19. Magnolia Steel
Chapter 19
Magnolia Steel
The desk chair creaks as I shift, my fingers gliding over the trackpad, scrolling through fabric samples. Sunlight filters through the sheer curtains, illuminating the room’s worn elegance—the faded wallpaper, the antique moldings, the heavy wooden furniture that’s seen better days. The hotel is old, but in the best way––rich with history and potential. It just needs a careful hand to restore its grandeur.
My habit has become working from different rooms in the building, letting myself settle into the space, absorbing its atmosphere before I attempt to reshape it. This particular room has a ton of charm, but it’s stiff and uninviting. The bones are good, but the life is missing. That’s what I need to bring back.
I reach for my tape measure, snapping the metal out as I stretch it across the bed frame, making a quick note in my notebook. My pen glides over the page, listing details: plush bedding, warm lighting, deep navy and brushed gold accents. Classic, but not suffocating. Sophisticated, but livable.
I return to my laptop and study the images I’ve collected on my mood board. This project is more than a job—it’s my chance to prove myself, to establish my name in this new-to-me industry.
To remind myself that I haven’t lost everything.
The soft hum of Madonna’s “Love Don’t Live Here Anymore” drifts from my laptop speakers, blending with the scratch of my pen against my notebook. The melancholy melody fills the room, wrapping around me as I fine-tune the details of my design.
Absorbed in my work, I drag and adjust the placement of an accent chair in my rendering, considering how it would look against the restored paneling. The hotel’s history deserves to be honored, but it needs to be functional too. Modern luxury with a soul. That’s what I’m aiming for.
The door swings open and I jolt, my heart slamming against my ribs as I snap my head up. Ty stands in the doorway, his presence as commanding as ever.
The dark suit molds to his tall, athletic frame, the sharp cut emphasizing his broad shoulders and trim waist. His crisp white dress shirt is unbuttoned just enough to give the impression of effortless confidence—controlled, never careless. Dark hair, styled but not overdone, adds to the easy arrogance he wears so well. And then there are his eyes—icy blue, sharp, assessing, always watching.
Chiseled jaw, the perfect amount of scruff, and a presence that demands attention without him having to say a single word.
What a breathtaking display of arrogance in a suit.
Yeah, he’s good-looking. And it annoys the shit out of me.
“I’ve been trying to reach you.”
He steps inside like he owns the place… which he does.
Frowning, I blink at him. “Trying to reach me?”
I grab my phone from the desk and flip it over. The screen lights up with several missed calls and unread messages from him.
Shit. “Sorry. Guess I got caught up in my work.”
He waves a dismissive hand, letting the door swing shut behind him. “It’s all right. You’re dedicated. I’m okay with that.”
He steps further into the room, his gaze flicking between my laptop screen and the open notebook beside it. “What are you working on?”
“Building a mood board for the guest rooms.” I scroll through my favorites giving him a quick preview. “I like to work in the space I’m designing so I can visualize the end result. Helps with scale and material choices and making sure everything fits the energy of the hotel.”
He moves closer. “And what energy did you decide on?”
“I like your original idea––timeless elegance. A blend of the hotel’s history with modern luxury.” I glance up at him—and realize too late just how close he is.
Our faces are inches apart, his sharp blue eyes locking onto mine with an intensity that sends a flicker of heat down my spine. The air between us feels charged, humming with something unspoken. Close enough that if I moved a hair, my nose might brush against the edge of his jaw.
“Like you said… a place people want to come back to.”
Ty’s eyes shift and he stares at my mouth. “That’s the idea, isn’t it?”
His presence is impossible to ignore when his scent wraps around me.
Our shoulders almost brush, and the heat rolling off him makes the air feel hotter.
I click through the images, shifting the laptop toward him. “So, this is what I’m thinking for the furnishings. Rich upholstery. Warm wood tones. I want it to feel classic but still inviting. Like… tufted leather armchairs in that deep cognac color, with brass nailhead trim. Dark-stained mahogany desks—something with a little bit of carving detail, a nod to the old craftsmanship the hotel was known for. And I’m picturing floor-to-ceiling drapes in deep jewel tones, framing those huge windows so the afternoon light spills through. I want to keep the old-world charm but polish it up. Think velvet settees with turned legs, clawfoot coffee tables, antique-style sconces throwing off this soft, cozy glow. A mix of heirloom and high-end.”
He nods in approval, his gaze lingering on the screen before shifting to me. “You’re good at this. I can already picture it. But there’s one thing that concerns me.”
I glance up, brows lifting. “Oh?”
His lips twitch into something just shy of a smirk. “It’s easier if I show you.”
He steps back from the desk and gestures toward the bed. “Come here.”
I hesitate for a fraction of a second before standing.
He crosses the room, stopping at the foot of the bed and motioning for me to sit.
I give him a questioning look as I lower myself onto the edge. “Okay?”
“Tell me what’s wrong with this bed.”
I press my palms into the mattress, testing the feel beneath my fingertips. Then I shift my weight and give a small bounce. “It’s too firm to suit me.”
“What else?”
I bounce again, and the bedsprings protest with an unmistakable squeak. I wrinkle my nose. “Loud. Guests don’t want to feel like the whole floor can hear them rolling over—or doing anything else, for that matter.”
His lips twitch like he’s holding back a laugh. “Good point. What else?”
A checklist spins through my head, but nothing feels wrong. Lifting my gaze, I meet his eyes. “I’m not sure.”
He watches me for a moment, then exhales, shaking his head with something that looks a lot like disappointment. “Let me show you.”
He lowers himself to his knees in front of me, the movement slow and deliberate. My breath catches, every muscle in my body going rigid.
“Imagine this room, this bed… and the way your lover would worship every part of you until you forgot your own name.”
A warning bell chimes in my head, but I don’t move. I can’t speak.
His hands ghost over my knees. “May I?”
I blink, my brain cells scrambling. “May you what?”
His lips curl at the corner. “Show you the problem with the bed.”
I hesitate, uncertain of where this is going, but nod.
“Easy,” he says, his voice low and maddeningly calm. His hands slide from the tops of my knees to the insides of my thighs, coaxing my legs apart with a touch that’s too careful to be truly innocent.
“I know what you’re thinking, but stay with me so I can show you what I mean.”
“You’ve got about ten seconds to make your case before my better judgment shows up.”
“I’m being serious here.” He leans in closer, his eyes pinning me in place. “Imagine me as your lover and I’m going down on you.”
What the actual hell?
Every rational part of me screams to be offended, to shut this shit down.
But betrayal simmers low in my gut because his words send a flash of heat straight through me.
God, I hate that my body responds to him before my mind can.
“Do you see the problem with this?”
There’s a whole lot of problems with this. Not just one.
His grip is firm, his palms warm against my skin. The space between us smaller than it should be, the air charged with something I don’t want to name.
“Let me be more specific.”
He lowers his head and places a kiss on the inside of my thigh, his eyes locked on mine, looking up at me as he does it.
Oh fuck.
“Now do you see the problem?”
I swallow hard, pulse hammering in my ears. “The bed is too low. It makes positioning… difficult.” My voice comes out embarrassingly breathless, like it belongs to a woman who hasn’t had a man go down on her in months.
A slow smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “Bingo.”
“You realize that not all of your guests will be on their knees, right?”
Something dark flickers in his eyes. “The fun ones will be. And the ones, like me, who know how to take care of a woman.”
Fucking knew it! I should’ve become a nun.
I should get up. Walk away. Remind him this is a business relationship, not whatever dangerous game he’s turning it into. But my body won’t move, frozen in the space between common sense and the heat crawling over my skin. I need this job—desperately—but the air between us crackles with something dark, undeniable, and I hate how much a part of me aches for it.
I need to get control of this situation—fast. Before it goes too far.
Hell, it’s already gone too far.
His fingers flex against my skin, and his voice drops lower, rich with confidence. “I’m a man who enjoys giving a woman pleasure. And I’m very good at it.”
A sharp breath catches in my throat. Logic screams at me to get away, to remind him this is business. But my body betrays me, rooting me in place, frozen.
“Fuck, you smell good.” His eyes lock onto mine, a slow smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “I bet you taste sweet.”
A shiver rolls down my spine.
His gaze drags over me like he’s already undressing me in his mind. “You can close your eyes and pretend I’m him.”
Him .
My stomach tightens. “Ty?—”
His eyes are locked on mine. “I don’t mind.”
My fingers curl into the bedspread beneath me. Every nerve stretched taut, the slow, traitorous thrum of arousal sparks low in my belly. I don’t want to feel this. I don’t want to want this. But it’s been so long since anyone touched me—and my body longs for pleasure even when my mind protests.
Ty’s body is like Alex’s, a rugby powerhouse—tall, broad, solid muscle. I wonder—if he pressed me into this mattress, would it feel the same? Would his weight settle over me the way Alex’s did, grounding me, making me forget everything but the way he felt, the way he moved?
The thought sends a jolt of something sharp through me.
No.
No one could ever feel like Alex.
But Alex isn’t in my life.
And he never will be again.
A sharp knock at the door shatters the tension, followed by a muffled voice. “Housekeeping.”
Ty lets out a quiet curse, the frustration rolling off him in waves. The intensity in his eyes flickers but only for a second.
I move, pushing to my feet, desperate for the space, for the air that feels too thick.
I straighten my clothes, willing my heartbeat to slow. When I glance back at Ty, he’s still sitting on the bed, jaw tight, his hands clenched into fists.
“I’ll get it.”
“Please do. Because I can’t go to the door like this.”
We both know what he means.
I crack the door open. “Hi. No service needed, thank you.”
The woman gives a polite nod and wheels her cart down the hall, oblivious that her new boss is in this room with a raging erection.
I close the door and exhale.
What the hell am I doing? I need to get my head on straight.
Now.
The door clicks softly behind me. Ty leans forward on the bed, forearms balanced on his knees, his gaze pinned to the floor. For once, the relentless arrogance in his posture is gone.
He rubs a hand along his jaw. “I shouldn’t have done that.”
I stand across the room from him, keeping my distance. “No, you shouldn’t have.”
He looks at me for a long moment before shaking his head, a rueful smile tugging at the corner of his lips. “Bloody hell, Magnolia. You’re so fucking beautiful, and––”
He stops, like he’s contemplating his next words, and shoves a hand through his dark hair. “I don’t know what Sebring was thinking. He was a fool to let you go.”
“Alex had a differing opinion.”
How many times will talking about this cut me to the bone?
Ty shakes his head. “I’ll never understand it.”
Neither will I.
I’m so damn tired.
Tired of wondering what went wrong.
Tired of replaying every moment, every conversation, searching for some hidden clue I missed.
Tired of waking up every morning with the same hollow ache in my chest, knowing that no matter how much time passes, it still hasn’t gone away.
I just want it to be over—the pain, the questions, the what-ifs.
“The point you were making about the bed is valid. I’ll choose thicker mattresses and taller bed frames.” My voice is all business as if the last ten minutes never happened.
“I’m glad you understand the logistics.”
The insinuation hangs between us, heavy and electric. I tear my gaze away, pretending to return to my laptop, feigning focus. But my hands move without purpose, my mind too tangled in the direction that conversation nearly took. I can’t sit here and talk about lovers who take pride in a woman’s pleasure—especially when the man sitting across from me looks like he could teach master classes in it.
Not when I haven’t had that since the last night I spent with Alex many months ago.
Ty stands, adjusting his trousers. “You’re doing a great job. This place is going to be special.”
“I’m happy you’re pleased with my work.”
He checks his watch and glances at me. “I have somewhere to be.”
Relief flickers through me. “I’ll reach out when I finish the sample board.”
“Look forward to it.”
He reaches for the door handle but hesitates, throwing a glance over his shoulder. “I know Sebring didn’t paint me in the best light. I can only imagine the things he’s told you.”
My brow arches in silent response, the words kept locked behind my teeth.
He exhales a quiet laugh. “All I’m saying is I’d like it if you gave me a chance. Perhaps begin with friendship?”
“Let’s start with a designer-client relationship and see how that goes.”
He nods, his blue eyes locked onto mine. “Fair enough but remember this: I’m more than happy to help you forget Sebring if you ever change your mind.”
The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is deafening.
What the hell just happened?
One minute, I was reviewing fabric swatches and debating headboards. The next, Ty was on his knees, demonstrating why the beds need to be taller.
Of course, he wouldn’t just look at my mood board and call it a day. No, he had to make it an immersive, hands-on kind of experience.
The bed is too low for eating pussy––they don’t teach you that problem-solving skill in interior-design classes.
The real joke is on me. Because for a second—one fleeting, reckless moment—I allowed myself to wonder what it would feel like to let go. To give in. Close my eyes and pretend.
Imagine he was Alex.
Maybe a meaningless fuck would help—a way to silence the ache, to feel something other than this endless, hollow pain. But even that feels impossible. My body might crave the distraction, but my heart isn’t ready. Not yet.