Page 11 of Steel Beauty

MJ returns with her guitar, and the kids gather around, settling in to listen. Jack drapes an arm over the back of Laurelyn’s chair, and she leans into him, their quiet affection as natural as breathing. She strums the first chords, her melody rising with surprising confidence that takes me by surprise. Music isn’t a just a talent for this family—it’s a part of who they are.

As I watch them, an ache stirs deep in my chest—a longing for something real. Not only a partner, but a life like this—messy, full of love, and beautifully imperfect.

Chapter4

Alex Sebring

Soul Sync comesinto view as I ease the car into a parking space, my heart drumming like it used to before a big match. Adrenaline buzzes through my veins, and my hands grip the wheel tighter than I’d like to admit. I roll my shoulders, trying to shake off the tension.

Thirty minutes early—intentional, not desperate. Or so I tell myself.

Okay, maybe a bit desperate.

I’m hoping my early arrival might leave room for a little luck. Hopefully another chance encounter with Charleston will satisfy the curiosity that’s been gnawing at me all week.

Her Southern drawl has been on repeat in my head:You’ll do fine, Caesar.I’ve played her voice over and over, as if it could somehow pull me back to that moment in the dating suite when I felt steady, grounded, and more myself than I have in a long time.

The entire drive here was spent rehearsing what I might say if we cross paths. Keep it casual? Compliment how she set up the room? Or maybe take a real chance and say something likeI’ve been thinking about you––but not in a stalker-like way.

Yeah, smooth as sandpaper, mate.

A glance at my watch tells me I’m twenty-eight minutes early now. Not that I’m counting—but yeah, I’m bloody counting. Clients aren’t supposed to hang around before or after their session. Rules are rules, but what’s the harm in hoping for a small twist of fate?

Deep breath, mate. Play it cool.

The automatic doors swoosh open, welcoming me inside. The woman who showed me to the suite last week greets me with a polite smile. I return a quick nod, keeping my hands tucked firmly in my pockets, like that’ll sell the idea that I belong here.

“Early again,” I say, shifting my weight. “It helps to have a minute to settle in.”

She offers a polished smile. “Of course, Mr. Caesar. We want our clients to feel completely at ease before each session.”

I relax a bit, relieved she’s not here to call me out for bending the rules.

I scan the lobby in search of anyone who might be Charleston, and my breath catches for a moment when I spot a woman with dark hair.

“Good evening, Mr. Caesar,” she says, her voice cheerful as she offers a polite smile. “Welcome back to Soul Sync.” Her accent is missing that unmistakable Mississippi lilt.

No sign of Charleston. Yet.

The letdown hits hard, heavy as a tackle to the ribs. She might not even be here today. This could all be wishful thinking on my part. It’s stupid, really, coming early and hoping for a chance encounter that might never happen.

Still, I check the time again. Twenty-five minutes left. There’s still time.

The client experience specialist returns with a practiced smile. “Your suite is ready, Mr. Caesar.”

Mr. Caesar. Makes me sound like I should be leading a bloody legion into battle or wearing a laurel wreath. All I need now is a toga and a scroll to decree my greatness.

A twinge of disappointment hits. I force a nod and mutter a thank-you, though the words feel heavy on my tongue.

So, I guess that’s it. No Charleston today.

I tell myself it’s irrational to care this much. I’m here for Cleopatra—she’s the match after all, which is the whole point of this process I paid far too much for, right? Yet the hollow ache of disappointment remains, as stubborn as ever.

Charleston’s words replay in my head, uninvited, pulling me back to the moment we spoke. I can still hear her laughing through the divider––that easy, light sound that felt like a tether pulling me out of my spiral.

I shake my head, annoyed with myself. Focus, mate. Forget the American woman you talked to through a wall. Stick to the plan, Sebring.

The client experience specialist leads me down the hall, her heels clicking against the freshly polished floor. When we reach the suite, she turns and offers a smile so smooth it could sell sand to a bloke at Bondi. “Everything is all set, Mr. Caesar. I’ll leave you to get comfortable.”

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