Claiming his Leading Lady

Chapter 1

Late November, Cape Town, South Africa

“Typical celebrity,” she muttered, striding across the polished marble floors to the large windows overlooking the end of the runway at Cape Town International Airport. “Keeping us mere mortals waiting.”

The late-November sun poured over everything, turning polished fuselages to liquid silver as planes arrived and departed in a carefully choreographed ballet of motion and precision.

In the far distance, the Hottentots-Holland Mountains rose in a purple-blue silhouette etched against a sky so clear it looked brittle.

The private lounge hummed with hushed privilege — cool air, rich coffee, and the quiet sigh of leather seats. A far cry from the frenzy of a public airport. Suzette was acutely aware of how little this world belonged to her.

Once, she’d been days away from homelessness, clawing her way back only because Miem had given her an escape. Her bank account looked healthy now — but not this healthy. Not private-jet healthy.

No, that luxury belonged to the man she was waiting on — the very definition of unreachable.

Miem joined her, handing her a tall glass of chilled water. No plastic bottles for executive passengers.

“Thanks.”

Miem popped a miniature meatball into her mouth, dabbing delicately at the corners with a cloth serviette. “That charming young man who drove us here said JK is twelve minutes out.”

JK.

JK Kenzie.

Hollywood film star.

She’d been crushing on the man for as long as she could remember — from the adorable child actor to the brooding teen idol, to the leading man of romcoms and high-octane blockbusters. In her darkest moments, his movies had been a lifeline, lifting her spirits when nothing else could.

And she, Suzette Antoinette Bosch, fifty-six-year-old widow, hotel manager, was meeting him today.

In. Real. Life.

When he eventually arrived.

In twelve minutes.

They’d already been here for fifty. An entire hour she could’ve spent back in Paternoster making sure the woman in Room Twelve, the one fighting cancer, had extra towels and quiet. Or chasing down the plumber about the dripping tap in Room Nine.

The weeks leading up to the hotel’s busiest season were the worst time to take a week-long break.

Even if the reason was her daughter’s wedding.

“These meatballs are perfect. Here, try one.”

Suzette eyed the plate Miem thrust toward her, but her stomach tightened, the restless knot inside bubbling like a witch’s brew. “Not now,” she murmured, gently pushing her friend’s hand away.

She forced her gaze back to the window and spotted a small, sleek silver jet descending rapidly. Narrowing her eyes, she followed the aircraft as it approached the runway. Had to be him. Right?

How many other private flights were expected? There’d been no other passengers since they’d arrived.

“That’s him!” Miem practically vibrated beside her. “Can you believe it? We’re going to meet JK, Suze.” Her voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “The one whose image covered the walls of your little corner of the dormitory. Remember? You had posters everywhere!”

Ugh. She remembered all too well. Never mind that she still owned his entire DVD collection and watched them far too often.

The jet touched down, wheels kissing the tarmac in a perfect landing. Suzette’s chest tightened, adrenaline making her fingers tingle, a flutter rising in her stomach. Her heart hammered in a wild rhythm she couldn’t slow as the plane taxied toward the private apron with unerring grace.

What was wrong with her?

He was just a man. Flesh and blood.

Maybe seeing him in real life would finally cure her of the foolish daydreams — the posters, the DVDs, and, mortifyingly worse, the late-night fantasies she’d never admitted to anyone.

He was probably an arrogant and narcissistic prima donna — what was the male equivalent of a prima donna, anyway? — and that would cure her of this terrible affliction she had going on.

Miem squeezed her arm. “He’s here, Suze! Can you even—?”

The aircraft eased to a stop in front of the executive building. Her stomach fluttered again, her throat tightening. The door opened, and a set of steps extended gracefully to the tarmac.

Two men emerged and paused. Neither were JK. They scanned the area before loping down the steps to speak to the driver who’d brought them here. Bodyguards. Of course. A movie star would need them — to keep the mere mortals at bay.

And then he appeared, confident, upright, radiating effortless charm. Suzette’s heart lurched violently, a staccato rhythm that made her stomach flutter as if it wanted to leap into her throat.

Miem let out a small, barely contained squeal and leaned closer. “There! There he is!”

Suzette’s chest tightened further, a strange warmth pooling behind her ribs.

She forced herself to breathe, though each inhale came shallow, uneven.

Every step the man took down the jet’s stairs sent a ripple through her — treacherous, uninvited, impossible to ignore.

Her body had apparently missed the memo that she was far too old for this nonsense.

Pausing at the bottom, he passed his duffel to a waiting crew member, and walked toward another jet.

Sleeker and larger, it gleamed beneath the sun like a monument to excess, as if it waited only for its owner.

He greeted the waiting man with that easy, back-slapping camaraderie men seemed born knowing how to do.

And then he looked toward the building.

Toward her.

Awareness jolted through her, leaving her frozen and acutely alive. Surely he couldn’t see her. Or could he?

Her pulse surged; her skin tingled. What on earth was happening to her?

“Need the bathroom,” she mumbled, bolting for the relative privacy of the restrooms.

Her shoes squeaked against the tile as she hurried down the short corridor. The air felt thinner here, heavy with the tang of disinfectant. She gripped the sink’s edge and stared at the woman in the mirror — flushed cheeks, wide eyes, every inch the fool she swore she wasn’t.

“Get a grip, Suzette,” she muttered, forcing her voice steady. “You are not a starstruck teenager anymore.”

Her hands trembled slightly as she splashed cold water onto her face, the shock grounding her just enough to think. Her pulse still raced, her stomach fluttering in ways that made no sense. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, breathing deeply, willing the flood of sensation to settle.

He was no longer the man on the screen, but flesh and blood, and far more dangerous to her composure than she’d ever imagined. But it was still a dream.

Because why on earth would a man like JK Kenzie give her the time of day?

*

The Cessna banked low over False Bay, its engines droning a steady hum through his bones. He’d flown in smaller planes, landed on rougher strips, and sweated through hotter zones, but today even the gentle descent felt like punishment.

He rolled his shoulder, grimacing as a dull ache flared under his ribs. The medic on set had called it a bruise, not a crack, but hell, it hurt. That’s what he got for insisting on doing his own stunts.

Fifty-nine and still trying to prove he could fly through an explosion without a double. Idiot.

He rubbed absently at the spot, eyes on the water below.

It was a rare wind-free day, the usually choppy ocean lay still, a calm basin of blues and golds along the curve of the bay.

Stunning, yes. But he was too wrung out to appreciate it.

And he had a long flight ahead. Twenty hours, if refueling and immigration went smoothly.

Listen to you, old boy. Moaning when you fly in the lap of luxury.

He mentally ran through the week ahead.

An overnight flight to Texas to drop off his passengers.

Then on to Los Angeles to ensure the film he’d poured his heart and soul into got the final cut it deserved. The action drama set in Mpumalanga was his passion project. He’d wanted something honest. Something that mattered. And he got that — at great physical and emotional cost.

After LA, it was back to Texas for his nephew’s Thanksgiving wedding. Max had asked him to stand beside him when he said his vows to Esther. It was a request that had surprised him more than he’d let on.

The Cessna’s tires squealed as they hit tarmac, the plane shuddering before slowing and coasting toward the private hangars.

Justin exhaled, unbuckled, and grabbed his duffel.

He thanked the crew and followed his security team into the sunlight.

The glare hit him hard, and he reached for his sunglasses. Ah. Better.

Ahead, his Bombardier gleamed white and sleek, the stylized JK logo on the tail catching the light. Justin handed off his duffel to a member of the ground crew and stretched his sore side carefully.

A tall man in aviators and a sharp uniform stood at the bottom of the Bombardier’s stairs.

“JK!” The pilot grinned, stepping forward for a quick bro-hug. “Heard you roughed yourself up again.”

Austin was former Air Force, and the man who’d taught him to fly.

Justin huffed a laugh, slapping his shoulder. “Nothing that won’t heal.”

“Good. Everything’s ready inside. Flight plan filed, crew briefed. We’ve got a new takeoff slot in—” Austin checked his watch. “Thirty-six minutes. Time enough to collect our other passengers and let customs do their thing.”

He groaned. Right. His passengers. “Esther’s mom and her friend. And apparently, fans.”

The pilot smirked. “Sucks to be JK Kenzie.”

He scowled. The last thing he wanted was to share the cabin with a pair of starry-eyed, middle-aged superfans when all he craved was silence and a place to stretch out. But silence wasn’t on the menu — he’d relinquished his private quarters to the ladies. The gentlemanly thing to do.

He turned toward the low, glass-fronted building.

And hesitated.

Squinting, hands on hips, he studied the reflective glass, something about walking in there made his chest tighten.

Ridiculous. It’s just two women. Get going.

Inside, cool air washed over him. He slipped off his sunglasses.

A woman rose from one of the leather chairs as he entered.

Round, rosy-cheeked, wrapped in florals and unfiltered joy. Her eyes went wide. “Hemeltjie tog, it really is you! JK Kenzie in the flesh!”

Justin smiled, autopilot kicking in. “At your service …” He tilted his head — Suzette or the friend? — and extended his hand.

The woman clasped it with both of hers, shaking like they were long-lost cousins.

“I’m Miem Steyn. Suze just went to the ladies’.

We’ve watched all your movies!” Her hands fluttered like she couldn’t decide whether to shake his again or frame his face.

“You look even better in person. Sjoe, I’m sweating.

This is worse than meeting the Pope. Not that I’ve ever met the Pope.

” Her eyes went wide. “Ag, listen to me babble. But you have — met the Pope, I mean?”

He laughed despite himself. “Once. Very briefly. I think you’re handling this better than I did.”

His gaze slid past her shoulder.

The sucker punch hit square in his chest.

For a second he forgot his ribs, his fatigue, his age. Everything. He just stood there, rooted to the polished floor like a fool, watching her approach.

He couldn’t look away.

This was Suzette. His nephew’s future mother-in-law.

She was gorgeous.

Slender. Long hair the color of sunlight on wheat, loose and wild around her shoulders. Her clothes flowed — cotton, beads, soft fabrics in muted earth tones that made her glow. A worn leather bag crossed her body, coppery bangles at her wrist.

She hesitated halfway across the lounge when she saw him, hand tightening on the strap of her bag. Her expression flickered — surprise, wariness — before she straightened her shoulders and came toward him.

She reached him, a calm smile forming as she extended her hand. “Mr. Kenzie. Or do we say JK?”

He found his voice, rougher than he liked. “Just … Justin’s fine.”

Her hand was cool against his, delicate but sure. A pulse of warmth jumped beneath his skin, gone as quickly as it came.

“Thank you for letting us tag along,” she said. “I promise we’re not complete pests.”

“Pests?” He managed a grin.

She laughed softly; the sound went straight through him.

Pure. Musical. Real. That same warmth stirred again, low and unsettling, as if her voice had reached the same nerve her touch had sparked.

“Customs is ready, sir,” an airport official called from the doorway, saving him from himself.

Justin released her fingers and cleared his throat. “Right. Let’s get going before they move our takeoff slot out.”

Miem bustled ahead, fanning herself with her passport. Suzette fell in beside her, digging through her bag as her bracelets gave a soft jingle, a delicate floral scent trailing behind her.

Lingering a step behind, he watched the gentle sway of her hips, the shimmer of her hair rippling down her back, and breathed in that sweet, intoxicating fragrance.

The warmth stirred again — not just under his skin this time, but somewhere deeper, where it had no business being.

He shoved a hand through his hair, muttering under his breath as he followed them. He’d thought the hardest part of today would be surviving another fan encounter.

Turns out, it was going to be pretending the boho blonde hadn’t just undone him completely.