4. Alex Sebring
Chapter 4
Alex Sebring
Soul Sync comes into 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 like I’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.”
She turns to go, and before I can think it through, my mouth acts without my brain’s permission. “Is the set director here today?”
She freezes mid-step, glancing over her shoulder with a glimmer of surprise in her expression. “Is everything all right with the suite?”
I scramble for something to say, my mind racing. “Yeah, yeah—everything’s fine. I was hoping to make a small request.”
Her smile falters for a second, but she recovers quickly, professionalism sliding back into place. “Of course. I’ll see if she’s available to speak to you.”
The suite feels smaller than I remember. I try to settle into the leather chair, but my nerves won’t let me sit still. I shift, stand, pace the room, listen for footsteps in the hall or the other side of the dating suite.
The minutes crawl by, dragging my anticipation with them. Even if she’s here, what if she’s not interested in chatting with some bloke who can’t get her out of his head?
I rub the back of my neck and force myself to sit. Deep breath, Alex. Keep it together. You’re acting like a nervous schoolboy, not a grown man.
The door to the other side of the dating suite opens quietly, and the moment I hear her voice, my heart jumps to attention like it’s just heard the starting whistle.
“Hello, Caesar. How are you?”
Her words come through smooth and warm, wrapped in that soft Southern drawl. It hits like a balm, settling the nerves simmering under the surface. There’s something in her easy, honeyed cadence that makes everything around me fade just a bit.
I pause long enough to steady myself. “I’m good. Yeah, good.”
There’s a brief pause before she speaks again, her voice slightly slower, careful. “Is there something not to your liking? Your client experience specialist said you needed to speak to me about a change.”
Every word I’ve rehearsed vanishes. “About that––” I feel like an idiot. “That’s not exactly true.”
There’s a beat of silence. “If there’s an issue with the suite?—”
“No, no. The suite’s perfect.” I fumble to get the words out, wishing I sounded smoother. “I just… the truth is that I was hoping to talk to you again.”
A brief silence follows, and for a moment, I wonder if I’ve overstepped.
“You wanted to talk to me ?” The words come soft, edged with curiosity and a hint of caution.
“Yeah.” Nerves buzz under my skin. “I said I had a request for the suite because I wasn’t sure if it would be against company policy for staff to have a personal chat with a client.”
She pauses, long enough to make me wonder if I’ve crossed a line. “I don’t think there’s a policy regarding that. To my knowledge, it’s a non-issue.”
“So we’re good then?”
“I believe so.”
Now that I’m calmer, I settle back into the chair. “You made things easier last time. Talking to you helped.”
“Oh, what a lovely compliment. I enjoyed talking to you as well.”
I’ve always been a confident guy, never one to stumble over my words, especially with women. But there’s something about her that has me second-guessing everything I say, like I’m a teenager with sweaty palms and a crush. She’s got me feeling a certain way. And as unsettling as it is, I kind of like it. That odd flutter is a reminder that not everything is predictable, and some things are still worth chasing.
“So Charleston… are you married?”
Her laughter is light, almost playful. “No, Caesar. I’m not married.”
“Are you dating anyone?”
“Not at the moment… which is funny, right? I work for a matchmaking service, but I’m not in a relationship.”
A smile tugs at my lips, and I’m glad she can’t see me grinning like an idiot. “I don’t know. Sounds like the classic case of the cobbler’s kids having no shoes.”
She laughs. “I figure the right relationship will come along when it’s meant to. I guess I think it’ll fall into my lap or something like that.”
I pause for a moment, considering her words. “Yeah, I get that. Timing’s everything, isn’t it? Right person at the wrong time… well, that’s just bad luck.”
“It has to be the right person at the right time or it doesn’t work.”
“Now feels like the ideal time for me. I just have to find the right person.” The words land heavier than I intended, so I clear my throat, hoping they don’t sound as loaded as they feel.
I hear sounds from the other side of the divider––the faint murmur of whispers and unmistakable sound of someone coming and going from the other side of the dating suite.
Charleston clears her throat. “Cleopatra has arrived.”
Oh bloody hell, she’s early.
The announcement cuts through the easy rhythm of our conversation, sharp and sudden. I sit up straighter, the spell between us evaporating, and frustration rises in my chest. Of course, the moment had to end just as it was beginning. Timing, once again, working against me.
“It’s time for me to step out. Have a good date.”
“Thank you, Charleston.”
“You’re quite welcome, Caesar.”
Think. Think. Think.
“Actually, umm… I thought of another place you have to check out while you’re in Sydney. The Rabbit Hole. It’s a speakeasy with an incredible whisky selection.” I clear my throat, trying to sound casual. “It’s a top spot. I’m going there tonight for a drink.”
“I do enjoy a nice whisky.” There’s a flare of intrigue in her words, subtle but noticeable. It makes me wonder if she’s more tempted by the idea of the speakeasy—or maybe by the thought of us both being there.
I lean in, a grin pulling at my lips. “You’d love the Rabbit Hole. It has a special kind of atmosphere—dark, a bit mysterious. You should definitely come.”
She lets out a soft laugh. “Perhaps I’ll pay the Rabbit Hole a visit.”
Her words don’t feel like a brush-off, but they’re also not a confirmation that she’ll come either—something in between, leaving me wondering.
“See you later,” she says.
And then she’s gone, leaving behind the echo of her voice—and the ache of something unfinished.
The soft click of the door signals Cleopatra’s arrival. Her heels tap lightly against the floor as she takes a moment to settle in on the other side of the divider.
“Hi, Julius Caesar!”
The date with Cleopatra is everything I dreaded it might be. Polished, rehearsed, and utterly uninspiring. She talks about herself—the Pilates classes, the raw vegan cleanse, the Bali trip—all in a stream of shallow anecdotes that leave no room for real connection. Every question I ask feels like a lifeline she ignores, pulling the conversation back to her achievements, her curated life.
It’s unsettling how much she reminds me of Celeste. Even her voice has the same smooth, practiced lilt—except Celeste’s had an edge to it, a sharpened sweetness meant to disarm before she cut you down.
I try to stay engaged, to focus on why I’m here, but my thoughts keep wandering. With Cleopatra, the words don’t flow naturally. There’s no rhythm, no spark. By the time she asks if I’m all right, I realize I’ve spent more time thinking about Charleston than I have about the woman sitting on the other side of the wall from me.
The date drags, every second stretched too thin, until I finally find an opening to interject. “Cleopatra, would you mind if I stepped out for a visit to the restroom?”
Cleopatra hums in acknowledgment, the sound light and indifferent. “Of course, go ahead.”
She’s probably already preparing to launch into another story about herself upon my return—something to do with her latest fitness routine or the skincare regimen she swears by.
Once I’m free of the suite, I pause, scanning the hallway. My heart kicks up a notch, foolishly hoping for a glimpse of Charleston. I know I’m crossing a line—one I shouldn’t even be considering—but the pull is stronger than logic.
I glance left, then right. Nothing. Just the usual buzz of Soul Sync’s staff moving about, familiar faces from before.
The client experience specialist spots me and approaches with a courteous smile. “Is everything all right, Mr. Caesar?”
I shove my hands in my pockets, playing it off. “Yeah, just, uh… looking for the restroom.”
Her professional smile doesn’t waver as she points toward a corridor down the hall. “Right this way.”
“Thank you,” I follow her, disappointment settling low in my gut.
Ridiculous. Here I am, paying an ungodly amount of money for this bespoke matchmaking experience, and I’m not even focused on the woman they matched me with. Cleopatra deserves better. Hell, I deserve better—better than getting caught up in someone I wasn’t even meant to meet.
I splash cold water on my face in the restroom, leaning on the sink for a moment, forcing myself to breathe. I’m not being fair to Cleopatra. She paid for this experience too.
Focus, Alex. Give her a real chance. That’s why you’re here.
It’s not her fault I’ve spent the entire evening comparing her to Charleston. And it’s not Charleston’s doing that she’s still stuck in my head.
The guilt gnaws at me as I straighten up, dabbing water from my face with a paper towel. Get back in there. Do what you came here to do.
With one last glance down the hall—just in case—I head back toward the suite, determined to give this date the effort it deserves. Even if my heart isn’t quite in it.
Cleopatra wraps up with the same polished farewell as last time, her words smooth and practiced like she’s done this a hundred times before. “I enjoyed our time together, Caesar. I’m looking forward to the next date.”
“Same here.” Even as the words leave my mouth, they feel hollow, like an actor reciting a line from a script I didn’t write. There’s no spark, no sincerity behind them—just an obligation fulfilled. When her footsteps retreat through her side of the suite, the air feels lighter, less stifling.
The door clicks shut, and I find myself standing still for a beat longer than necessary. A pull at the back of my mind, dragging me toward the exit, hoping—no, praying—that fate will throw me a bone. Maybe I’ll catch a glimpse of Charleston before I leave. Just one.
But there’s nothing. No familiar drawl, no accidental meeting. Just the hum of Soul Sync’s sleek, polished environment.
I stick around longer than I should, my gaze scanning every passing figure, hoping against hope to see a new face. But no luck. Just the same old staff, moving in their usual rhythms.
It’s irrational, I know that. But still, I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I was meant to see her again.
“Maybe next time,” I mutter under my breath, trying to convince myself.
The late afternoon air, cool and crisp, greets me as I step outside with the fading sun casting a golden glow over Sydney’s skyline. I pause for a moment, taking it all in—the distant hum of traffic, the chatter of passing conversations, and the steady rhythm of a city that never slows down.
As I walk away from the building, each step feels heavier than the last, a pang settling deep in my chest. I know it’s reckless, chasing a connection that wasn’t supposed to happen. But real or not, planned or not, that connection feels like the only thing in this whole process that makes sense. And somehow, I know I’m not ready to let it go.
Sydney’s skyline blurs as I walk to my vehicle, Charleston’s voice echoing in my mind. And then the thought slips in uninvited, but I let it stay—how perfect it’d be if she showed up tonight at the Rabbit Hole.
Just the two of us, tucked away in a hidden speakeasy without rules or dividers. Just conversation and whisky.
Maybe, just maybe, she’ll be there.