Page 4 of Steel Beauty

My pulse quickens as it hits me—the male client. Early.Veryearly. And Whitney has already escorted him into the men’s side of the suite while I’m still here not quite ready to leave.

“Oh fuck-a-duck,” I say under my breath.

Of course he’s early—because why wouldn’t he be, right, when I need everything to be flawless? I’ve poured so much into this project, perfecting every detail to create the ideal atmosphere for the client. Normally, I’m ready on time, early even, but this time? No chance. Elijah has been hovering nonstop like a human speed bump slowing me down at every step.

“Take a seat and make yourself comfortable. Can I bring you a drink while you settle in?” Whitney’s voice is smoother than a politician’s promise. The oh-so-polished way she speaks to clients feels worlds apart from the girl who’ll chug a beer with me after work.

Tonight, we’re definitely grabbing beers bigger than our clients’ egos, if that’s possible. It’s a tradition at this point—work hard, celebrate harder.

“Water would be great, thanks,” the client says, his deep Australian accent carrying through the divider.

“Would you care for sparkling or spring?”

“Sparkling, please.”

Sparkling, of course. Heaven forbid, he drinks something as lowly as tap water. I bet he’s never had water from a lime-green garden hose that’s been baking in the sun all summer long—water so hot you could steep tea in it. He’d probably keel over on the spot.

Just as I’m deciding how I’ll make a stealthy exit, Sophie slips into the room, closing the door softly behind her. Her eyes widen in apology, and she tiptoes toward me, speaking in a whisper.

“Magnolia, I’m so sorry.” Her eyes dart in the direction where the client is on the other side of the divider. “The male client arrived early.”

I sigh, rubbing my temples. “Why didn’t Whitney seat him in the waiting room?”

She winces slightly, her lips pressing together in a sheepish, apologetic way. “He requested to wait in the suite instead. Said he wanted a moment to settle into his surroundings.”

Clients who come to Soul Sync expect everything to be tailored perfectly to their needs. It’s what they’re paying for, after all. And we’re here to give them exactly that.

“Is he nervous?” I whisper, still trying to figure out how to finish up this side of the suite and make my getaway.

Sophie nods. “Very. He’s doing his best to play it cool, but I can tell.”

“It’s fine. Not your fault.” I brush it off with a wave of my hand, glancing around the suite. “I need to make a few final changes before I go.”

Sophie nods in understanding and quietly slips out, leaving me alone to finish up. I make the final adjustments—smoothing a pillow here, adjusting the throw there—my mind already plotting the quickest way to make my escape.

I glance around one last time. The suite looks exactly how I envisioned it.

I give the room one final approving look, telling myself it’s time to get out before anything else happens. And that’s when the unmistakable chime of my phone cuts through the silence as I’m about to make my exit.

Ohhh, fuck-a-doodle-doo!

I dash toward my phone, fumbling to hit the silence button, but it’s too late. The alert has already echoed through the room. Meanwhile, this morning’s French toast does a somersault in my stomach, teasing whether it’ll decide to stay put or make a grand exit.

My ringer is usually off, but with today’s workload, I turned it on in case someone from work needed to reach me.

And of course, it’s Elijah. My annoyance with him bubbles up again.

Before I can even process how to move forward in a professional manner, I hear the client’s deep voice on the other side of the divider. “Hello?”

Phone in hand, all I can do is freeze. There’s no avoiding it now. “Uh… hello,” I manage, hoping he can’t hear the awkwardness in my voice.

Silence stretches between us for a moment. “Are you… my, uh, date?” His words stumble slightly, the uncertainty noticeable.

A soft gasp escapes me. “Oh, umm… clients who’ve been paired with potential mates are called Soul Sync matches. Not dates. But no, I’m not yours. I’m the set designer. I was putting the final touches on this side of the room.”

“Soul Sync matches,” he parrots, sounding intrigued.

Odd. The term is used repeatedly in their contracts.

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