Page 117 of American Beauty

“Do I have your stamp of approval?”

She chews on the stir stick, like a cat playing with her food. “For now.”

She eases off the interrogation—a little.

We settle into something that resembles normal conversation, but there’s an undercurrent to it. A constant evaluation. She’s still watching me, still testing me, even if it’s not obvious.

Magnolia nudges her knee against mine under the table. “You holding up okay?”

She has no idea the things I’ve endured. “I’ve survived worse.”

“You’re a tough one. I’ll give you that. And speaking of being tough––” Violet twirls her finger, gesturing to my face. “How’s the other guy look?”

Magnolia tenses beside me.

No hesitation. “He looks like someone who shouldn’t have fucked with Magnolia.”

“You protected my girl. I like that.” Violet hums, nodding. “Much respect.”

I expected pushback—a lecture about how violence solves nothing or how I’m a walking red flag for swinging first and thinking second.

No reprimand. No judgment.

Only respect.

Violet waves a hand, casual but deliberate. “For the record, I like you. You’re good for her.”

Winning Violet over feels bigger than any game or championship I’ve ever won.

“Don’t fuck this up, Sebring.”

“I won’t. Because Magnolia’s the biggest win of my life. No offense to my rugby career.”

Violet lifts her glass, holding it upwards, and I tap my drink against hers. “Cheers.”

And just like that, I’m in with her.

Violet made me work for it, but I passed. And for the first time tonight, my shoulders relax, and I breathe a little easier.

Chapter 31

Magnolia Steel

The humof the jet engine fades into a whisper as we taxi toward the private hangar in Dallas. Alex’s hand is resting on my thigh, his thumb tracing circles over my leg. He doesn’t appear nervous on the outside, but I know him. I see the way his jaw flexes, like he’s bracing for something.

We’ve made this trip like a team, the two of us showing up together.

After everything we’ve gone through, it still amazes me how easily we’ve fallen into being us again. Like the ache never happened, like we never unraveled, like our love remembered how to––just be.

The penthouse is what I expected—sleek, masculine, understated luxury––with warm wood, rich leather, tall windows that let the Dallas skyline pour in like liquid gold. It smells like eucalyptus and old money.

The bedroom is massive—warm, elegant, and designed to impress.

“I see you went all out,” I say, turning in a slow circle.

He shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Three months is a long time. I wanted it to feel comfortable… so you’d want to come back. Spend time with me.”

I pause, tilting my head.Odd thing to say.

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