Chapter 7
Justin stood on the spacious balcony, hands braced against the wooden railing, not watching the ocean but the stretch of darkening sand below.
The house sat at the far curve of the bay, giving him an unobstructed view of the beach — a sweep of simmering sand fading into the deepening indigo of the horizon, edged with whitewashed houses and low walls that reminded him a bit of Greece.
She was late.
A quiet, unwelcome tightness coiled in his chest. She was still coming, wasn’t she? Surely she would’ve had the decency to let him know if she’d decided not to.
He hadn’t seen her since yesterday morning. Not even a glimpse.
How was that even possible in a place this small?
Was she avoiding him?
What he did know was that her car was gone when he’d jogged past the back of the hotel at five a.m. It had jolted him to realize Suzette’s bridge tournament had stretched to an all-nighter. He’d found himself wondering where she’d slept.
And whether she’d slept alone.
Maybe she had a long-standing partner.
But somehow he doubted she was the kind of woman who climbed into another man’s bed if she did.
She hadn’t been at breakfast either. And the staff had been tight-lipped when he’d asked after her. Not available could mean a dozen things.
He checked his watch again. Quarter to eight. Light was fading fast. The hotel was only a hundred meters away; her walk wouldn’t take long. Still, the thought of her walking alone in the dusk stirred something restless in his chest. Maybe he should go—
And then he saw her.
Relief flooded him so fast and so hard it left him momentarily unsteady.
She’d stopped at the edge of the sand in front of the hotel, bending to slip off her shoes, the late light catching in her hair as she straightened. Instead of heading straight toward him, she drifted to the water’s edge. She stood there, motionless, her gaze fixed on the sea.
Even from this distance, he could feel her hesitation — the push and pull between longing and reason, between what was safe and what her heart clearly wanted.
He understood it all too well.
Their worlds couldn’t have been more different — his, a blur of reality and fake; hers, rooted and real.
Yet there had to be a bridge somewhere between them, because now that he’d found her, the idea of not having her in his life was unthinkable.
Just knowing she was nearby had calmed him in ways he hadn’t expected.
Earlier, he’d actually sat down, hauled out a puzzle from a dusty shelf, and lost himself in the quiet rhythm of fitting the pieces together.
A puzzle, for God’s sake. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d done something so simple.
Down on the beach, Suzette lifted her head, face turned to the sky as the sun drifted lower.
Her layered skirt billowed in the soft breeze, and a pale pashmina clung to her shoulders.
Her hair, pinned up, caught the light and gleamed bronze.
Sandals dangled from one hand, and a long, narrow bag from the other.
A tall, willowy woman, haloed by sunset, framed by the shimmer of the ocean.
Almost ethereal.
Utterly mesmerizing.
His pulse skipped a beat, and his dick, randy little bastard that it was, sprang to life, the memory of her snug warmth all too keen.
She turned her face toward him, as if she’d heard the silent call echoing in his mind. Could she feel it too? The invisible line stretched taut between them, reeling her in?
His jealous ramblings from earlier dissolved. No. That woman wouldn’t toy with him. And she’d never betray another man either.
An errant wave crept higher than the rest, swirling around her ankles. She gave a startled laugh, tried to step back. But her skirt tangled around her legs, and in an instant, she stumbled and landed squarely on her backside with an undignified splash.
Justin didn’t think. He raced down the staircase to the lower-level veranda and vaulted the railing, feet hitting the sand hard, and charged down the dune, dodging clumps of fynbos, heart pounding, torn between laughter and concern.
Suzette was already on her feet when he reached her, brushing sand from her skirt before stooping to lift her fallen pashmina from the surf.
“You hurt?” he asked, his breath still uneven from the sprint.
“Just my ego,” she chuckled, shaking her head. “It was silly of me to walk this close to the waves. I know the tide’s coming in.”
She looked radiant in the fading light — cheeks flushed, eyes bright with amusement. A bead of seawater slipped down the curve of her neck, glinting like liquid fire against the swell of her breast before disappearing beneath the lace edge of her top.
He swallowed hard, dragging his gaze back to her face. “You gave me a scare,” he managed, voice rougher than he intended. “One minute you were upright, the next—”
“Flat on my backside?” she teased, lips curving.
He laughed, reaching for the sandals and wine bag she was still clutching after her fall. “Something like that.”
For a moment, they simply stood there, the water swirling around their ankles, the breeze stirring loosened tendrils of hair around her face, silence stretching between them. The air was cooling, tinged with salt and spray.
Then she looked down, brushing at the wet fabric clinging to her legs. “Unfortunately, I need to go home. I’m soaked to the skin. Maybe we should cancel?”
Cancel? Not a chance.
“Absolutely not,” he said, taking the sodden pashmina gently from her hands and draping it over the hand holding her sandals. “I can rustle up something for you to wear.”
“Justin …”
No way was he letting her out of his sight. “Come. Can’t let the food I cooked go to waste.”
Her mouth fell open. “You cooked?”
“Why so surprised?”
“The great JK Kenzie cooked. For me?”
He smiled, eyes warm despite the niggle of irritation. “You forget, Suzette. With you, I’m just Justin.”
He reached for her hand, his fingers sliding easily around hers, still damp and cool from the sea.
They stopped once for her to gather up the wet skirt to ease her walking. Seeing her exposed knees — knees, for goodness’ sake — just about sent him to the ground before her. He bit back a groan, grateful for the dusk that hid the color rising in his face, and the swelling in his groin.
And when her hand reached for his again, something inside him shifted. A rightness settled in his soul — steady and deep.
This.
Them.
Walking side by side, hand in hand, the ocean murmuring its slow rhythm beside them.
It was everything.
*
Suzette stared at the denim skirt he held out to her. “You have women’s clothing on hand?” She couldn’t help the bite in her voice, sharp enough to mask the pang of disappointment that constricted her chest.
“I found it in the washer,” he said, seemingly unbothered, his tone calm. “The owners left in a hurry. Forgot to check the laundry.”
“Oh.” A flicker of embarrassment tightened her throat — quickly followed by irritation at herself.
“You’re the only woman I’m interested in,” he added quietly before she could say anything else.
The words landed somewhere deep, unwanted yet impossible to ignore.
For now. It’ll be good to remember that, Suzette.
She took the skirt from him, careful not to brush his fingers. “Bathroom?”
“Down the hallway,” he said, his gaze steady. “Towels beneath the basin.”
She nodded and slipped away, her bare feet whispering against the cool tiles.
Once inside, she closed the door and leaned back against it, exhaling hard. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat hammer through her blouse.
The room smelled faintly of soap and sea air.
A single bulb above the mirror cast a warm, forgiving glow throughout the simple space — white tiles, a weathered wooden counter, a bowl of driftwood and shells.
Her reflection stared back at her: flushed cheeks, wind-tossed hair, the glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes.
For a long moment, she stayed there, breathing deeply, trying to find her balance — because being near Justin McKenzie had a way of knocking the ground right out from under her feet.
And if she had any sense whatsoever, she’d hightail it back to the safety of her flat, lock the door, and forget she had ever met the man.
But sense never stood a chance against him. Against the warmth of his smile, the tenderness in his eyes, the way her skin still tingled where his fingers had brushed hers.
Oh, Suzette.
She sighed, fingers finding the tab of the zipper.
The sound was loud in the quiet room, intimate somehow.
The weight of the damp fabric dragged the skirt down her hips until it pooled at her feet in a heavy, salty wet heap.
Her panties clung uncomfortably, also damp from the sea. She peeled them off.
I should’ve gone home.
Muttering under her breath, she stepped into the tub and turned on the hand spray.
For a moment, she just stood there, letting the water run over her skin, trying to rinse away not only the sand but the chaos of the evening — the fall, the laughter, his voice, his touch, and the dangerous, impossible hope unfurling quietly inside her.
Stop.
The word came sharp and firm in her mind, cutting through the warm rush of memory and longing.
He’s a movie star. Here for fourteen days. Then gone.
Suzette gripped the edge of the tub, water beading down her legs, her pulse still racing for all the wrong reasons.
Was she really considering letting him in?
Letting this happen?
Was she prepared to open her heart to the hurt she knew would follow — the kind that settled deep and lingered long after the goodbye?
Because he would leave.
That was a certainty, written into the very fabric of his world.
She was just a woman, ordinary and real, and he was a man who lived on screens and in headlines.
A man who, for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, was here.
Maybe using her to fill the quiet between roles? The pause between flights? A way not to be alone at Christmas — the great JK Kenzie, trading red carpets for quiet dinners, headlines for anonymity, and her for a little company to soften the edges of solitude.
And she … she was foolish enough to want to believe it meant more. Foolish enough to imagine that beneath the charm and confidence was a man who actually saw her — not as a passing distraction, but as someone worth spending time with.
She gathered the damp bundle and stepped out of the bathroom. The sound of soft clattering drew her toward the kitchen, where the faint aroma of garlic, butter, and scalded milk hung in the air.
And there he was.
Before the stove, brow furrowed in concentration as he stirred a pot. A dishrag hung from one shoulder, and steam curled around his head like a halo.
He looked … real. Handsome, yes — impossibly so — but grounded, comfortable in his own skin in a way that no red-carpet photo could ever capture.
Something tightened low in her stomach.
A bit flustered, she cleared her throat. “Do you have a plastic bag handy?” she asked. “And where’s my pashmina?”
He turned, a wooden spoon still in hand, smile slow and easy. “I’ve put the pashmina in water to rinse. Figured the sooner you got the saltwater out, the better.”
He set the spoon down and stepped closer. “Let me quickly add this, too.”
Before she could register what was happening, he plucked the scrunched-up items from her hands and disappeared through a doorway.
The casual domesticity of it — him cooking dinner, loading a washing machine like it was the most natural thing in the world — rattled her more than she cared to admit.
And then — oh. Oh no.
“Wait!” she called, hurrying after him.
Too late.
He turned just as she stepped into the laundry nook. The space was small — too small — and suddenly filled with the charged silence between them.
His gaze dropped, dark and unguarded, lingering a moment below her waist before rising again — slow, deliberate — until his eyes met hers. The heat there stole her breath, molten and wordless, searing straight through the fragile wall of composure she’d tried to hold.
“You’re not wearing panties,” he growled.
Her mouth went dry. “They were wet,” she blurted, mortified.
Brilliant, Suzette. You should’ve just suffered through the damp panties.
His jaw tightened, a muscle ticking in his cheek. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved. The steady hum of the washing machine filled the silence, the low rhythm of it somehow amplifying the pulse hammering in her ears.
Heat pooled low in her belly. She could feel it — the awareness shimmering between them, alive and dangerous.
Justin dragged in a slow breath, his gaze lingering a second too long before he wrenched it back to her face.
She folded her arms across her chest, more out of self-preservation than modesty. “I told you — they were wet.”
A hint of a smile pulled on his lips. “Didn’t say I was complaining.”
Her heart stuttered, the air suddenly too thick to breathe. “Justin—”
He shook his head, stepping back, the intensity in his eyes softening to something almost tender. “Don’t worry. I’m not going to do anything you don’t want me to.”
For a split second, disappointment rolled through her. She tried for a laugh, but it came out thin. “You’re impossible.”
“Probably,” he admitted. “But I make a decent fish chowder. You hungry?”
“Starving,” she said, her voice huskier than she meant it to be.
That impossibly sexy slow grin of his returned. “Good. Then dinner’s ready.”
And as he brushed past her, the faintest whisper of his arm against hers, Suzette realized that her heart — traitorous, hopeful thing — was already far too involved.