18. Magnolia Steel
Chapter 18
Magnolia Steel
Charleston’s evening air clings to my skin as I step onto the sidewalk, gliding my hands down the sleek lines of my black dress. Professional, yet elegant. A calculated choice. Tonight is about business—nothing more, nothing less. I remind myself of that with every click of my heels against the sidewalk leading to the front of the restaurant.
Inside, the low hum of conversation and the clinking of glasses weave together with the soft strains of jazz. The lighting is dim, golden, casting a warm glow over the rich mahogany furniture and deep velvet booths. It’s the kind of place where people whisper promises and share secrets over wine priced like mortgage payments.
A place of Tyson McRae’s choosing.
And there he is.
Tyson McRae is dressed in a tailored navy suit, crisp and sharp, his broad shoulders cutting an imposing figure. His signature smirk plays on his lips the moment his eyes find mine, and he strides forward with the ease of a man who’s never known rejection.
“Miss Steel.” He leans in and presses a kiss to my cheek.
Bold move.
I don’t like it.
“Mr. McRae.”
The scent of his expensive cologne surrounds me—something dark and spicy. My spine stiffens at the uninvited display of intimacy, but I force a polite smile, brushing it off as though I’m unbothered.
Like it doesn’t make my skin crawl.
I step back, creating a space between us, but his grin only deepens, as if he enjoys the game already in motion.
We’re seated at a private table tucked away in a secluded corner, candlelight flickering between us. Very romantic. Not the type of setting for talking business.
Tyson McRae settles into the chair across from me, his eyes lingering on me for too long.
What is he playing at?
The setting makes me hyper-aware of him—the way he leans in, the deliberate slowness of his movements, the weight of his gaze like he’s already peeling back my clothes. I square my shoulders and reach for the menu, putting it up as a shield between us.
I’m here for business. And that’s all.
But the intimacy of the atmosphere says otherwise, like this meeting isn’t about interior design and hotel renovations. There’s an undercurrent of something else—something personal. And that’s dangerous.
I need this deal. I have no choice but to entertain it, even if it feels like playing with fire.
Tyson's eyes flick to mine over the top of his menu and I force another smile, ignoring the unease twisting in my stomach. Deep down, I know nothing about tonight is going to be business as usual if he has anything to say about it.
Tyson orders a bottle of red. Expensive. Very expensive . I wouldn’t have known that six months ago, but one becomes acquainted with the finer things in life when you date a billionaire for three months.
“Only the best for this beautiful woman,” he tells the server, handing him the wine list.
I press my lips together, swallowing the irritation rising in my throat. Flashing his wealth, his dominance—it’s his way of setting the tone. But I won’t let him steer this evening off course.
“I appreciate the gesture, but I’m fine with water.”
Tyson waves a dismissive hand. “Nonsense. You’ll love this one.”
His gaze lingers, dark and assessing. “I love a woman who knows what she wants, but tonight, let me spoil you.”
Behind my tight smile, frustration simmers, but I bury it deep. “I’d prefer to talk specifics about the hotel.”
I reach into my bag for my notepad, flipping it open to my prepared list of questions.
He leans back in his chair, watching me. Amused. “Always straight to business with you, huh?”
“That’s what this dinner is about––business.”
He shakes his head, a low chuckle escaping him. “No wonder your work is so bold. Unforgettable… just like you.”
My spine stiffens.
Compliments from clients aren’t unusual, but the way he says it—like it’s not my designs he’s talking about—makes unease creep under my skin.
I meet his gaze head-on, offering a polite smile. “Thank you. I take a lot of pride in what I do.”
“Pride. Focus. Dedication. You leave little room for distraction.”
I keep my grip firm on the pen in my hand. Stay cautious, Magnolia.
Alex’s warning echoes in my head—his gritted words about Tyson’s reputation, his games. He doesn’t play fair. He’ll come at you from every angle. I know that much.
My guts say I should run far and fast from Tyson McRae, but I need this job.
He tilts his head, watching me with something too sharp, too interested. “Tell me, Miss Steel… are you always this serious? Or are you just playing hard to get?”
Any time a man says the words playing hard to get, I see one thing.
Red. Fucking. Flag.
I don’t flinch, but I feel it—alarm bells ringing loud in my mind.
I offer a cool smile and close my notebook. “My work is important to me, Mr. McRae. If that’s a problem, let me know now.”
His eyes gleam with something that resembles a challenge. “Not a problem at all.”
I take a steady breath, reminding myself why I’m here. Stay focused. Stay professional. Stay in control. Even if Tyson McRae seems determined to blur those lines by slipping in flirtatious remarks between sips of wine and bites of steak.
His confidence is suffocating.
“Tell me, Miss Steel—do you always keep people at arm’s length, or am I just special?”
I offer a polite smile, refusing to engage with his game. “I keep things professional with clients.”
“ Do you now? ”
If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was taking a jab at me—implying that I didn’t keep things professional with Alex. But that makes no sense. Tyson doesn’t know Alex was ever my client. Or at least he shouldn’t know.
Celeste also wasn’t supposed to know.
Still, there’s something in the way he looks at me that says we both know better than that.
He leans in, his cologne wrapping around me like a subtle trap. “There’s more to life than business. What do you do for fun?”
“I design. It’s what I love, so it doesn’t feel like work. I’m lucky I’ve been able to make a career out of my passion.”
He watches me for a beat, his lips curling at the edges. “Passion. I like that.”
I sip the wine he insisted I have, buying a moment to steady myself. “Speaking of passion, let’s talk about yours—your vision for the hotel.”
He chuckles. “We’ll get around to that.”
Tyson McRae is a man used to getting what he wants—whether it’s business or pleasure. And right now, he’s making it very clear which one interests him more.
“What about your personal life? Any room in that curated schedule for a little fun?”
I glance down at my plate, appetite long gone. “My business takes up most of my time these days.”
“That’s a shame. You should let yourself enjoy life a little.”
“I enjoy life.”
He hums, swirling his wine again. “You might enjoy letting someone else take the reins.”
Take the reins? Sounds like there’s a whole dump truck’s worth of meaning buried under those words.
God, I don’t know what he’s trying to say.
Am I dealing with another Andrew Tate wannabe, looking for a woman to command like some trophy on a leash?
Maybe he means it sexually—some dominance kink wrapped in polite conversation.
Or maybe he’s just a run-of-the-mill control freak who needs everything and everyone dancing to the beat of his drum.
Whatever it is, it’s a no from me. A hard, resounding no.
This is a precarious situation I’ve gotten myself into. I’m trapped between wanting to shut him down and needing to keep him interested enough to sign the contract.
The expensive food, the luxurious setting, the way he watches me like I’m some prize to be won––I’m not about to play his game.
“How are you holding up now that you’ve had a little time to absorb the news?”
I blink, my spine straightening. “What news?”
“Come on, Miss Steel. Don’t make me spell it out.”
I shrug, pretending to not know what he’s referring to.
He leans in, eyes glinting with something dark and knowing. “Sebring’s engagement.”
The air in my lungs turns to lead, and I grip my wine glass tighter to hide the way my fingers tremble. “I told you. I’m happy for him.”
Tyson studies me for a beat too long, his smirk deepening. “Right.”
The fucker needs to get off my case about Alex. “In case you missed it, I’m the one who left Alex. Not the other way around.”
Not a lie. But also not the whole truth.
There’s a new crack forming in my armor, and I can’t let him see it. “I guess he found what he was looking for.”
“A blonde.” He hums in amusement, sitting back in his chair with the air of someone who knows what he’s doing. “Sebring always had a thing for fair ladies.”
Alex never told me that was his preference, but I suppose there could be some truth to it. Celeste is a blonde.
“I’m surprised he dated someone like you.”
The words land like a slap, hot and stinging. Someone like you ––as though I’m some kind of cautionary tale. Like I’m less. Disposable.
I grit my teeth, swallowing the insult like a mouthful of broken glass. “Guess I was the exception for a brief moment in time.”
Tyson McRae's eyes never leave mine. “What a shame he couldn’t see what he had right in front of him.”
“Alex and I wanted different things. It would never work between us.”
The weight of my lies presses against my ribs, suffocating and inescapable, but I keep my composure. I have to. Tyson McRae is circling like a shark, and the last thing I need is for him to see blood in the water.
“Just so you know… I prefer brunettes.”
I take another sip of wine, Tyson refilling my glass without a word, the liquid mercy I’m too worn down to refuse.
His eyes dance with amusement, observing me. “Drink up, Miss Steel. You’re too tense.”
I glance down at the half-empty glass, my head already feeling lighter than it should. Is he pushing the wine because he wants to loosen me up? Or because he hopes to get me into bed?
Either way, I will keep my wits about me. Because Tyson McRae does nothing without an agenda. And right now, I’m pretty damn sure I’m at the center of his plan.
Dinner ends with a lingering tension, one I can’t quite shake as I push my chair back and reach for my purse. He stands first, ever the gentleman, offering his hand to help me up.
Outside, the night air is thick and warm, wrapping around me like a heavy blanket. Tyson McRae walks beside me, his hand resting at the small of my back as we step onto the sidewalk. The intimate touch sends a ripple of unease through me, but I don’t pull away. Not yet.
“Please allow me to walk you to your car.”
“Thank you, but I didn’t drive tonight. Knew we’d be having drinks.”
Tyson stops, brows lifting in mild surprise before his lips curve into that same confident smile he’s been wearing all night. “I’m happy to give you a ride home.”
I hold up my phone, flashing the screen. “Already requested an Uber. Two minutes away.”
His gaze flickers to the phone before returning to me, amusement dancing in his eyes. “Efficient as always.”
The soft glow of the streetlights casts long shadows between us. I sense him watching me. And then he steps closer—too close—his voice dropping to something silkier, more intimate.
“You’re beautiful tonight,” he says, his eyes trailing over my face.
I shift my weight, instinct screaming at me to put more space between us.
“Thank you.” Now is the perfect time for me to make things clear. “But just so there’s no confusion… this is a business relationship. I’m not looking for anything. Building my business is my entire focus, and I don’t have the time for anything else.”
His grin doesn’t falter. If anything, it deepens. Like he expected my rejection. Like he enjoys the challenge.
“I’m a very patient man, Magnolia.”
Not Miss Steel, but Magnolia. Too intimate. Too presumptuous. He’s trying to step into a space that isn’t his—and he won’t find a welcome waiting for him.
Before I can respond, headlights sweep across the sidewalk, and I spot my Uber pulling up to the curb. Relief floods me like a tidal wave, and I take another step back.
I lift a hand toward the approaching car. “That’s my ride.”
“Allow me.” He steps forward, pulling the car door open for me.
“Thank you.” I slide into the back seat. “Goodnight, Mr. McRae.”
“Call me Ty.”
His hand lingers on the doorframe, waiting.
“Goodnight, Ty.”
I sink into the back seat as he closes the door. He steps back, watching the car pull away.
I glance back at him, my pulse still racing. He stands beneath the glow of the streetlights, hands in his pockets, that damn smirk still playing on his lips—like he’s already won.