15. Alex Sebring
Chapter 15
Alex Sebring
A light sweater, Bermuda shorts, a ball cap, and dark sunglasses—practical enough to blend in yet casual enough to keep things low-key.
It’s been quiet lately—no sneaky photos, no reporters lurking—but experience has taught me the hard lesson of never becoming too comfortable. All it takes is one sleazy photographer with a long lens to turn a private moment into tabloid material.
Celeste thrived on the chaos. She fed off every flash, every candid shot sold to the highest bidder. The attention was her lifeblood.
The memory still churns in my gut, a bitter reminder of how I let her pull me into that circus—a circus she seemed to relish creating. It wasn’t just the cameras; it was the way she turned small moments into full-blown dramas, escalating everything into a public spectacle and drawing even more attention to us.
Celeste has occupied more than her fair share of my headspace, and I won’t let her take any more. This weekend is about spending time with Charleston. Work has been hectic, and it’s time to kick-start the getaway I’ve been looking forward to all week. Friday evening to Sunday night. No plans, no distractions. Just us taking it easy and letting the world fade away for a while.
I told Charleston to keep it simple—low-key clothes, nothing flashy that might draw attention. A weekender bag with a couple of swimsuits, enough for a weekend on the water, and one outfit for a date. That’s it.
Leaning casually against my Jeep, I glance toward the hotel doors, waiting. When they slide open and she steps out, it’s like the air shifts.
For a second, my breath catches.
Damn.
She nailed low-key—cutoff denim shorts, a T-shirt, a ball cap pulled low with her ponytail peeking out the back, and oversized sunglasses covering half her face.
But here’s the catch: she looks too good. Nothing about her outfit should stand out, yet somehow, she makes it impossible to look away. Maybe it’s her legs. Or the way the sunlight catches her skin, wrapping her in that soft golden glow.
She strides toward me, bag slung over her shoulder, pulling off carefree while looking far too tempting for someone trying not to draw attention.
She stops in front of me, her oversized sunglasses hiding those playful hazel eyes, but a grin tugs at the corner of her mouth. “I was looking for the G-Wagon.”
I gesture toward the Jeep. “This ride’s a lot less conspicuous. The goal this weekend is to stay off the radar.”
Charleston adjusts the strap on her shoulder, nodding with a knowing smile. “Low profile… I like that a lot.”
We climb into the Jeep, and as soon as she’s settled, I reach over, gently cupping her chin to turn her face toward me.
“What is it?” Her curiosity mingles with a playful smile.
I tilt my head. “Just trying to see your ball cap.”
Her grin widens, and I can tell she’s holding back a laugh. The hat has D4K embroidered across the front in bold letters.
“D4K? I don’t know what that means.”
She smirks, clearly enjoying my cluelessness. “It’s Dak’s emblem. You know, Dak Prescott? Number four?”
Her crush.
I chuckle, shaking my head. “Seriously? You show up for a weekend getaway with me, wearing a Dak hat?”
“Wait, it gets better.” Mischief dances in her eyes as she tugs at the hem of her shirt. “Read it.”
My eyes flick to the graphic on her chest—Dak Prescott front and center. Beneath his image, a line of text curves across the fabric, but the font, stretched over the curve of her chest, makes it impossible to read without a little extra effort.
Damn dyslexia.
I squint, leaning in slightly. “The font’s a little distorted with the way you’re sitting.”
Frustration rises up, sharp and unwelcome. The fact that I can’t even manage to read a damn T-shirt in front of her stings more than I want to admit.
Charleston twists in her seat, laughter bubbling up as she reads it for me. “It says, ‘ Big… Dak… energy.’ ”
A laugh escapes me despite myself. “Oh fuck me.”
“I plan to, JC… good… long… and hard ,” she says quickly, her grin widening into something far too smug. “What’s the matter? Are you jealous of Dak?”
I scoff, trying for nonchalance, but even I hear how unconvincing I sound. “No, of course not.”
Hell yeah, I’m jealous. I’d much rather see her wearing a ball cap and shirt with me on it instead of him. But she’s completely unaware that I have my own line of rugby merch.
She tilts her head, a playful brow arching as she leans in, the brim of her cap grazing mine. With a smirk that sends a spark through me, she reaches up, adjusts both our caps, and closes the distance. Her lips touch mine—soft, sweet, and unhurried—the kind of kiss that hits deep, undoing something in me no amount of confidence could ever hold together.
“Feel better now?” Her words are soft, carrying a playful edge.
I rub my jaw, pretending to mull it over. “Marginally.”
Her smirk deepens, satisfied but still playful. “Good.”
The Jeep rumbles down the road, the tires humming against the pavement. Charleston props her feet up on the dash, her hair dancing in the wind. I steal a quick glance at her before turning my focus back to the road. She looks completely at ease, the very picture of carefree contentment.
“Hey, can you text me the links to some of those weird songs you listen to?”
She pulls out her phone, laughing. “I knew you liked my music.”
I shake my head. “No, I don’t. I want the songs available so I can play them for you when we’re together.”
She smirks, chuckling. “Liar. You’re totally going to listen to my music when I’m not around.”
I grin, shaking my head again. “No, you’ve got it all wrong. Music says a lot about a person. I want to know you better through your song choices.”
“If you say so.” She smirks as she types on her phone. A moment later, my phone buzzes in the cupholder.
“I sent you my log-in information. That’s easier than sharing links to multiple songs.” She glances at me with a playful glint in her eye. “Do you mind if I connect to this car’s Bluetooth?”
I gesture toward the console. “I’d be disappointed if you didn’t.”
“I want you to know me better… through my song choices. ”
She taps a few buttons on her phone, and the Jeep’s Bluetooth chimes in response. A second later, one of her weird songs spills through the speakers, filling the car with a mix of beats and melodies that are so distinctly her.
Charleston leans back in her seat, a spark of mischief lighting up her expression. “I’m certain you’ve never heard this one.”
I glance at her sideways, smirking. “News flash. I’ve never heard any of them.”
She laughs. “This one’s ‘Naughty Naughty’ by John Parr––a classic ’80s vibe.”
“Clearly.”
The song kicks in, and before I know it, she’s completely animated, singing along at full volume, her voice unapologetically loud and brimming with life. Her hands drum against her knees, her body bounces with the rhythm, and for a moment, she’s not just singing—she’s performing. There’s no doubt in my mind she’s danced to this song more times than she’ll ever admit.
I occasionally glance over at her, and a thought slips through my mind: God, I could get used to this.
Her performance continues and another thought enters my mind. “You know, you remind me of my mate’s wife… except she can sing well.”
Charleston gasps in feigned outrage, punching me lightly on the arm. “Well, excuse me, but we can’t all be musical superstars, can we?”
I grin, the corners of my mouth tugging upward. “Laurelyn was.”
The moment her name slips out, I silently reprimand myself. It’s probably a step too far—another breadcrumb leading her closer to figuring out who I really am. But honestly, I’m not too worried. She hasn’t shown much interest in discovering my identity.
She furrows her brow. “Who’s Laurelyn?”
I keep my eyes on the road. “My mate’s American wife. She was a famous country-music star before they got married. Gave it all up to move to Australia and be with him.”
“She really gave up her career?” The surprise in her words is unmistakable.
“Sure did. She still works in the music industry but not on stage anymore. Her priorities changed—building a family with Jack became the focus.
Charleston shifts in her seat, clearly intrigued. “When you say country-music star, are we talking about a struggling artist playing in dive bars in Nashville?”
“No. She was the original lead singer of a very well-known band. Hugely successful. You would absolutely know who they are if I said the name.”
“Wow. That’s pretty selfless, giving up something she must’ve worked so hard for.”
“I doubt she sees it that way. Laurelyn’s madly in love with Jack. Marriage and kids mattered more to her than fame ever did. And they’re so damn happy. If I’m being honest, I envy what they have.”
Charleston’s smile turns a little wistful. “Sounds like they’ve built something amazing together.”
I nod slowly, the thought of Jack and Laurelyn settling heavily but warmly in my chest. “It hasn’t been without struggles—a lot of them actually. No marriage is perfect. But yeah, they’ve created something incredible.”
The Jeep slows as I pull into the harbor, the scent of saltwater mingling with the faint hum of boat engines and the steady whisper of the wind through the open windows. Charleston sits up a little straighter, her gaze sweeping over the rows of sleek boats swaying gently on the water.
Her head tilts slightly. “We’re going out on a boat?”
I glance her way, a sudden thought striking me: what if she gets seasick?
“Yeah, unless you don’t do well on the water.”
She shakes her head, her ponytail swinging. “No idea. I’ve never been out in the ocean on a boat before.”
“I keep medication on the yacht for guests, just in case.”
Her eyebrows lift, surprise crossing her face. “A yacht ?”
I chuckle, pulling into a parking spot. “Yes, a yacht.”
She narrows her eyes at me playfully. “Your family’s yacht?”
I grin as I cut the engine. “Nope. It’s mine.”
Her eyes widen, disbelief mingling with curiosity as she studies me like I’m a puzzle she’s still trying to piece together. “ Who are you? ”
The corner of my mouth lifts into a teasing smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”
She leans back in her seat, crossing her arms, her playful skepticism on full display. “Am I out here running around with someone famous and don’t even realize it?”
I laugh, shaking my head as I climb out of the Jeep, but I don’t give her an answer.
I grab our bags from the back of the Jeep. “Keep your cap low and don’t take off your sunglasses.”
Her brow furrows as she studies me—really studies me—like she’s trying to piece together a mystery she’s only beginning to unravel. “You are, aren’t you? You’re famous.”
The question is a curveball I’m not ready to swing at—not here, not now. “Used to be. I’ve spent some time in the spotlight. But not anymore.”
She leans her hip against the Jeep, arms crossed. “I wouldn’t like that at all––being in the spotlight. I’m content with not being seen or heard.”
Her words sink in, bringing a strange, unexpected sense of peace.
I step closer, gently pushing back the brims of our caps, just enough to tilt her face toward mine. My lips brush hers in a soft, unhurried kiss—a silent thank-you for something I can’t quite put into words.
When I pull back, her eyes meet mine. “What was that for?”
“For being you.”
I take her hand, leading her toward the dock where the yacht awaits. The gentle hum of the engine vibrates beneath our feet as we step aboard. The yacht’s caretaker runs through a quick checklist with me, confirming that all safety checks are complete before officially handing her over to me.
We’re completely on our own now.
I glance at Charleston, her expression teetering between excitement and curiosity.
“Let me give you the tour before we head out.”
She trails after me as I guide her through the layout, her wide eyes absorbing every detail. At the helm, she leans casually on the railing, a playful glint in her eye as she looks back at me. “Are you an experienced sailor?”
I smirk, amused by the question. “No, but I am an experienced yachtsman . The Royal Yachting Association declares that I’m more than qualified to skipper this beauty.”
She laughs, light and teasing. “Just making sure you’re not about to turn us into the stars of some based-on-a-true-story movie like Adrift .”
I chuckle, the corners of my mouth lifting. “Considering how that movie ends, I think I’ll pass.”
“It would be wise.”
I step closer, my hand brushing lightly against her back. “Don’t worry. We’ll never be too far from shore.”
Curiosity flashes in her eyes. “Where are we going?”
“We’ll spend the evening cruising along the coastline. Then we’ll stop for dinner somewhere along the way. And by tonight, we’ll drop anchor right outside Newcastle.”
Excitement sparks in her eyes as she steps closer. Wrapping her arms around me, she tilts her head with a mischievous glint. “Drop anchor, you say?” Her voice dips, playful and teasing. “Are you also planning on dropping your anchor in me tonight?”
My naughtiness matches hers. “I’m definitely dropping my anchor in you tonight—and I’ll make sure it’s properly secured.”
Her words drip with playful seduction. “Ooh, your yachting talk is so dirty. Keep it coming.”
“I’ll keep it coming.”
I catch her mouth in a quick kiss, savoring her taste before pulling back. “We need to get moving. It’s three and a half hours to Newcastle, and I want to anchor down at a decent hour.”
“What will we do for dinner?”
“Taken care of. Chloe has hooked us up.”
Her face lights up, excitement lighting her eyes. “Chloe cooked for us again?”
“Sort of. She sent food and recipes. But fair warning—if you leave me in charge of the kitchen, I’d probably set the yacht on fire. So, cooking’s on you. I’ll handle the cleanup.”
“I’ll happily cook and clean, as long as you take care of the sailing. And the anchoring. ”
Sliding a hand around her waist, I pull her closer, my words dropping to a playful murmur. “You can count on me.”
The yacht glides smoothly out of the harbor and into open water. The sun dips lower on the horizon, casting a golden shimmer across the waves. Charleston settles into the cockpit seating near the helm, the wind tugging at the brim of her cap.
She reaches up, pressing her hand to the bill to keep it from flying off.
“We’re out of the harbor now,” I call over the wind, glancing down at her with a grin. “You can ditch that if you want.”
She shoots me a knowing look, her lips curling into a smirk. “You’re saying that because you hate my Dak hat.”
I keep my eyes on the water as I steer us along the coastline. “Well, if that’s the case then lose the shirt too.”
“You wish.”
“I’ll get you out of it sooner or later.” That much is certain.
Her eyes sparkle with mischief. “I hope sooner rather than later.”
She reaches up, pulling off her cap and shaking her hair free. The breeze catches it, sending loose strands dancing around her face as she leans back in her seat.
Charleston’s attention drifts to the rippling water beneath the yacht. After a moment, she turns to me, her eyes soft with curiosity. “How was your day?”
The question stirs up thoughts of my session with Dr. Whitfield. For a moment, I consider telling her the truth. But in the end, I hold back. Because that’s what I do.
Admitting I spend an hour in therapy every two weeks feels complicated. Embarrassing, even. With all the advantages I’ve had in life—and knowing how hard she’s fought to get where she is—how could I ever complain to her about the injustices I’ve experienced?
She’s so damn strong––the epitome of turning life’s lemons into lemonade. Not just lemonade. No, she turns lemons into something extraordinary… like limoncello.
What she’s endured and overcome is something I admire more than I’ve ever told her, more than she’ll ever know. She’s not just a survivor; she’s a fighter. A thriver, the kind of woman who takes every curveball life throws her way and somehow comes out on top while still smiling.
“Same old, same old for me. Today was nothing special. Until now. What about you? Anything exciting happen at Soul Sync today?”
She lets out a small groan.“Actually, it was a pretty exciting day at Soul Sync.”
“Let me guess—you got to design a new dating suite?”
“I did, but that’s not the exciting part.”
I wonder if someone famous came in. “Tell me.”
“Cleopatra came in today.”
That grabs my attention. “Why?”
Charleston shrugs. “To raise hell about you breaking off the match.”
A laugh escapes me, and Charleston playfully narrows her eyes. “It’s not funny,” she says though her own laughter betrays her.
“Oh, it’s definitely funny.”
“I wasn’t there, but they said she was irate—like, actually scary. Honestly, she might be a little unhinged.”
“She gave off that vibe. I noticed she was obsessive about certain things. It was like nothing else existed when she locked onto something.” Reminds me of someone else I used to know.
“It made me feel guilty, hearing how hurt she was.”
“Hey, you’re not to blame for any of that.”
She shrugs, her thoughts visible in her expression. “Some would argue that I am. If I hadn’t—” She stops herself, but the guilt is written all over her face.
“I told you, I wouldn’t have gone back for a second date with Cleopatra. The only reason I even returned to Soul Sync was to talk to you.”
She nods slowly, but I can see that guilt still dwells in her eyes. “I can’t help feeling bad about it.”
“That’s because you’re a wonderful human being with a huge heart.” I glance at her, noticing how much she’s overthinking it. “Come here.”
She steps away from her seat, moving to stand between me and the helm, leaning her weight into me. I press a quick kiss to the side of her face.
“Now,” I say softly, brushing her hair back, “put on some of that weird music of yours. I know it’ll make you feel better.”
“You already know me so well.” Her grin returns, her spirit lifting. “All right, Captain Swoony. What kind of music are you in the mood for?”
“You’re the DJ.”
“Does this thing have cruise control?”
A laugh rumbles out of me. “I think you mean autopilot.”
“Whatever,” she says with a dismissive wave. “Does it?”
“It does.” I scan the horizon, noting the calm waters ahead. “And yeah, we’re in the clear now. It’s safe to put it on for a bit.”
She pulls out her phone and connects it to the yacht’s Bluetooth, scrolling through her music.
Soft notes drift from the speakers, and I glance over. “What are we listening to?”
Her face lights up. “This one is ‘Chances’ by Air Supply. Fun fact—they’re Australian.”
I think my tinā listens to that band. “I couldn’t name a single Air Supply song.”
With a theatrical gasp, she clutches her chest, eyes wide. “You, my friend, are seriously deprived. But don’t worry.” She gives me a playful wink. “I’ll educate you. By the end of this trip, you’ll be a fan of all the greats.”
I think we have different ideas about what makes great music.But before I can respond, she steps closer, wrapping her arms around my shoulders. Her touch is warm, calming.
“Dance with me,” she whispers, the gentle invitation in her words stirring something I can’t resist.
I oblige without hesitation, slipping my arms around her waist. The music fills the quiet between us as we sway together, moving in a slow circle beside the helm.
Everything about the moment feels right—her body pressed against mine, the gentle roll of the water beneath the yacht, the soft melody wrapping around us like a cocoon. I hold her close, letting myself savor the simple, perfect peace of being here with her.
* * *
We’ve been sailing for a couple of hours, the coastline still visible but drifting past as we move onward. Charleston rises from her seat, her fingers brushing lightly over my shoulder as she heads toward the cabin.
“I’m going to get dinner started.”
“Sounds good. I’m hungry.”
“You’re always hungry,” she says, giggling.
I ease the yacht to a slower speed, the hum of the engine fading as I shift it into neutral. The water is calm, the golden hues of the setting sun spilling across the surface. There’s not another boat in sight—just us, the open water, and the endless horizon.
Charleston reappears, carrying plates to the outdoor dining area. She’s prepared everything Chloe sent—simple, elegant dishes perfectly suited for an evening like this. The sight of her setting up, her movements unhurried and natural, feels like its own kind of magic.
“Easy dinner tonight.”
“What did she send?”
“Smoked salmon with dill, salad, several different cheeses, sourdough bread.” She places the plates on the table. “Oh, and let’s not forget the perfectly paired wine.”
I kill the engine, letting the yacht drift lazily with the current. As I join her at the table, the sight of her framed by the endless ocean and the soft glow of the setting sun steals my breath for a moment.
We sit, clinking glasses of chilled white wine, and an overwhelming sense of peace settles over me. Out here, with Charleston beside me, it’s as though the burden I’ve been carrying finally lifts.
The depression, the anxiety, the anger—all of it fades into the background, distant and powerless against me. With her, there’s only joy. Only light. She makes me feel like the best version of myself.
Maybe I bring out the best in her too?
We savor the food and the view, the soft sound of the waves providing the perfect backdrop.
“So, why interior design? What made you choose that for a career?”
She takes a slow, deliberate sip of wine, nostalgia flickering in her eyes. “It’s kind of funny actually. Growing up, everything I had—or rather, what little I had—mostly came from yard sales.”
Her words hit me harder than I expect, a pang of sadness settling in at the thought of her having so little.
“When I got older, I’d do odd jobs around the trailer park. Leonard and Janet would pay me a few bucks here and there. It wasn’t much, but at the time, it felt like a fortune. Eventually, I realized I loved taking other people’s junk and turning it into treasure. I’d find an old, ugly décor piece at a yard sale, buy some paint or craft supplies, and turn it into something I was proud of.”
She shrugs, but her eyes hold a glimmer of pride. “I got pretty good at putting lipstick on a pig.”
See? Lemons to limoncello, I tell ya.
I smile, charmed by her story. “And now, here you are, turning that talent into a career. Impressive.”
Her expression shifts to something thoughtful. “Funny how one of the things that used to embarrass me the most is actually what led me to where I am today.”
Her eyes shine with pride. “Who would’ve thought painting other people’s junk would one day land me a job that brought me to Australia… and to meeting an amazing bloke like you?” Her smile softens as her words come out in a quieter, more intimate murmur. “Fate works in mysterious ways sometimes.”
I reach across the table, taking her hand in mine and giving it a gentle squeeze. “Funny thing, fate.”
Suddenly, a smile breaks across her face, followed by a bubbling laugh. She gestures toward the song playing through the yacht’s speakers. “This song—‘Too Much Time on My Hands’ by Styx—brings back memories. One of the very few happy ones with Robin. I don’t have a lot of those, but this one? It’s a good one.”
Leaning closer, I rest my elbow on the table, intrigued. “Tell me about it.”
She chuckles, settling back into her seat. “So, when I was little, Robin didn’t have a car. She always borrowed Charlene’s—a black 1978 Firebird, like the one Burt Reynolds drove in Smokey and the Bandit .” She pauses, giving me a sidelong look. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you?”
I offer an apologetic smile. “Sorry, not a clue.”
She waves a hand, dismissing it. “I’ll show you later.” A mischievous glint dances in her eyes before she continues. “Anyway, that car was fast. And Robin and Charlene both drove it like a bat out of hell.”
I pause for a moment, taken aback by the way she speaks about these women who raised her. She always calls her mother Robin and her grandmother Charlene. It’s not something I’ve heard often—most people would say Mom or Mum, Grandma or Nan. There must be a reason behind it.
For now, I let it go. It doesn’t feel like the moment to ask.
She leans forward, her energy picking up, each word flowing with vibrant rhythm. “There was this gravel road we used to drive down, and it split into a Y. Right at the split, the road widened, and the gravel was thick—perfect for what she liked to do.”
Her eyes are full of fondness. “Every time we got to that spot, Robin would crank this song up as loud as it would go and ask me, ‘Do you want me to do it, baby?’” Charleston’s laughter bubbles up, rich and unfiltered. “And there I was, standing in the passenger seat—not the back seat where a kid is supposed to be—shouting for her to do it.”
My curiosity is piqued. “Do what exactly?”
She gives me a playful, almost daring look. “Do you know what gravel drifting is?”
“Enlighten me.”
Her hands move animatedly, like she’s back in that Firebird, as she tells the story. “It’s when you whip the car into a spin on gravel—kind of like drifting, but messier. Robin would nail it every time, sending the tires sliding perfectly over the gravel in this wild spin.” She shakes her head, laughing. “Honestly, I’m lucky she didn’t kill me. I could’ve flown right out of those T-tops.”
My eyes widen at the image forming in my mind. “That sounds bloody dangerous.”
A shadow of seriousness crosses her face. “It was very dangerous.”
The recklessness of it sits heavy with me. It’s hard to reconcile that a parent would place their child in that kind of danger. But then I remember—Robin was just a kid herself when Charleston was born. Maybe she didn’t know better, or maybe she simply didn’t think it through.
Charleston’s expression softens, her words filled with quiet determination. “I’ll tell you this much—I’d never put my child in danger like that. Not ever.”
There isn’t a careless bone in Charleston’s body. That much, I know. Everything she does is deliberate—and thoughtful—from the way she speaks to the way she moves through the world. Recklessness isn’t in her nature. If she says she’ll protect her future children, I believe her.
But something in her words sticks with me. My child. It’s the first time she’s mentioned having children.
“Sounds like you’ve thought about having kids someday.” I keep the question casual, not wanting to press too much.
She shrugs, her gaze drifting to the horizon. “Yeah, maybe… if the circumstances were right.”
The moment feels right to ask the question that’s been on my mind. “You told me you weren’t looking for a husband. Is that because you don’t want one at all? Or because it doesn’t fit into your life right now?”
She pauses, her expression thoughtful as she takes her time to answer. “I grew up watching a cycle with Robin, Charlene and the men who came through the revolving door of our trailer. They’d show up, stick around long enough to get what they wanted, and then they were gone.” Her words lower, tinged with an unspoken pain. “But it wasn’t one-sided. Robin and Charlene used those men too for whatever they could get out of them. It was a messy situation.”
Her gaze fixates on the horizon as she continues, “I don’t want to be like that. I will never depend on a man to take care of me, and I’ll never be at a man’s mercy. I will always stand on my own two feet and handle whatever comes my way.”
Her words settle between us, and I take a moment to consider what it must be like for her—or for any woman—to carry that kind of fear, that determination to never rely on someone else. “I understand your need to be independent, but having a partner to do life with doesn’t make you weak. The right man will stand with you, not above you. A relationship should never be about needing someone. It’s about choosing to share the load so neither of you has to carry everything alone.”
She goes quiet, her brow furrowed in thought. After a moment, she nods slowly. “That’s a really good point, JC. I’ve never thought of it that way before.”
She doesn’t say anything else right away, just gazes out over the water, the corners of her mouth curving into a quiet, reflective smile. Her hand brushes against mine, and she gives it a light squeeze. “Thank you for showing me a different point of view.”
It’s not a grand declaration or some life-changing epiphany. It’s a small, shared moment between us. And for now, that’s more than enough.