38. Alex Sebring
Chapter 38
Alex Sebring
My surgery was weeks ago. It’s been long days of ice packs, stiff muscles, and slow, stubborn steps. Weeks of staring down the ugly reality that my body isn’t invincible—and maybe never was.
The boot is gone. The crutches are leaning useless in a corner. I’m walking again, careful and measured like some old man trying not to snap in half. Every step is a reminder: don’t screw this up. Don’t rush. I pushed too hard last time, chasing something that slipped through my fingers anyway. I’m not making that mistake again.
Magnolia’s soft humming drifts from the kitchen, pulling me out of my head. The scent of chicken and a buttery decadence wafts through the penthouse as I sit on the couch, an ice pack battling the swelling in my ankle.
I watch her move—barefoot, hair piled up in a messy bun, humming along to the song playing over the speakers. God, I love seeing her like this. Not dressed up, not guarded—simply Magnolia.
My American beauty knocks the breath right out of my lungs. Need hits me low and hard, the way it always does when I least expect it. Not just for her body pressed against mine, not only for the high I get when she smiles at me like I’m her favorite thing. But for this.
My phone buzzes against the cushion beside me. I pick it up, thumb sliding across the screen to find a text from Elias: a selfie of him and Violet on a rooftop bar somewhere, sunglasses on, toasting each other with cocktails.
I chuckle. “Looks like Violet’s giving Elias the full Charleston experience.”
“Oh, I’m certain he’s getting the full experience all right. But it’s not the Charleston experience he’s getting. It’s the full Violet experience. ”
Magnolia reaches for a bowl in an upper cabinet, the stretch of her body doing things to me that I don’t need right now.
I don’t know Violet well, but Magnolia has told me plenty about her best friend. And if even half of it’s true, Elias doesn’t know what he’s gotten himself into. “Should I be worried?”
She flashes me a wicked grin, all sin and sass. “Only if he can’t keep up.”
I raise a brow, playing along. “Yeah? What does that involve?”
Magnolia pauses, spoon still in her hand, and turns toward me, her mouth curved in a slow, wicked smile. “If he’s lucky? A lot of stamina. Possibly a little property damage. A few things that would make Malie blush.”
Yeah. I bet Violet’s giving him an experience. And judging by the stupid expression on Elias’s face in this picture, he’s enjoying the hell out of whatever’s happening.
“What’s she looking for in life? A good time? Or someone to share a future with?”
Magnolia shrugs one shoulder, checking the oven before glancing over at me. “Violet loves a good time, sure. But she’s thirty now. She’s ready to find someone who wants the same things she does.”
“Which is what?”
“She’s ready to settle down. Marry. Start a family.”
I nod, letting that sink in.
Violet’s ready to settle down. Ready to build something real. But what about her best friend?
Magnolia wasn’t ready for that months ago. Hell, not even close. She’d made that much clear. She wanted freedom, not chains. And I respected her feelings. I still do.
She has said some things since that make me wonder where her head is now.
But being parted from her changed me. I realized there isn’t a single version of my future that doesn’t have her in it. I want her in my life. Always. Every single day.
I want to marry her even more now than I did when we were tangled up together in Australia. Putting a ring on her finger is the only way to quiet this fire in my chest—to let the whole damn world see that she’s mine. The need to call her my wife hums beneath my skin, constant and aching, like a second heartbeat I can’t shut off.
The smell of dinner pulls me back to the moment, and I let myself get lost in watching her move around the kitchen. If this is what married life looks like—Magnolia making dinner while I stare at her like a lovesick idiot—I want it.
All of it.
I’d be in there with her if my ankle wasn’t wrecked—stealing bites, wrapping my arms around her from behind, making a mess of whatever perfect plan she had for dinner. But for now, I settle for sitting here on this sofa watching, feeling the want for her deep in my bones.
Magnolia plates everything, sliding a big helping of fried chicken, mashed potatoes, green beans, and a buttery biscuit on one plate like she’s feeding an army.
She glances over her shoulder, catching me staring.
“What is it?” she asks, one brow lifted.
I grin, pushing up from the couch and hobbling my way over to the kitchen table.
“You’re good at this.”
“At what? Feeding you?” she says, laughing as she sets the plates down. “I know how much you love food.”
“I meant you’re good at making me want to never live without you,” I say, pulling out a chair and lowering myself into it with a groan. “At this rate, I’m gonna end up proposing over a plate of mashed potatoes.”
Magnolia freezes for half a second—long enough that my heart stutters—before she smiles, soft and a little shy, like she’s trying to hide it but can’t.
She didn’t perceive it as a joke. Or maybe she did—but part of her liked it anyway.
I tuck that thought away to ponder on later and tear into the Southern heaven she has served to me on a dinner plate. “Damn, woman… you can cook. Who taught you this kind of sorcery? Because no way it was Robin or Charlene.”
Magnolia shakes her head. “Definitely not. I learned after I moved away to college. I realized there were other ways of living. Better ways.” She shrugs like it’s no big deal. “I taught myself how to cook by watching the Food Network. Took notes. Burned a lot of things. Ate a lot of pasta before I figured out how to season chicken.”
She says it like it’s just a thing she did, not the true accomplishment that it is.
I sit there for a second, staring at her—this woman who had no one to teach her how to love, how to nourish, how to nurture, and she still did it all. For herself.
Life handed her lemons, and she made limoncello with her bare damn hands.
That’s Magnolia for you.
I’m halfway through my second biscuit when Magnolia glances up, resting her chin in her hand.
“So, big guy… now that you’re on the mend, what’s next?”
I set my fork down and lean back in my chair, letting out a breath. God, I hate this question. Mostly because I don’t have an answer. Or I do—and I don’t like it.
“Taking over my dad’s position and working for Sebring Hotels has always been my family’s expectation, but, babe… it feels so hollow to me. Like I’m just taking up space because my last name’s on the building.”
Magnolia doesn’t interrupt. Doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She just waits, her eyes steady on mine, like she’s giving me all the room I need to say the hard things.
“Even if I wanted it—which I don’t—it’s not a job for someone like me. My dyslexia makes the task of filling my father’s shoes completely out of reach. I’ve always been able to fake it when I had to, but not in that world. Contracts. Spreadsheets. Legal documents. Meetings where everyone expects you to catch the fine print in real time. It’s exhausting and humiliating. Half the time, I’m drowning and too damn proud to admit it.”
Magnolia’s expression softens, her hand reaching across the table, brushing the back of mine with her fingertips. “You don’t have to force yourself into a life you don’t want. But if it’s not Sebring Hotels, what is it? What’s your passion?”
I smile—small but real—and squeeze her fingers. “You mean besides you?”
Oh fuck, that wicked little grin of hers could set me on fire. “Yes, I mean besides me.”
“Rugby. It’s always been rugby––the only thing that’s ever made sense to me, made me feel like I was where I was supposed to be.”
I shake my head, the ache for the sport curling in my chest.
“Bloody hell, babe, I miss it.” The words scrape something raw inside me. “It feels like there’s a hole in my chest some days. I didn’t know how to move on from it three years ago, and I still don’t.”
Magnolia reaches across the table without hesitation, her fingers curling around mine. Her touch is soft, steady—a touch that anchors you when you’re close to breaking apart.
And the expression on her face… Christ, it guts me. It’s like she’s hurting because I’m hurting, like she feels it all right along with me. She always has. She’s always been in sync with me, without even trying.
And that is what I want in my wife. Not just someone who stands beside me when things are easy, but someone who leans in when it’s hard, when it’s messy, when it would be easier to walk away.
I squeeze her hand, needing the connection more than I want to admit.
“But when you came into my life, I could breathe again. And something other than rugby could make me happy.”
Magnolia’s thumb brushes over the top of my hand. “You don’t know how special that makes me feel.” She gives me this look—half awe, half ache. “I don’t think anyone’s ever said anything like that to me before.”
She looks at me like she’s trying to hold it together.
“I fell apart when I thought we were over. Nothing was helping. Not time, not therapy, not anything. Nothing could get me back to how I felt when I was with you.”
She says nothing, just listens. God, she’s always been so good at that. Not trying to fix anything. Not rushing in with hollow reassurances. Just sitting with me, holding the weight without flinching.
“It’s easier—so much easier—with you in my life. When you’re here, the noise in my head shuts the hell up. You make it better. All of it.”
Her fingers tighten around mine.
I sit back in my chair and stare down at my plate, no longer hungry. There’s something else I’ve been carrying, something heavier. And if I’m ever going to ask her for forever, she needs to know the whole truth.
“I never told you why I picked this surgeon in Dallas.”
Magnolia looks up, brows pinching together. Waiting. “I assumed it was because he was the best.”
“I’ve been struggling more and more to walk. It wasn’t just an occasional limp anymore. The surgery was inevitable. And my agent recommended this doctor because he specializes in getting athletes back on the field. The plan was to do the surgery, recover, rehab, and then go back to playing rugby for as long as I could. But that plan was before you came back into my life.”
She doesn’t react. Doesn’t blink. Doesn’t flinch. And that’s when I realize. “You already knew, didn’t you?”
She swallows and nods. “The doctor came out to update me about how the surgery went. He mentioned it.”
I stare at her, stunned. “You knew all this time and said nothing?”
Magnolia nibbles her bottom lip. “I wasn’t sure what it meant. I didn’t know if it was still your plan, or things had changed, or you were just waiting for the right time to tell me.”
“You should have said something.”
“I didn’t want to ask because I was afraid you might be going back to your old life without me. I didn’t want to hear you say you were leaving without asking me to come with you.”
It knocks the breath out of me.
Because I’ve been so wrapped in my fears, I didn’t stop to think about hers.
“I would not leave you. I can never be parted from you again. You get that, right?”
Her eyes shine, but she doesn’t look away. “I didn’t. But I do now that you’ve told me.”
It guts me—knowing she’s been walking around with that weight in her chest, wondering if I’d disappear again. Wondering if she was temporary.
It makes me realize I’ve been too quiet. Too careful. Too damn slow.
So I push forward, needing her to hear the truth—all of it.
“I need to make something clear.” My eyes lock with hers. “I will not let you go again, Magnolia. Ever. I don’t care where we are or what happens. We will never part ways again.”
She stares at me, that hopeful wariness flickering in her eyes again—the kind you get when you want to believe something so badly that it hurts.
“What does that mean to you? Never parting from me again?”
It means everything to me. But I have to know where she is before I lay it all out.
I hesitate, just for a breath. “Can I ask you something?”
She nods. “Sure.”
“Have your feelings changed about marriage? About having kids?”
Magnolia draws in a shaky breath. “Being apart from you has changed everything for me.”
I don’t breathe. I don’t blink.
She hesitates for a moment and swallows. “I want it all, and I want it with you.”
I swear, my world tilts.
“Say it again.”
She smiles—full, sure, radiant. “I want to build a life with you—marriage, our little Samoan babies, all of it. Everything you told me about when you described what marriage means to you… that’s what I want too.”
Something inside me lets go. A rope pulled tight for too long, finally easing. And in its place, that wild, consuming hope I’ve been trying to keep at bay comes rushing in.
For a second, I can’t even speak. I just sit there, stunned, flooded with something so big it almost knocks me over. Joy. Relief. Love. All of it.
“Okay,” I manage.
She tilts her head, blinking. “Just… okay ?”
“I’m absorbing,” I say, trying to rein in the dumb grin taking over my face. “This is a big shift from our last marriage conversation. You’ve surprised me. I wasn’t prepared for that kind of shift.”
Magnolia narrows her eyes at me, playful and confused all at once. “I just told you I want to be your wife and the mother of your children. This isn’t exactly the reaction I was expecting.”
I reach out, tugging on her hand. “Come here, babe.”
She stands, her eyes avoiding mine as she rounds the table. When she reaches me, she climbs onto my lap, straddling me, her legs sliding around my waist the way she’s done it hundreds of times before.
Her hands settle around my shoulders, but her brow is tight, confused, a little hurt. I hate that look on her face. I hate I put it there.
My hands grip her waist. She leans in, forehead pressed to mine, like she’s searching for the truth in my silence.
“It makes me so damn happy that you want to be my wife.”
“Does it?”
“Hell yes. Of course.”
Her body relaxes. “Then why not ask me?”
I close my eyes, breathing her in. “Because when I do, I want the proposal to be perfect. I only get one chance to ask you to be my wife. And I want it to be unforgettable.”
She exhales, and her lips curve into a half-smile against mine. “Whatever the moment looks like, it’ll be perfect because it’s you.”
She pulls back just enough to meet my gaze, her fingers gripping my shoulders. “And in the meantime?”
I rub my hands over her hips. “ In the meantime, we love each other. And I remind you every day that you’re mine—until I get to call you my wife.”
Her throat works as she swallows, and the shine in her eyes isn’t confusion anymore—it’s hope. Peace. Love so big it doesn’t need to be said to be felt.
She leans in, brushing her lips against mine in a kiss that’s slow and deep and final in all the right ways.
I didn’t ask her to marry me tonight—but somehow, it still feels like she said yes.