen.

I pull out a stool for her before settling into the one beside her.

Magnolia flags down a passing server. “Want a drink before the inquiry begins?”

“Hell yeah.”

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