20. Magnolia Steel
Chapter 20
Magnolia Steel
My laptop is open, the guest room mood boards pulled up. Images stare back at me, but my focus is shot. My mind is tangled up in something I shouldn’t be thinking about.
It’s been two days since the close-call-cunnilingus incident. Not long enough to forget the way Ty’s lips pressed against my thigh, the way his breath was hot against my skin, the way my pulse thundered in my ears when his mouth hovered there.
Well, hell––if this ain’t a damn clusterfuck, served up hot with a buttered biscuit.
I snap the laptop shut, wishing it were that easy to shut down my mind too.
Ty and I haven’t talked since. Haven’t acknowledged the moment we crossed a line. Maybe that’s for the best. Maybe silence is the best way to move forward.
Except, are we moving forward? Or are we waiting for it to happen again?
The shrill ring of my phone slices through the silence. I glance at the screen, and my stomach tightens.
Tyson-fucking-McRae.
I hesitate, my pulse kicking up. I should let it go to voicemail. Keep things easy and safe.
But apparently, I’m a closet masochist.
What the fuck am I doing?
“Hello.”
“Good morning, Magnolia. How are you?” His voice is deep, smooth, like nothing is out of place between us. Like he isn’t the last person I should speak to right now.
“I’m good.” I hesitate for half a second. “Doing a little work.”
“What are you working on?”
I glance at my closed laptop. “Still on guest-room designs. Lots of decisions to be made while we’re waiting for the historical preservation board to approve the plans we submitted.”
It’s not a lie—I am working. But that’s not what’s consuming me. My mind has been looping all day, trying to make sense of what happened between Ty and me.
The way he touched me.
The way I almost let him take it further.
The way I might have wanted him to keep going.
I should’ve drawn a hard line. Should’ve put distance between us. But I didn’t.
I still haven’t.
And now, he’s calling me like everything is normal. Like we didn’t almost crash and burn in guest room 112.
Ty’s voice pulls me back. “Take a break from work and come out with me tonight. There’s a gallery opening I want to go to.”
Not a call, not a text. Now, out of nowhere, he’s asking me to a gallery opening as if nothing happened?
I should say no, make an excuse. But that’s not what I do.
“You like art, huh?”
“I do, very much, and I want to buy some for the hotel. It’s a talented artist. I believe you’ll like his work.”
“Who’s the artist?”
“William Bloom.”
Wow. I’m shocked that he would have an interest in William Bloom. He doesn’t seem the type. “I love his work.”
“You’re familiar with him?”
“Absolutely.”
“Is that a yes?”
“Is it a formal event?”
“It is. Do you have a dress?”
My stomach dips. The dress isn’t the problem—I have plenty. Too many, if I’m being honest. Most of them bought in Sydney, for glittering nights with Alex—nights wrapped in silk and his arms, when I was his in every way that counted.
I shake off the memory. “I have a dress.”
Bad idea. Bad idea. Bad idea.
But I hear myself ignore my own advice. “Sounds fun.”
“Perfect. I’ll pick you up at seven.”
“I’ll be ready.”
The call ends, and I stare at my phone.
What the hell am I doing?
Assisting my client in buying art for the project we’re working on. Totally legit. That has to be what I’m doing. Because no other answer is acceptable.
The low rumble of an engine rolls through the quiet night, smooth and unmistakably fast. Ty pulls up in a car that looks like it belongs on a magazine cover—sleek, black, and made for people who have more money than they know what to do with. A car that turns heads simply by its existence.
My posture is perfect as I step outside, heels clicking against the pavement. A cool breeze blows up the skirt of my dress, whispering over my bare skin, but the chill disappears the second our gazes meet.
His eyes drag over me, slow and unhurried, dark with something unreadable. “Fuck, you’re a stunner.” The rough edge to his voice sends a ripple through me.
Fuck, you’re a stunner. God, I miss hearing those words.
I swallow, my grip tightening around my clutch. I know what’s on his mind. Hell, I know because it’s on my mind too.
I fight a smirk… and lose. “You clean up well, Mr. McRae.”
He smirks back. “Admit it. You think I’m hot.”
I roll my eyes, releasing out a dry laugh. “You’re insufferable.”
He chuckles, reaching for the passenger door handle. “That wasn’t a no.”
I step past him, sliding into the leather seat as he closes the door behind me.
The banter does what I hoped it would––lift the awkwardness—at least a little. But as he rounds the car and slips behind the wheel, one thing’s for sure.
This night is going to be precarious.
Because Tyson McRae is dangerous.
Music hums low through the car’s speakers, a steady pulse under the quiet. I glance at the display panel, seeing the song title on the screen. “I’m God” by Clams Casino & Imogen Heap. The ethereal melody fills the space, a strange contrast to the tension between us.
“I don’t recognize this song,” I say, half to myself.
Ty shifts gears, his eyes flicking to me before returning to the road. “That’s not surprising.”
I arch a brow. “You think you’ve already got my music taste all figured out?”
He smirks, tapping a rhythm against the steering wheel. “Not yet. But I’m getting there.”
Something about the casual way he says it makes my stomach tighten, but I shake it off, looking out the window at the city lights flashing past. My gaze drifts back to him. “How’d you hear about the William Bloom show?”
“I keep up with artists I like. Would’ve been criminal to be in the States and not catch one of his shows—especially with it happening right here in the city I’m in.”
Tyson McRae––a cocky, unpredictable force of nature––appreciates fine art. Surprising.
“I own one of his pieces.”
He glances at me, interest flickering in his eyes. “Yeah?”
I nod. “Bought it a few years ago. His work is raw. Layered. I’m not sure how to explain it, but it makes you think on a deeper level.”
“I agree with that.”
Ty stares ahead, but his gaze keeps flickering to me, like there’s something he wants to say.
I shift in my seat, overwhelmed by the tangle of emotions clawing for a way out.
It’s reckless, it’s stupid, but I can’t stop myself. Or my mouth. “Why do you hate Alex so much?”
The mood shifts in an instant.
A muscle tics in his jaw, but there’s the flash of something darker that flickers across his face and makes my stomach twist. “You want to get into this now?”
“Yeah. I do.”
Ty exhales hard, his hands white-knuckling the steering wheel. “I grew up with nothing, Magnolia. No privilege. No money. No safety net. Pure survival.”
There’s a razor-sharp edge beneath his voice.
“I worked my ass off. Every damn day. Pushed harder than anyone. Scraped by on talent and grit alone. And I made it— my dream position, my shot. But Alex-fucking-Sebring-the-third walked in and took it from me like it was nothing.”
I hear the bitterness in his voice, the raw resentment pulsing beneath his words.
“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 slow flirtation 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.
Ty clears his throat and shifts into business mode, pointing out the pieces he wants to purchase for the hotel. I keep my focus sharp, professional, helping to handle the arrangements without missing a beat.
Transactions are handled, signatures scrawled, everything finalized.
We step out of the gallery, and I still feel the buzz of the evening clinging to me. The night air is crisp, a stark contrast to the heat simmering beneath my skin.
“That was productive.”
“It was. Thank you for coming with me.”
“Thank you for inviting me.”
He walks beside me, his hand settling at the small of my back. It’s a quiet, possessive touch that sends a ripple of awareness through me. I should pull away, but I don’t.
We turn to walk down a side street, the quiet stretching between us like something tangible, something waiting to break. The city hums in the distance, but here, in the dim light between buildings, it seems like another world.
Then he stops.
Before I can react, his fingers curl around my wrist, tugging me back. My breath catches as he pulls me into the narrow alley between two buildings, pressing my back against the brick wall, the rough texture biting through the thin fabric of my dress.
He’s close. Too close. The air between us turns electric, humming with something unspoken, something inevitable.
His eyes flick down to my mouth. “You want me to stop?”
My pulse pounds, my body betraying me.
I shake my head… because I can’t form a single word.
His lips crash against mine, claiming, devouring. Heat surges through me, curling low in my belly as his hands grip my waist, pressing me closer. I melt into him, into the sharp angles of his body, the rough scrape of his stubble against my skin.
I close my eyes, and it’s not Tyson McRae kissing me.
It’s Alex.
My own mind turns traitor, conjuring memories of his touch, his mouth, the way he used to hold me like I was something breakable. But Ty isn’t Alex. His touch is different—rougher, more demanding.
I force my eyes open, and his gaze locks with mine. There’s something dark and unreadable flickering in his eyes as his hands slide up my thighs, slipping beneath the hem of my dress.
His fingers brush against my panties, pushing them aside with an ease that makes my breath hitch. I gasp as he strokes me, slow, deliberate. My body arches into him, a treasonous reaction I can’t control.
His lips trail down my neck, his breath hot against my skin. “So bloody beautiful,” he says, his voice thick with something I can’t name.
I clutch at his shoulders as he slides two fingers inside me, curling them just right. My head falls back against the brick, a strangled moan escaping my lips as pleasure crashes over me. He doesn’t stop, doesn’t look away, as he watches me fall apart in his hands.
The tension coils, tightens—then shatters. I tremble against him, breathless, dazed. Ty pulls his fingers from me slowly, deliberately. And then?—
He brings them to his mouth.
Tastes me.
“Fuck.” His eyes lock on mine. “You taste so sweet.”
I can’t breathe. Can’t think.
What the hell have I done?
The night air presses in, thick with something unspoken. The moment stretches between us, taut as a wire pulled too tight. My breathing is uneven, my pulse still thundering in my ears.
Ty stands steady, his gaze locked onto mine, waiting for me to react.
I don’t. I can’t. My mind is a storm, thoughts colliding in a messy, tangled wreckage.
I should move. I should say something. But all I can do is relish the sensation of pleasure still pulsing through me, feel the ghost of his fingers inside me, carry the weight of everything I let happen.
A part of me is sick with guilt. But then, just as quickly, I shove it down. Bury it.
I haven’t betrayed Alex. He ended things with me. He’s with someone else. He’s marrying another woman.
The one.
I don’t owe him my loyalty or fidelity. Yet something inside me twists, sharp and unforgiving.
Why does it ache like I just crossed a line I can’t come back from?
Ty watches me, unreadable, but there’s something in his expression—something satisfied, something knowing. He lifts a hand and brushes his thumb over my bottom lip, his touch deliberate and possessive.
“You don’t have to think so hard with me, Mags.” His voice is smooth, confident, like he’s not the least bit uncertain about what just happened between us.
My stomach tightens. Because that’s the problem. I wasn’t thinking at all.
I was letting go. And if I keep allowing myself to play with this fire, I will get burned. Maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow—but the flames will find me.
I swallow hard, stepping back, putting distance between us even as my body protests the loss of heat. My fingers tremble as I adjust my dress, as if I can erase what just happened, as if I can make myself believe that I’m still the same person I was before he pulled me into this alley.
Ty doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t say a word. He just watches, his smirk lingering.
The silence stretches, suffocating me.
I force a breath. “We should go.”
His smirk deepens, but he nods. “Whatever you say, Mags.”
He steps back, giving me space, but the damage is already done. My skin still burns where he touched me. My mind is branded with the way he looked at me, the way he pressed against me.
I don’t look at him as we walk toward the car, my pulse still hammering in my throat.
This was a mistake. And deep down, I know something else.
It probably won’t be the last.
The drive back is suffocating. The silence stretches, thick and heavy, filling every inch of space between us. Ty’s hands grip the steering wheel, his posture relaxed. But I know better. His restraint is a tangible thing, pressing against the tension that lingers between us.
My mind betrays me, flashing back to the alley. The rough brick against my back. The way his fingers slid beneath my dress, parting me with ease. The way he worked me, his touch unyielding.
My breath increased and my body arched into him, desperate and wanting. He watched me unravel, eyes locked on mine, consuming me whole.
I will the memory away, staring out the window at the blur of city lights. Every second is like an eternity.
I need to say something. Anything.
“What are you doing in the U.S.?”
He smirks but keeps his eyes on the road. “You mean besides making women come hard in dark alleys?”
I roll my eyes, but the corner of my mouth twitches. “I mean why did you buy a hotel here?”
“Why not?”
“I’m serious, Ty. Tell me the reason.”
“I’m playing one last season of rugby. After that, I’m done. Out for good.” He flicks a glance at me before turning his attention back to the road. “Rugby’s been my life, but I need something else. The hotel’s an investment for the future.”
“Why not buy a hotel in Sydney?”
“So I can continue competing against the Sebrings? Nah, I’m done with that. I’m done with Sydney.”
My pulse jumps at the mention of Alex’s family. He and I may be over, but I still care very much for the Sebring family.
“Did you know what you were doing when you injured Alex?”
He chuckles. “Wasn’t trying to end his career… but I wasn’t exactly trying not to, either. Just how it played out.”
I should be angry. I should tear into him like a tornado through a trailer park.
But I don’t.
My bond with Alex isn’t just broken—it is severed, clean and final, the moment he ended us with a heartless text. Just icy words on a screen where love used to be.
And yet, as I sit here, I still can’t help but wonder…
If our bond is truly severed, why do I still feel the pain?