Page 45 of Steel Beauty

“Got it,” I say, more to myself than to him.

“Good.” His arms cross over his chest as he tilts his head, his grin widening. “Let’s hear it. Put on your favorite playlist—I’m curious to learn what kind of music gets you going.”

I scroll through my playlists, landing on the one I always return to—the soundtrack that fits every mood. I tap shuffle, and within moments, the room fills with the unmistakable rhythm of “Straight On” by Heart. The beat pulses softly through the speakers, and I find myself shifting my weight from one foot to the other, a subtle sway in time with the music. My fingers tap lightly against my thigh, the smallest movements betraying how easily the song pulls me in.

Caesar listens for a moment before glancing at me. “I don’t recognize this one.”

I’m not the least bit surprised. “I didn’t think you would. Most people our age are completely clueless when it comes to my music taste—’60s, ’70s, ’80s, ’90s. I’m a little all over the place.”

“You’re into throwbacks?”

“Throwbacks, vintage vibes, timeless hits—call it whatever you want. Music from those decades has a special kind of magic to it. It feels raw and real in a way that sticks with you.”

He nods thoughtfully, then flashes a knowing grin. “Retro Rhythms at the Rabbit Hole must’ve been right up your alley.”

Loved every minute. “Oh, it was perfect. The playlist was spot-on—it was like stepping back in time.”

His grin widens, satisfaction clear in his expression. “I could tell. You looked like you were in your element.”

“What about you? What kind of music do you like?”

“Hip-hop or country.”

I laugh, unable to hide my surprise. “Those are two very different genres but both very cool.”

He shrugs, that easy charm of his on full display. “Sometimes you want something with a beat, and sometimes you need a good story.”

I sink into the plush couch, letting the song wrap around me like a comforting embrace. Music has such a way of softening the edges, making everything feel a little bit lighter.

Caesar sits opposite me, leaning back comfortably with one arm resting along the top, his gaze steady and curious. “So, how did you end up falling for this kind of music?”

“It’s kind of a funny story.” The memory tugs at the corners of my mind. “I grew up in a trailer park. The people who owned it, Leonard and Janet, took me under their wing.”

I catch the spark of curiosity in his expression and cut off the question before it even forms. “And no, before you ask, Leonard wasn’t a creep or anything. He was a good man. He saw a kid who needed someone and decided to step up when no one else would.”

Memories flicker like snapshots in my mind. “Robin and Charlene were gone a lot, so I spent most of my time with Leonard and his wife, Janet. They made sure I was fed and safe. But here’s the funny part about how my taste in music started—one of the tenants at the trailer park was a hardcore music lover. She had this massive collection of vinyls and cassettes—’60s, ’70s, ’80s, ’90s, you name it. She couldn’t pay rent because she spent all her money on music. Anyway, she got caught selling meth and went to jail, so Leonard kept her stuff as payment for what she owed him. Whenever I stayed with Leonard and Janet, we’d dig into that collection and listen to everything. That’s where my love for music really began.”

His expression softens. “Leonard’s the one who left you his estate, isn’t he?”

“Yeah, that’s right. Leonard and Janet lost their only child when she was young. It broke something inside them, something that never really healed. They needed me as much as I needed them. I thank God for them. They gave me stability when no one else did. They were good to me—better than anyone ever had been. Honestly, I don’t know where I’d be today if they hadn’t stepped in.”

“I’m really glad you had them.”

“Me too.” There’s still a bittersweet ache in my chest when I think about them. “I miss Leonard and Janet every day.”

We sit in comfortable silence for a moment, the music weaving its way through the air, turning into more than background noise. It feels like a bridge—connecting me to the memories and people who shaped me.

I let the silence stretch for a beat before glancing at him with a small smile, breaking the quiet. “Okay, enough with the heavy stuff. Show me the rest of this place.”

He pushes off the arm of the couch with a casual ease. “Right this way.”

He leads me through the penthouse, casually pointing out features as we go, but it’s the bedroom that truly steals my breath. Understated yet undeniably luxurious, the space exudes quiet elegance. A king-sized bed is dressed in soft linen bedding, flanked by sleek, minimalist nightstands, and a low bench positioned neatly at its foot.

But my eyes go straight past the bed to the floor-to-ceiling windows dominating the far wall.

He gestures toward the windows. “This view is one of the best in the city. You’ve got the whole harbor right in front of you.”

Drawn to the glass, I step closer, my breath catching as the view unfolds before me. The water stretches out in endless ripples, dotted with boats gliding under the moonlight. In the distance, the Sydney Opera House gleams, its iconic sails shimmering with reflected light. It’s the kind of view that could hold you captive, and for a moment, it does.

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