Now he’s sitting across from me, larger than life, taking up space in more ways than one.

I force my lips into what I hope is a smile, but inside, my mind is spinning.

What the hell is he doing here?

Tyson leans back in the chair, stretching in a way that feels deliberate—like he’s casually putting all that broad-shouldered, muscled-up physique on display for me. “I want it redone top to bottom. And I’d like you to be the one to handle it.”

Suspicion prickles at the edges of my thoughts.

Charleston is brimming with seasoned designers who’ve spent years establishing themselves. Designers with bigger portfolios, stronger connections, and an entire team at their disposal. If money’s no object for a man like Tyson McRae—and I know it isn’t—why would he come to me?

There’s only one answer.

My fingers tighten around the pen I’ve been twirling, the motion a poor attempt at grounding myself. “That sounds like an exciting project. But I have to ask—why me? There are a lot of established firms in Charleston that specialize in boutique spaces.”

His lips curve, but the smile doesn’t quite reach his eyes. “I’ve done my research, and I know talent when I see it. Your designs are fresh and uncomplicated. I’m not interested in a stale, cookie-cutter hotel design. I want something unique… with soul.”

I nod, feigning calmness. “I appreciate that. It’s always my goal to create something personal and meaningful for my clients.”

“Which is why I came to you.”

I force a polite nod, but suspicion needles at me. Of all the designers in Charleston, he walked through my door? A door I didn’t even have two months ago. A door I’m terrified won’t stay open if I don’t make this work.

Despite the warning bells in my head, I flip to a clean page in my notebook. “Tell me more about the space.”

“Luxury with a twist of charm. Filled with Charleston’s history but not outdated. Sleek and inviting. Modern with touches of tradition. I want a place people walk into and instantly know they’re somewhere special. A place they’ll never forget.”

He’s saying the right words, but I can’t shake the feeling that this, whatever it is, has nothing to do with hotels and everything to do with me.

A nagging unease creeps in, the same feeling I get when something is too good to be true.

“This is an enormous investment. You could’ve chosen any designer, not someone whose firm is in its infancy. I think we both know this is about something else.”

Tyson’s brow lifts, that damn smirk never wavering. “What do you mean?”

My gaze meets his head-on. “You and Alex have history—and not the good kind. I’m his ex.”