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?”