Chapter 8
He was in hell. Pure and simple.
Suzette sat opposite him spooning up the fish chowder like it was the most ordinary dinner in the world.
As if she wasn’t driving him out of his damn mind.
The faint clink of her spoon against the bowl was torture.
Because all he could think about — all he couldn’t stop thinking about — was the fact that she wore nothing beneath that short denim skirt.
He wanted to shove aside the dishes, lift her onto the table, and devour her. To taste what he already knew was a feast. He’d had her once, mere weeks ago, and the memory of it still burned through him like whiskey. He wanted more. Again. Always.
But he’d made himself a promise.
He would take his time this round. Woo her.
Prove that he wasn’t some fame-drunk, sex-starved cliché of an aging movie star, but a man with restraint.
With purpose. A man worthy of the woman sitting across from him — this extraordinary, self-possessed woman who couldn’t quite bring herself to meet his eyes.
Her lashes were lowered, her cheeks faintly flushed, and she ate with the careful focus of someone pretending not to feel the pull between them.
And that pretense — that quiet, aching composure — was his undoing.
He placed his spoon down. The chowder might as well have been sawdust.
“This,” he began, forcing himself to speak slowly, carefully, “is not just some fling for me.”
She glanced up through her lashes, wary. “What do you mean?”
“What I feel for you, Suzette, goes far deeper than mere attraction.” He leaned forward, elbows resting on the table, searching her face for even a flicker of understanding.
“I’ve never married. Never even lived with another woman.
Because I’ve never met anyone I wanted to share every moment of my life with. Until you.”
Her jaw dropped; her spoon slipped from her fingers and clattered softly into the bowl. “Until—” She blinked, as if trying to make sense of the words. “And you think I’m that woman.”
He didn’t hesitate. “I believe so.”
Disbelief swept over her face, tightening her mouth, clouding her bright eyes. “Aw, come on, Justin. You don’t really expect me to believe that I’m anything more than a … than a fling.”
Her voice trembled on the last word. Not angry, not mocking, but wounded, as though she wanted to believe him and couldn’t afford to.
He opened his mouth to answer, but the words caught somewhere in his chest, weighted by the truth of what she’d just said — and how desperately he wanted to prove her wrong.
“That’s why I’m here,” he said, the words rougher than he intended. “To show you. To let you know me.” He beat a fist lightly against his chest, emotion tightening his voice. “The real me — not the man on the screen, not the headlines or the glossy magazine covers — but me. Justin Knox McKenzie.”
He gave a small, almost self-conscious laugh, shaking his head.
“A man who calls his mother every Sunday, who cannot fold a fitted sheet to save his life, and who” — his gaze locked with hers, steady and unflinching — “hasn’t been able to stop thinking about you since the moment you walked into my life. ”
“I don’t believe you,” she whispered.
“Why not?” he asked quietly.
She gave a short, disbelieving laugh. Sharp, defensive. “Seriously? You might not have married or lived with someone, but you’ve dated some of the most beautiful women in the world. And no” — she lifted a hand before he could speak — “don’t deny it. Because you have.”
He stayed silent, watching the flicker of emotion cross her face. Pride. Fear. Hurt. She was building her walls brick by brick right in front of him, and damn if it didn’t kill him to see it.
“And yes,” she continued, her voice softer now, “I might’ve given in to … basic instinct in Texas, but that was it. I scratched the itch. That’s all. No more.”
The words hit him like a punch to the gut.
An itch. Was that really all he had been? An itch?
She looked up at him then, eyes bright and wounded. “I can’t afford to let you upset my life, Justin. I’ve worked too hard to put the pieces back together after Braam … I … I can’t—” Her voice broke, barely a whisper. “I can’t let you be the one who breaks me again.”
He swallowed hard, fighting the urge to cross the table, to reach for her, to tell her he’d die before he hurt her. But the way she was looking at him — steady, aching, terrified — stopped him cold.
God help him, he wanted to be the man she could trust.
But right now, he was the one she feared.
And fear — that quiet, stubborn emotion — was the wall standing between them, keeping her from admitting what he already knew was there.
“I’m sad you feel that you can’t trust me,” he said softly. “Trust this … whatever it is between us.”
Unable to stop himself this time, he reached across the table and took her hand in his. Her skin was warm, soft, and he felt the faint tremor that betrayed everything her words wouldn’t.
“And yes,” he continued, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles, “being seen with me will bring a measure of disruption to your life.”
The words tasted bitter because they were true. The tabloids hadn’t found him yet — yet being the key word. They always did. It was only a matter of time before some telephoto lens caught a shot of them together and the feeding frenzy began.
Not for the first time in his career, he felt the weight of the curse of recognition.
The constant exposure, the judgment, the endless cycle of speculation and half-truths.
The fame he tolerated with mild amusement suddenly felt like a burden, one that could crush something fragile and good before it even had a chance to breathe.
For the first time in his life, he wished he could strip that notoriety away — peel it off like a second skin and finally just be.
*
An itch.
Is that really what she’d called it? That life-changing night in Texas? The one that had upended everything she thought she knew about herself?
Yes. Be strong, Suzette. Don’t let him get under your skin. He has the power to destroy you.
But then he brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, slow and unhurried, and her breath caught. It was such a simple touch — skin against skin — yet it sent a tremor through her, lighting up every nerve ending as if her body remembered something her mind refused to.
God help her, she wanted to close her eyes and lean into it.
He was asking for more. Not just another night or another taste, but the chance to see where this fragile, impossible connection could lead.
Could she even consider it? Could she risk her heart again, risk herself for a man whose world revolved around cameras, film, and flashing lights? For a man who lived a thousand lives when she had finally made peace with her one quiet, ordinary existence?
Her hard-won life here at the southern tip of Africa had taken years to build. And now this man sat before her, undoing it with a single touch and a look that promised both heaven and heartbreak.
“How…?” She swallowed, her throat dry, then tried again, hardly believing she was letting the words leave her mouth. “How do you see the next two weeks looking?”
A flicker of surprise — and unmistakable relief — crossed his face before he masked it beneath quiet determination.
“We spend as much time together as possible—”
She lifted a hand, cutting him off. “Now see, that there is already a problem. I have a job. This is our busiest season. I don’t have time to—”
“I’ll fit in with your downtime,” he said smoothly, that familiar mix of charm and certainty threading through his voice.
Her brows lifted. “My downtime?”
He gave a small, unapologetic smile. “Coffee breaks. Late dinners. Early mornings. Whatever you can spare, I’ll take it.”
The simplicity of it disarmed her. No demands, no grand gestures — just quiet insistence. And that, more than anything, made it harder to say no.
“And … after?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I have a few things to wrap up on the current production,” he said, leaning back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he spoke.
“And I’ve already committed to the final Operation film, which we’ll be shooting all throughout Europe.
” The corners of his mouth tugged upward.
“Beyond that …” He shrugged, casual, but his gaze stayed locked on hers.
“Maybe I’ll buy a place here. It’s restful.
Beautiful. I can think of worse places to live. ”
Her jaw dropped before she could stop it. “You’re joking.”
He tilted his head in slight amusement. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
She blinked. “You … would consider living here? In Paternoster?”
He smiled, slow and sure. “If this thing between us grows and you’re here, why not?”
And just like that, the air shifted — heavy with disbelief, with longing, and with the terrifying possibility that he might just mean it.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, her pulse a wild, fluttering thing she couldn’t control.
He leaned forward, forearms braced on the table, his gaze locked on hers — steady, unflinching, achingly sincere.
“You are an extraordinary woman, Suzette Bosch. And it would be remiss of me not to make the effort to get to know you better — to see if this attraction has the legs I believe it does. You’re worth it. ”
For a moment, she could only stare at him, words caught somewhere between disbelief and wonder.
Worth it.
The simple phrase sank deep, brushing against old wounds she’d thought long healed. No one had ever said something like that to her — not with that kind of conviction.
A throwaway toddler, father unknown, unwanted by her birth mother, passed from one family member to another until she finally landed at the children’s home.
Her throat tightened, her eyes stung. And even though every rational thought told her to guard herself, to pull back, she felt her resolve beginning to crumble under the weight of his quiet honesty.
You’re worth it.
That might just be the kindest — and most dangerous — thing a man had ever said to her.
And later that night, after they finished their meal — Justin’s lemon posset with shortbread, so light and creamy it melted on her tongue, surpassing even the fish stew — they sat side by side on the balcony, sipping the wine she brought.
A comfortable silence settled between them as they watched the tide inch higher beneath a sky scattered with stars. The rhythmic hush of waves and the faint creak of wicker chairs filled the spaces where words weren’t needed.
When he finally walked her home — all the way to her flat tucked behind the hotel — the night air was cool and fragrant with sea salt and lavender.
He’d said goodnight with that quiet smile of his, and for a long moment she thought he might kiss her.
Might even expect more. But he didn’t. He only brushed a strand of hair from her face and whispered, “Sleep well, sweet Suze.”
Now, lying in her bed with the sound of the ocean seeping through the open doors of her tiny balcony and the breeze stirring the sheer curtains, Suzette stared at the ceiling and wondered if she would’ve let him in.
Her flat was her sanctuary. Had been ever since the day Esther left for university, and she’d moved from the little house two streets up to here.
A place that was purely hers — for the first time in her life she didn’t have to share her space.
Homely, crowded with the bits and pieces of her life — crochet squares piled in a wicker basket waiting to be stitched together, delicate macramé beadwork mid-pattern, a knee-length jersey needing only its buttons — and the inevitable piles of half-read books.
All signs of a restless soul. Someone who drifted from one interest to the next, never quite finding the elusive something that could hold her attention for long.
Did she want JK—
No. Not JK Kenzie.
Justin Knox McKenzie.
Did she really want to let the man born to Hollywood royalty — a man who dated celebrities, lived in mansions, and owned his own jet — step into her real life?
Into this small, cluttered, ordinary space where nothing matched, everything meant something and, God help her, one drawer was stuffed with his DVDs.
A tiny, humiliating irony tugged at her: He’d kept her company on the nights when loneliness crept in, his voice and smile flickering across her living room like he belonged.
But after Texas — after the explosive encounter with the real man — she hadn’t been able to watch a single one of his movies.
The screen version felt flat, distant.
A shadow.
Because the real Justin Knox McKenzie was so much better.
And he said the most wondrous things.
Soft, devastating things like “You’re worth it” and “I’ve never met anyone I wanted to share every moment of my life with. Until you.”
Words like that … they made an ordinary woman living a cluttered life believe in the extraordinary.
Made her hope.
Made her dream.
And dreams like that were dangerous.