Chapter 6
Several days before Christmas, Paternoster, South Africa
Recognition was instant. The aviator glasses and ballcap didn’t fool her. Neither did the scruff covering his jaw. After all, her lips had mapped every inch of that body not so long ago. The memory of his scent and the feel of his skin against hers still haunted her nights.
Their gazes locked across the busy dining patio, and he lifted his chin.
Her brow furrowed. Acknowledgment? Challenge? She couldn’t tell.
The breakfast hostess appeared at his side, drawing his attention, and giving Suzette a moment to untangle the jumble in her head.
What the hell was he doing here? In Paternoster. At her hotel.
Lifting the coffee carafe, she wove her way between the tables until she reached the one the hostess had shown him to.
It sat tucked between two massive boulders at the edge of the patio, offering an unobstructed sweep of golden sand and turquoise water.
The most private spot in the house. Reserved solidly for the next two weeks by a nearby holiday home.
For him?
He sat there, maddeningly relaxed, chair angled toward the ocean, legs stretched out, chinos rolled to mid-calf, ankles crossed, and slip-on leather shoes that looked both careless and expensive.
The faded Led Zeppelin T-shirt clung to a still-fit frame, the short sleeves exposing his sun-bronzed forearms, the spattering of hair doing nothing to conceal the corded strength.
Beneath the brim of his cap, a few strands of light brown hair escaped, curling slightly at the edges.
“You can’t be here,” she muttered, flipping the coffee mug upright with more force than necessary.
His smile widened. “Good morning, Suzette. You look particularly gorgeous today.”
“Justin.”
“Suzette.”
She set the coffee carafe down with a thunk and collapsed into a chair. “What. Are you. Doing here?”
“Visiting you.”
Her breath caught. Of course he was. Just strolling into her world as if he hadn’t turned it upside down once already. As if he belonged here — in her hotel, her town — flashing that easy movie-star smile that made rational thought impossible.
She forced her voice steady. “You can’t just … visit me.”
“Why not?”
Why not? Why not? “Because.”
He tilted his head, amused but kind. “You’ll have to do better than that.”
Her pulse kicked up. “Because this isn’t” — she waved a hand, words tangling — “whatever you think it is.”
His smile deepened, lazy and knowing. “Then tell me what it is.”
“We had a one-night … thing.”
The words felt brittle. A lie. Because it had been so much more. The man had rocked her world. And shaken her heart loose in the process.
“One night?” He leaned forward, forearms resting on the table, his hand so close their pinkies almost touched. “Funny thing, Suze. I’ve been trying for weeks, but I can’t seem to forget.”
Neither could she. God help her, she’d tried.
But they’d both known it was a dead end. “Come on, Justin. Be real. Our worlds are so far—”
“I don’t care about worlds.” His voice was low, rough with feeling. “I have never felt this way about a woman before. Any woman.”
He lifted his hand, then dropped it again, issuing a slight huff. The fancy watch sporting a deep blue face and shiny silver strap screamed high-end even if she couldn’t name the make. It was different to the elegant one he wore at the wedding.
“Thoughts of you consume me, Suzette Bosch. To such an extent I’m here, asking, begging you to give us a chance.”
Her chest tightened, heart hammering against ribs that felt too small to contain it. Every nerve in her body screamed to reach for his hand, to confess her longing to be held in his arms again, to tell him she felt the same.
And yet …
She pulled back slightly, clasping her hands together. “You don’t understand. This … us … it’s a dead end. You know it, I know it.”
He leaned closer and captured her hands in his. “I see it differently. I see a possibility. Maybe even something wonderful.”
His hands were warm, broad, covering both of hers with ease.
Heat pulsed through her, winding its way up her arm, straight to the hollow beneath her throat.
She remembered those hands. Remembered the way they had traced the contours of her body with unhurried certainty, his touch carrying her to heights of passion she’d long since tucked away, places she hadn’t revisited. Until him.
Her throat constricted. Part of her wanted to throw caution to the wind, but another part — the smarter, prudent part — whispered warnings of heartbreak and impracticality.
She pulled her hands free and forced a shaky breath. “It won’t work. Not now. Not ever.”
And still, she couldn’t look away.
He sat back slowly, the brim of his cap throwing his face into shadow, leaving his expression unreadable. Yet she felt his gaze — even behind those dark lenses — tracing over her like a physical touch.
She squared her shoulders, pretending composure, though inside everything twisted tight into a restless, aching need she didn’t dare name.
When he spoke, his voice was low, smooth, and devastatingly intimate. The kind of tone that curled around her like silk and sunlight. “I’m here for two weeks, Suzette. Fourteen days. Give me that time to prove you’re wrong. To show you this isn’t just chemistry or madness. That it’s real.”
A beat passed. His head tipped. “And if, after that, you still feel the same … I’ll walk away.”
He nudged the white mug with its blue wavy trim toward her, the gesture casual, his voice anything but. “Now pour me some of that delicious brew,” he said softly, “and think about what I said. Please.”
The simple plea landed harder than it should have — quiet, earnest, cutting straight through her defenses. She hesitated, fingers tightening around the coffeepot, aware of the way his gaze followed every movement.
Suzette filled his cup, careful not to spill, though her hand shook just enough to betray her.
She didn’t trust herself to look at him. Not yet. Not when a single glance might make her say yes to fourteen days of heartbreak waiting to happen.
*
It took forever for her to lift her gaze to his again.
Justin felt every second of that silence.
The tension, the distance, the way her hand trembled just slightly as she set down the coffeepot.
The faint jangle of her bracelets filled the space between them, bright and delicate against the heavy thud of his pulse.
Beads rested against the hollow of her throat, catching the light as she breathed — small, earthy things that somehow made her seem even more unattainable.
He wanted to cross the space between them, to pull her close and kiss away every shred of hesitation, every reason she thought they couldn’t work. But he couldn’t. Not yet.
“Have dinner with me,” he said quietly. “Tonight. My place.”
The words hung between them — simple but charged. They carried far more than an invitation. It wasn’t just a meal he was asking for. It was a chance.
She shook her head. “I can’t. I have plans.”
Disappointment flickered through him. An excuse? A brushoff?
“Bridge tournament,” she said. “Our last game of the year.”
“You play bridge?”
“I do.”
“Bet you’re good at it.”
“Very. Do you play?”
“A time or two,” he quipped, lips twitching.
She rolled her eyes. “Bet you’re brilliant.”
“Maybe.” His smile softened. “You free tomorrow evening?”
Her lips curved. “Maybe.”
“Touche, sweet Suze.” He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Will you please have dinner with me tomorrow evening?”
Sunlight caught in her hair, turning the strands to gold — a halo that made his chest ache with something dangerously close to reverence.
Her eyes, blue as the sea rolling beyond them, met his.
Earnest. Contemplative. The teasing spark was gone now.
A thousand things unsaid flickered there, but her face remained carefully composed, revealing nothing.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, she gave a small nod. “Okay,” she said softly.
Relief loosened the knot in his chest. His mouth curved. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”
“Seven-thirty. My day ends at seven.” She tilted her head slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear — her bracelets chiming again, soft and musical. “You staying at the Driftwood Villa?”
“I am.”
“No need to fetch me. It’s a five-minute walk.” She nodded once, composure firmly back in place, and reached for the carafe. “I’ll send a server to take your order.”
Just like that, she was gone — the faint jangle of her bracelets and the lingering fragrance of a summer garden leaving him wondering how the hell fourteen days was ever going to be enough.
And whether it was fair dragging her into his world, into the chaos that followed him everywhere he went.
It wouldn’t take long for the paparazzi hounds to sniff him out, even in a sleepy coastal town like this. And when that happened, no matter how discreet he tried to be, Suzette would be thrust into the gossip cycle — photographed, speculated about, picked apart.
Normally, he dated women who knew the game — actresses, models, women fluent in the language of publicity. It was easier that way. Safe. Predictable.
But Suzette Bosch? She wasn’t any of those things. And that, he realized, was exactly why he couldn’t stay away.
The quiet arrival of the server interrupted his musings. The young man placed a plate of artfully arranged fruit beside a bowl of muesli crowned with a neat dollop of yogurt and a drizzle of honey.
“Mrs. Bosch suggests you try the lobster eggs Benedict, sir.”
Justin’s mouth curved, a low hum escaping him. He glanced toward the dining room, catching a flash of her hair, the sway of blue material as she moved among the guests, and felt his pulse kick up again.
“Sounds wonderful.”
“How would you like your eggs, sir?”
“Soft.”
“Soft it is.” The young man gave a polite nod before spinning away, collecting a few empty plates from a nearby table as he went.
Justin leaned back in his chair. For the first time in weeks, the world felt still. Centered. Because she was somewhere in it.
Life was always go, go, go. There was little downtime for him. Flights, meetings, sets, interviews. A constant blur of motion and noise. He rarely sat still, never mind doing nothing.
Yet here he was, on a warm, sun-drenched patio mere days before Christmas, waiting for breakfast and thinking about a woman who’d upended his world with a single word: okay.
He had never married. Never even come close. The women who drifted through his life were beautiful, successful, confident. None of them had made him want to stay.
Until Suzette.
There was something about her that reached straight past the surface.
Past fame, ego, the endless grind, and spoke to the quiet, hidden part of him he rarely acknowledged.
When he looked at her, the constant noise in his head seemed to dim, the static of his life fading into something that almost felt like peace.
He sat forward and speared a slice of mango, the golden flesh melting on his tongue — sweet, sun-warmed, and impossibly fresh.
He followed it with a handful of berries, tart and bursting with juice, then a bite of juicy watermelon.
The muesli was crisp, rich with toasted oats and roasted nuts, the honey and yogurt gluing everything together in a perfect balance of crunch and cream.
Around him, life moved at a lazy coastal rhythm … the caw of seagulls overhead, the rhythmic hush of waves against the rocks, the soft clink of silverware from nearby tables. A salt-tinged breeze lifted the edge of the napkin and cooled the warmth of the December sun on his arms.
And in that quiet bloom of peace, Justin knew without a shred of doubt that this — this place, this woman, this fleeting chance — was exactly where he needed to be.