6. Autumn

Chapter 6

Autumn

T he morning light streamed through my bedroom windows, and I stirred, feeling the solid warmth of Tyson’s chest against my back. His arm draped heavily over my waist, our legs tangled beneath the covers. For a moment, I kept my eyes closed, savoring the familiar comfort of waking up beside him.

We’d done this countless times over the years - crashed at each other’s places after late nights working or studying. But something felt different this morning. Maybe it was the way his muscles flexed against me as he breathed or how his palm pressed flat against my stomach, fingers splayed possessively even in sleep.

I turned carefully in his arms, studying his face in the soft light. His thick brows relaxed in sleep, long lashes casting shadows on his cheeks. The precise line of his jaw carried a shadow of stubble, and his full lips parted slightly as he breathed. Even asleep, he radiated power - all six-foot-five of him barely contained by my queen-sized bed.

My eyes traced the sculpted planes of his bare chest, remembering how he’d pulled off his shirt before climbing in beside me last night. The sight of his muscular torso had stopped my breath, but exhaustion had pulled me under before I could really appreciate it. Now, I wanted to run my fingers over the ridges of his abs, to trace the tattoo that curved around his ribs - our zodiac sign in artistic script.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand, and his eyes fluttered open. For a moment, we just looked at each other, neither moving.

“Morning,” he said, his voice rough with sleep.

“Morning.” I was acutely aware of how close we were, how his hand still rested on my hip.

His phone buzzed again. With a groan, he reached for it, reading the message over my shoulder. “The magazine crew is arriving at nine.”

Reality crashed back. Today was our feature interview for Art & Design Magazine - the first significant press coverage of the Benefield Project. I glanced at the clock. Seven-thirty.

“I need to get ready.” I started to move, but his arm tightened around me.

“Five more minutes,” he mumbled into my hair.

“Since when does Tyson Benefield, king of punctuality, want to sleep in?”

“Since my bed is more comfortable than usual.”

“This is my bed.”

“Exactly.” He pulled me closer, and I momentarily let myself sink back into his warmth.

When I finally extracted myself and headed for the shower, my skin still tingled where he’d touched me. I turned the water extra cold, trying to clear my head. Today needed to be about the project, not about how good Tyson looked sleeping in my bed or how right waking up in his arms felt.

By the time I emerged, he’d already left - probably to change at his penthouse before the interview. A text waited on my phone: “Your car is still at the Benefield Building. I’ll be back to pick you up.”

I texted back: “There’s no time. I’m taking an Uber.”

“I’m bringing breakfast. Don’t stop for coffee.”

Two hours later, I walked into the Benefield Building’s lobby wearing my favorite navy pencil dress, my hair falling in careful waves. Tyson stood talking with a small group, commanding attention in a perfectly tailored navy suit emphasizing his broad shoulders. He’d trimmed his beard, and his smile flashed brightly against his dark skin as he gestured animatedly about something.

He spotted me immediately, breaking off mid-sentence to stride over. “Perfect timing. Come meet everyone.”

The magazine crew consisted of a writer, photographer, and Victoria Maples - the magazine’s executive editor, who’d flown in specifically for this piece. Victoria was stunning in a red power suit, her sleek black hair cut in a sharp bob.

“Ms. Williams,” she shook my hand. “I’ve followed your work at the Art Institute. Your last exhibition on emerging South Side artists was brilliant.”

“Thank you. Please, call me Autumn.”

“Autumn,” her smile warmed. “Tyson was just telling us about your vision for the community spaces. But first, we’d love photos of you both in the main gallery.”

The photographer, Edward, directed us through various poses—examining blueprints, discussing artwork placement, and standing before the restored windows. Victoria watched with keen interest.

“The chemistry between you is incredible,” she said during a break. “How long have you known each other?”

“Twenty years,” Tyson answered, his hand resting casually on my lower back. “We grew up together on the South Side.”

“And now you’re revolutionizing the Chicago art scene together,” Victoria’s eyes sparkled. “It’s like a fairy tale.”

If only she knew how my heart raced every time he touched me, how I’d woken up wrapped in his arms this morning. But I kept my voice professional. “The real story is the opportunities this project will create for young artists.”

“Speaking of which,”Edward called out, “can we get some shots in the student gallery?”

Victoria asked us questions about the project’s vision as we moved through the building. Tyson discussed the business aspects—the multi-million dollar investment, the innovative design, and the economic impact. I focused on the artistic elements and community programs.

“This space will house our mentorship program,”I explained as we entered a large studio. “Established artists working directly with students, sharing techniques and business skills.”

“It’s extraordinary.”Victoria traced her perfectly manicured fingers along a workbench, her eyes fixed on Tyson. “What inspired such an ambitious project? Most luxury hotels don’t include community art spaces.”

“Actually,”Tyson smiled - that devastating smile that could charm anyone - “I’ve always wanted to do something different with my hotels. But watching Autumn fight for emerging artists at the Art Institute and seeing her passion for creating opportunities are what shaped this vision. She showed me how art could transform communities.”

Victoria stepped closer to him, touching his arm. “That’s fascinating. Tell me more about your creative process. Perhaps over dinner?”

My stomach clenched at her obvious interest. How she looked at him - like he was a prize to be won - made me want to step between them.

“The project itself is more interesting,”Tyson replied smoothly, moving toward me.“Autumn and I spent years discussing what artists need to succeed. This program combines our dreams - my goal of redefining luxury hospitality and her vision for nurturing new talent.”

“You two are quite the team,”Victoria observed, her eyes lingering appreciatively on Tyson’s broad shoulders.

“The best,”Tyson agreed, and something in his tone made me look up. He watched me, not Victoria, with such intensity that I almost forgot we weren’t alone.

The way Victoria kept finding excuses to touch Tyson’s arm or stand close to him during photos shouldn’t have bothered me. He dealt with admirers constantly - it came with being wealthy, gorgeous, and successful. But something about her polished confidence and apparent interest set my teeth on edge. Whenever she laughed at his comments or batted her eyes, I felt a hot surge of jealousy.

Edward cleared his throat. “Let’s get some shots of you both by the windows. The light is perfect.”

As we posed, Victoria continued her questions. “Tyson, your hotels are known for their sophistication. How does this community focus align with your brand?”

“It enhances it.”His voice took on the confident tone he used in business discussions. “True luxury is creating meaningful experiences, contributing to culture. This project does both.”

“And the budget? A development of this scale can’t be cheap.”

“Money isn’t the point.”He shrugged, and I smiled - only a billionaire could dismiss millions so casually. “The point is impact.”

“Still,”Victoria pressed, “it’s a significant investment in an unproven concept.”

“Actually,”I interjected, “similar programs in other cities have shown impressive financial and social returns. I can share the data?—”

“The numbers don’t matter,”Tyson cut in. “I believe in this project. With Autumn helping me build it, nothing can stop us.”

Victoria’s eyes darted between us. “Fascinating. Tell me more about your working relationship. How do you balance such a long friendship with professional collaboration?”

“We trust each other completely,”I said.

“Always have,”Tyson added, his fingers brushing my arm as we turned for another photo.

“And personally?”Victoria smiled. “Surely working so closely affects your private lives?”

“We’re just friends,”I said quickly — too quickly, judging by her raised eyebrow.

“ Best friends,”Tyson corrected, and I caught the slight emphasis on ‘best.’

The interview continued, but I was aware of every move Tyson made - how his eyes sought mine during questions, how his whole body seemed oriented toward me even when speaking to others.

Finally, Victoria closed her notebook. “This is wonderful. One last shot for the cover?”

Edward positioned us by the grand staircase - Tyson leaning against the railing, me standing slightly in front of him. “Perfect. Now look at each other like you’re discussing plans.”

I turned to face Tyson, and the intensity in his dark eyes caught me off guard. His hand came up to tuck a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture so natural it made me suck in a deep breath.

“Beautiful,”Edward murmured, camera clicking. “The connection between you is amazing.”

If he only knew. I could still feel Tyson’s warmth from this morning, and I couldstill see how he looked, sleeping beside me. Every time his fingers brushed my skin, energy filtered through me.

“That’s a wrap,”Victoria announced. “Thank you both. This piece is going to be spectacular.”

As the crew packed up, she pulled me aside. “Whatever is between you two,”she said quietly, “it’s special. Don’t waste it.”

I watched her walk away, her words echoing in my head. Across the room, Tyson was checking messages on his phone, his powerful frame drawing every eye in the room. He looked up, caught me staring, and smiled. My heart fluttered, and my wondering thoughts returned. Why were we doing this dance? Couldn’t we just admit that we loved each other outside of friendship?

Or maybe he doesn’t love me in that way. And friendship is all he sees.

That thought crushed me, but I didn’t stay in that headspace when I heard his voice again.

“Lunch?”he asked, crossing to me.

“Don’t you have meetings?”

“I rescheduled them.”

“Why?”

“We should discuss the next steps. Are you hungry?”

“I could use a bite to eat.”

“It’s my treat.”

“Well, that’s all you had to say.”

He laughed, and we left in search of food.