6. Alex Sebring
Chapter 6
Alex Sebring
A slow jazz tune drifts through the air, weaving between the soft murmur of conversations and the occasional clink of glassware. Dim lighting glows from low-hanging chandeliers, the kind that casts enough shadow to blur edges and leave things undefined. The Rabbit Hole is the perfect place to be in public while remaining hidden.
I sit at a table tucked in a shadowed corner, whisky in hand, taking slow sips that burn enough to feel right. The bartender knows his stuff—smoky, smooth, with the perfect bite at the end. But even the best whisky can’t stop the tightening of the knot winding in my gut.
She’s on my mind.
I take another sip, feeling the burn settle in my chest as I admit the truth to myself—I baited her. I left that breadcrumb about coming here tonight, fully aware of what I was doing. I needed to know if she’d show, if there’s any part of her that feels this pull as strongly as I do.
She’s a professional, bound by rules and responsibilities. But if she walks through that door tonight… that would tell me everything I need to know, wouldn’t it?
Maybe she won’t show. Maybe she’s not interested. Maybe I read too much into our conversations and saw a spark that wasn’t really there at all.
Still, I can’t shake the pull toward her. She’s an itch I can’t scratch, a thought that won’t let me rest. It’s irrational, I know. I signed up for this process to meet my match. Cleopatra is supposed to be the one. Not Charleston.
But the truth is, if Charleston shows up, I won’t be able to walk away. And if she doesn’t come… well, that’s probably for the best.
My knee bounces under the table, a restless energy I can’t shake. I glance at the entrance, hoping against reason that she’ll walk through the door any second now. And I’ll somehow recognize her.
The door creaks open, spilling a shaft of golden light across the dark floor, cutting through the shadows like a spotlight. A cool draft sweeps in, carrying the scents of leather and whisky. Then a woman, alone, steps inside. Her silhouette is framed by the exterior lighting before the door closes with a soft thud behind her.
The woman is unfamiliar, her face one that I haven’t seen here before. It’s certainly one I wouldn’t forget. She pauses inside the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the dim lighting. She’s dressed simply—a green button-down blouse with rolled sleeves and dark jeans that hug her body just right.
Bloody hell, she looks good in those jeans.
There’s a quiet confidence about her that turns heads without effort. Long brown hair falls in loose waves over her shoulders. Her gaze sweeps the room—brown eyes? Green? Maybe hazel? I can’t tell.
And her face? God, she’s stunning. Not just beautiful. She’s breathtaking. The kind of beauty that sneaks up on you, leaving you off-balance.
I shift in my seat, feeling a sudden restlessness. Something about this woman pulls at me. She could be Charleston—or maybe not. Either way, I’m drawn to her.
She glances around the room, her gaze sweeping the space with quiet curiosity. There’s a hint of hesitation in the way she moves, like she’s not quite sure if she belongs.
I can’t take my eyes off her.
The knot in my gut tightens as I watch her scan the bar, her brow furrowing slightly, like she’s searching for something—or someone. Her gaze sweeps the room, and then, for a moment, her eyes meet mine. A spark of something unspoken passes between us before she looks away, breaking the connection.
She moves to the bar, leaning against it. The bartender approaches, and they exchange a few words. He nods, reaching for a bottle of Laphroaig, pouring the amber liquid into a crystal tumbler. With practiced precision, he produces an orange peel, twisting it to release its oils before dropping it into the glass. Then, with a quick flick of a lighter, he ignites a small wooden plank, letting the aromatic smoke curl over the rim of the glass before sliding it toward her. Her fingers wrap around the glass, her posture relaxed, but there’s an air of focus about her that keeps my attention locked.
I try to concentrate on my whisky, but it’s no use. My gaze keeps wandering back to her, catching the way she casually tosses her hair over her shoulder, almost like a habit, yet somehow deliberate. The way she tilts her head, scanning the room, studying people.
Our eyes meet again, long enough for my pulse to skip. Neither of us smiles, but there’s something there—something electric, sharp, and impossible to ignore.
Dave, the bartender and a man I’ve known for years, catches my eye and gives a subtle nod, motioning me over. I drain the last sip of my whisky and rise from my seat, my heart kicking up a notch.
He gives me a knowing smirk before moving to the far end of the bar, away from where she’s sitting. He leans in slightly, keeping his voice low. “I reckon the American woman you asked about just came in.”
I feel my pulse jump. “The one in the green blouse?”
He nods, his eyes cutting toward her. “Yeah. Sounds like she’s fresh off the plane. Yank, for sure.”
I lean closer, the anticipation building. “Does she have a distinct accent? A drawl?”
His grin widens. “Oh yeah. Could charm a snake just by speaking, that one.”
My chest tightens, excitement thrumming through me.
It’s her. Gotta be.
I glance over, catching sight of her as she lifts her glass, taking a slow sip. For a moment, it feels like she’s looking right through me—like she already knows exactly who I am.
A grin stretches across my face, unstoppable. I turn to Dave, nodding toward her drink. “Give me one of whatever she’s having.”
Dave chuckles, preparing the drink with an amused shake of his head. I take the glass and make my way back to my table, my pulse drumming a little harder with each step.
Our gazes meet again, and the corner of her mouth lifts, like she’s in on some inside joke I haven’t cracked yet. My stomach flips, and suddenly, I realize I’m grinning like a bloody idiot.
I take a long sip, then another, trying to quiet the nerves thrumming under my skin. Finally, I down the rest of the whisky, letting the burn settle in my chest.
Enough waiting. I can’t sit here another second.
I start toward her. My heart pounds, but a grin tugs at my mouth, unstoppable now.
“Hello, Charleston .”
She looks up, and damn if that smile doesn’t hit me square in the chest.
“Hello, Caesar ,” she says, her words draped in that unmistakable Southern drawl.
It’s her. I knew it.
The grin on my face stretches wider. I couldn’t hide it if I tried, and I don’t care to.
Without a word, she shifts slightly, nudging the barstool beside her with her foot—a clear, unspoken invitation to join her. I slide onto the seat, setting my glass down between us, my gaze locked on hers.
“I wondered if you’d come,” I say, my eyes studying hers.
Her gaze dips for a moment, fingers tracing the rim of her glass in a slow, thoughtful circle. “I shouldn’t have.”
“I’m glad you did.”
She lets out a small, shaky laugh, maybe more nerves than amusement. “This is incredibly unprofessional of me.”
I lift my empty glass, and Dave gives me a nod. “To hell with professionalism. It’s overrated.”
Her lips twitch at that, but her eyes betray the hesitation she can’t quite mask. “I could lose my job if anyone knew.”
“Don’t worry.” I hold her gaze, steady, reassuring. “No one will know.”
She glances down, adjusting the drink napkin with careful precision before looking back at me. “You’ve been matched with someone, and that match didn’t come cheap.”
“We might look like perfect mates on paper, but she’s not the woman for me.”
Her brow furrows, concern slipping through the cracks in her calm expression. “I hope I didn’t say anything to make you feel that way.”
I consider telling her everything—that talking to her felt natural while everything with Cleopatra felt wrong. But instead, I shake my head and offer a piece of the truth. “I knew Cleopatra and I weren’t compatible within the first five minutes.”
She studies my face, her eyes tracing over each feature like she’s piecing together a familiar puzzle. “This is weird for me… putting your face with the voice.”
I watch her closely, trying to read what she might think—if she’s impressed, indifferent, or somewhere in between. But she gives nothing away, her gaze steady, unreadable.
Not all women are drawn to men like me. I’m a big bloke—broad shoulders, thick arms, the kind of build you get from years of tackling on a rugby field. Dark hair, dark eyes, and a five o’clock shadow that sticks around no matter how often I shave.
My tattoos speak louder than I do sometimes—black ink winding down my arms, across my chest, marking my heritage and parts of my life that words can’t explain. And the scars... well, they’re remnants from battles or challenges I didn’t always win. They’re souvenirs etched into my skin, reminders that life rarely goes easy on anyone.
I get it—I’m not everyone’s cup of tea.
“You probably pictured some blond surfer.” I gesture to myself with a smirk. “Not a half-Samoan guy straddling two very different cultures.”
Her lips twitch, like she’s holding back a smile, but she shakes her head. “I didn’t have a picture in my mind.”
But there’s something in her eyes—a glint of approval, maybe even interest. Her gaze continues a beat longer than necessary, as if she’s quietly sizing me up and maybe likes what she sees.
I nod, feeling a little relieved. “Yeah, same here. I couldn’t picture you either.”
She leans back, a teasing gleam in her eye as the corner of her mouth lifts. “Now that I see you… you look a bit like Roman Reigns, the wrestler.”
A laugh escapes me, easy and unguarded. “You’re not the first to say that.”
Her grin widens, and damn if that smile doesn’t hit me straight in the gut, stirring something I wasn’t ready for.
“Well, you look like Kate Beckinsale.”
She arches a brow, amusement sparking in her eyes. “I’ve heard that one a few times.”
“It’s true,” I tell her, holding her gaze.
She tilts her head, pretending to weigh it. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
I smile, letting it settle between us, slow and deliberate. “You should.”
Dave slides a fresh whisky in front of me. I nod my thanks and turn my attention back to Charleston. “Have you had a chance to see any of Sydney yet?”
She shakes her head. “Not yet. But my coworkers and I have plans for tomorrow—a coastal walk, maybe the market afterward.”
“Good choice. That walk’s something else, especially at sunrise.”
She glances at her watch and lets out a laugh. “Yeah, let’s be real. Sunrise probably isn’t happening.”
“Fair enough. But when you’re ready for that surfing lesson, you know who to call.”
She laughs, shaking her head, her eyes bright with amusement. “That’s a hard no. Once was enough.”
I chuckle, raising my glass in feigned surrender. “All right, no pressure.”
She smiles over the rim of her glass, her eyes dancing with a hint of mischief.
I lean in slightly, watching her carefully. “So you really don’t know who I am?”
“Oh, I know exactly who you are. You’re Julius Caesar.”
I grin, giving her a teasing shake of my head. “So, no peeking at my file?”
She leans back, one brow lifting in exaggerated offense. “Nope. That would be completely against the rules. And grounds for termination. I happen to like my job, and I plan on keeping it.”
I study her for a second, wondering if she’s someone who sticks to the rules out of principle or if she’s not interested enough to investigate me. Either way, there’s a strange relief in knowing she’s in the dark about who I really am.
The last woman in my life saw me as nothing more than an opportunity, using my celebrity status to her advantage. She twisted private moments to suit her needs, pulling me in until she’d taken everything she could.
I’m not about to let that happen again.
This whole setup—and the anonymity of it—takes me back to how Jack arranged things with Laurelyn at the start. He hid his identity, just as I’m doing now. And for the first time, I truly understand why he did it. There’s a strange freedom in being known only for who you are in the moment without the burden of assumptions or reputation hanging over you.
And to have that with someone who isn’t from Australia? Even better.
I lean forward, resting my forearms on the bar. “You know, you said something in our first conversation that has stuck with me.”
Her brows lift slightly, curiosity lighting up her eyes. “Oh?”
“You mentioned you’d been through the school of hard knocks––graduated with honors and could’ve taught a few classes there.”
She shakes her head, appearing embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“You should never apologize for speaking your truth.”
She looks down at the glass in front of her. “My childhood was a tragic comedy.”
“How so? That is, if you’re okay talking about it.”
She shrugs, her expression softening. “I don’t mind. Talking about it has been part of how I’ve made peace with it.”
A wry smile curves her lips. “I was raised by two women—my mom, Robin, and my grandma, Charlene. They put the fun in dysfunctional. My mom had me when she was sixteen, and my grandma had my mom at sixteen. Both of them still kids themselves if we’re being honest.”
The math clicks into place. “Holy shit. Your grandmother was thirty-two, the same age I am now, when you were born?”
“Yep.” She takes a sip, eyes twinkling with amusement as she watches my reaction. “Crazy, right?”
I blink, a little speechless.
She lets out a small laugh. “I’m sure it’s a far cry from what you’re used to.”
I shake my head, absorbing the picture she’s painting. “What was it like? Having a mom who was a kid herself?”
“Let’s just say, Robin had some creative parenting techniques. She thought Mountain Dew in my bottle was perfectly acceptable—which, as you can imagine, had me bouncing off the walls. And when I was too wired to sleep, Charlene would top off my milk with a splash of brandy to help me settle down. ”
What the actual fuck?
She shrugs. “I think Robin saw me as her little buddy rather than a daughter. I wasn’t a kid she was responsible for—I was more like her sidekick, a playmate she could grow up with.”
I lean back, letting that sink in. “A child raising a child.”
She nods, her smile tinged with a sharper edge. “Exactly. Honestly, they showed me what to do in life by teaching me what not to do.”
“I don’t mean to judge people I don’t know, but that doesn’t sound like the best way to parent a child.”
She waves me off with a laugh. “Oh, don’t worry—I judge them all the time.”
Leaning forward, she props her chin on her hand, an amused glint in her eye. “The first eighteen years of my life would make a successful sitcom.”
I shake my head, wondering how she can find humor in it. “You left home at eighteen?”
“Oh, absolutely. When I got the chance to go to college, I didn’t think twice.” She pauses, her expression softening. “Someone I loved very much passed away and left me his estate. It was a bittersweet blessing... though my mom took the car for herself despite it being mine.”
“Wait, your mom stole the car you inherited?”
“Yeah,” she says with a small, humorless laugh. “That’s exactly what she did.”
She says it so matter-of-factly, but there’s something deeper in her eyes. Perhaps pain?
“I decided that if she could live with it, I could live without it. So I used what was left of the inheritance to get out and start fresh. College was my escape. My chance to finally breathe and find myself. It was the first time in my life I felt truly happy. That’s also where I met Violet—my best friend. We both work at Soul Sync now. She stayed back in Charleston while I took this assignment in Sydney.”
She’s only spoken of her mother and grandmother. “What about your dad?”
She lets out a heavy sigh. “He was also sixteen when I was born… and mostly absent from my life.”
I recall something odd she mentioned earlier. “You said you’re not exactly an only child?”
A smirk tugs at her lips, but without any real humor. “Yeah, my dad has a slew of kids with a bunch of different baby mamas. It’s very messy.”
“And your mom?” I ask.
“No more kids after me. Robin knew she wasn’t cut out for motherhood, and I thank God she had the sense to realize that early on. She made sure another kid never came along and disrupted her life.”
The heaviness in her voice makes me think twice. Some things are better left unsaid, and I’m not about to push.
She takes a slow sip of her drink, her gaze drifting to some far-off point. “Whoever the man of the moment was, he always became my mom’s whole world. Men are like shiny objects to her—once the sparkle fades, so does her interest. I figured that out pretty early on.”
She shifts in her seat, a faint smile softening her expression as her words take on a thoughtful, almost wistful note. “I guess it runs in the family. My grandmother wasn’t any less complicated than my mom. But I don’t hold it against them. They each had their own trauma, and I’ve come to terms with that.” She meets my gaze. “A long time ago, I decided I needed peace more than their expressions of regret.”
There’s a quiet wisdom in her words that surprises me. Her emotional intelligence—especially where her parents are concerned—is remarkable. She’s learned to see their flaws, their mistakes, and the consequences of their past doings without letting any of it define her.
“Enough about me. What about you? What was your childhood like?”
Guilt tugs at me as I think about what she’s shared. Compared to her stories, my childhood was a dream, filled with love, chaos, and laughter. It feels almost wrong to talk about it.
“I told you I’ve got five siblings, right? Three brothers and two sisters.”
She nods, a soft smile touching her lips. “Yes, you told me.”
“My parents are amazing. I grew up in two worlds. My dad’s Swedish, and my tinā is Samoan. And trust me… those two cultures couldn’t be more different.”
Charleston tilts her head, intrigued. “Your tinā ?”
“Tinā means mum in Samoan.”
“How long has your dad lived in Australia?”
“Over forty years. I only got to experience the Swedish side of my heritage during visits to Sweden with him, meeting his family and seeing where he grew up.”
She laughs, the sound light and genuine. “The closest thing I have to a cultural tradition is bad decisions, yard sales, and perfecting a potato-chip sandwich by the time I was seven.”
I blink at her, stunned for a second. “I’ve never heard of a potato-chip sandwich.”
Her grin widens, eyes sparkling with humor. “No one should ever hear of a potato-chip sandwich.”
She yawns suddenly, covering her mouth with her hand. “Sorry.”
I arch a brow, teasing, “Am I really that boring?”
Her laughter is soft. “Not at all. My body hasn’t adjusted to the time zone yet.”
I glance at my watch, noting the hour. “It’s late, even for me. The Rabbit Hole will be closing soon.”
I toss some money on the table, covering both our tabs plus a nice tip for Dave. I have to reward him for confirming Charleston’s identity.
She frowns slightly. “I can’t let you pay for my drinks.”
“Too late. It’s already done.”
Her expression softens. “Well… thank you.”
As she gathers her purse, I get up. “Can I drive you to wherever you’re staying?”
She shakes her head. “Not necessary. My hotel is a short walk.”
“Which one?”
“The Harbourview Grand.”
I grin, and she narrows her eyes, catching on immediately.
“Your family owns it, don’t they?”
I shrug, lifting a brow in silent confirmation.
We walk side by side toward the hotel, the quiet night disturbed only by the hum of passing cars and the distant roll of waves. Our conversation drifts easily from Sydney’s weather to favorite movies and the places she hopes to see before her assignment ends.
Then, about half a block from the hotel, she slows, stopping and turning to face me. “I’m sorry. I can’t risk being seen with you.”
I nod, slipping my hands into my pockets. “I get it.”
Honestly, I’m not too keen on being seen with her either—but for different reasons.
“So… are we really going to keep calling each other Charleston and Julius Caesar?” Truth be told, I like the game and mystery of it—it keeps things simple… or at least simpler than the alternative.
She nods, a thoughtful look glinting in her gaze. “Yeah… I think that’s best.”
“All right. I can roll with that.” I’m in no rush to tell her I’m a former professional athlete. That’s not a conversation I’m ready to have.
I glance toward the hotel entrance ahead, then back at her. “Goodnight, Charleston.”
Her lips curve into that quiet, knowing smile I’m starting to crave. “Goodnight, Caesar.”
I take a small step back, reluctant but knowing it’s time to leave. “I hope we get to talk again next week.”
She doesn’t say yes or no. Just smiles and says, “We’ll see.”
“I’ll be at the Rabbit Hole again tomorrow night. Ten o’clock,” I call out to her.
She pauses, glancing back over her shoulder, her expression unreadable.
“It’s Retro Rhythms night,” I add with a playful grin. “A throwback to ’70s and ’80s music. There’ll be dancing in the backroom. Come. Wear your dancing shoes.”
For a moment, I think she might say something—but instead, she gives a small nod, her smile hovering like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me.
I watch her go, a quiet thrill settling in, knowing she means to keep me guessing.