Chapter 9
Suzette hurried down the stairs from her flat, her thoughts in a jumble. She hadn’t slept well. Somewhere between the ebb and flow of the tide, the wonder Justin’s beautiful words had stirred in her had dissolved into reason. There could never be anything between them. It was impossible.
And then came the wake-up call from Johannes, night manager, and there was no time to dwell on lost dreams, however fleeting.
Taxi violence had flared up in the nearby town where most of the hotel staff lived.
Buses burned, police cordoned off streets, and no one was allowed in or out.
Their head chef, sous chef, and half the waitstaff and most of housekeeping were stranded behind the barricades.
Breakfast service was teetering on the edge of disaster.
And with half the guests — a touring group leaving at nine sharp — expecting more than a token continental spread, disaster wasn’t an option.
And then there was the sunset wedding. Intimate, yes, just a simple ceremony in the boma … but it still had to be perfect.
She rounded the corner just as Miem’s ancient bakkie rattled into the courtyard, the day’s vegetable delivery piled high on the back. Relief flickered through her chest.
“So glad you could make it,” she called, striding toward the small truck.
If anyone could wrestle a kitchen into order, it was Miem Steyn. The Steyn family owned the hotel, and it wouldn’t be the first time Miem had rolled up her sleeves during a staff shortage.
“Lucky we loaded last night,” Miem called back, reversing up to the entrance. “I was ready to roll when you phoned.”
The engine coughed, sputtered twice, and died. Miem heaved herself out, the door creaking in protest. Suzette caught sight of her friend’s expression — and the deep scowl aimed her way had little to do with the morning’s problems.
Oh, dear. Miem knows about Justin.
“We don’t have time for whatever’s on your mind,” she snapped, removing the netting that kept the load in place.
But Miem was Miem. “Word is, you had supper with a mystery man last night.” She lowered the tailgate and hefted a crate of tomatoes, the brown earth still clinging to their skins, and passed it over with a look as sharp as veld thorns.
Suzette stifled a sigh, aiming for nonchalance. “Word travels fast,” she said, adjusting her grip on the box.
Miem snorted, cheeks flushed from effort. “And apparently the mystery man paid for the whole Meiring clan — all eight of them — to holiday in Mauritius for two weeks so he could rent their house. Nogal flew them there in his private jet.”
Suzette blinked, thrown. “Oh.” She hadn’t known that part. Though, yes, she could easily picture Justin doing exactly that.
“Mm-hmm.” Miem’s brow arched, her tone sharp with mock accusation. “Only one man we know who owns a jet. Suzette Bosch, what were you thinking?”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake, Miem, it was a meal.”
Miem leaned closer. “Be careful, Poppie,” she said, her voice low and edged with warning. Her roughened palm cupped Suzette jaw, thumb brushing lightly against her chin. “Men like that don’t play by the same rules we do. Don’t let his charm make you stupid.”
Suzette opened her mouth to protest, but before she could, the low, smooth purr of an engine rolled through the courtyard. A sleek sedan glided to a stop beside the loading bay, sunlight flashing off its windscreen like a camera flash.
“Speak of the devil,” Miem muttered, bracing herself against the tailgate as she dragged a crate of cucumbers and lettuce toward her.
The driver’s door opened, and Justin stepped out — jeans, soft grey T-shirt, and that quiet, effortless confidence that drew attention without him even trying.
Suzette’s stomach dipped.
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Morning, ladies,” he drawled, flashing that heartbreaker grin. “Miem, delighted to see you again, darling.”
Miem blinked, the ruddy color on her cheeks glowing brighter. “Listen to you. Aren’t you just smooth as melted butter.”
“I try.” His grin deepened. “Let me give you a hand with these.”
He reached over the side of the bakkie, muscles flexing as he hefted a sack of potatoes onto his shoulder, falling easily into step beside Miem as if he’d always belonged there.
Suzette trailed behind them, caught somewhere between exasperation and reluctant amusement. It didn’t take long before Miem’s scowl began to soften, her mouth twitching at something Justin said.
Traitor, Suzette thought dryly.
They carried the vegetables into the cold room, the air inside cool and earthy, thick with the scent of herbs, damp soil and, darn it all, the clean spice of his cologne.
Justin set down his load, relieved Miem of hers, then turned and reached for the box Suzette still held.
“We’ve got a staff shortage today,” she said briskly, resisting the urge to step back. The sooner he stopped playing havoc with her senses, the better. “It might be best if you eat at your place.”
Justin flashed a grin as he set the tomatoes down. “Eating can wait. I’m here to help. All hands on deck, yeah?”
Suzette stared at him. “You’re not serious.”
“Totally.” He jerked his chin toward the two burly men hauling in the rest of the crates. “My security detail’s pitching in too.”
Miem folded her arms, unimpressed. “Can you cook, mister big shot?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Justin said smoothly, not missing a beat. “Worked in a commercial kitchen once. Deep immersion for a role. I can slice and dice and sauté like a pro.”
A slow grin creased Miem’s face. “Then you’re with me. Sous chef.” She shot Suzette a look that brooked no argument. “You — go smile and soothe the guests. We’ll keep this kitchen running.”
Suzette exhaled, part defeated, part impressed. And entirely, frustratingly aware of the man following Miem.
But not before he turned, flashed a smile. And a wink.
“Cheeky man,” she muttered, unable to stop the flutter of butterflies in her belly.
Pushing through to the restaurant, she was greeted by the comforting scent of freshly ground coffee and warm pastries.
Johannes, her night manager, met her gaze with a weary but reassuring nod.
He’d gone above and beyond, laying out what he could for the early birds.
Gratitude softened the tightness in her chest. Drawing a steadying breath, she slipped into the familiar rhythm that had carried her through every crisis before this one.
Table by table, she soothed, smiled, reassured. Guests grumbled, but her calm tone and practiced warmth did their work, smoothing ruffled tempers and turning complaints into compliments.
The two burly bodyguards waiting tables caused a stir among the ladies, their easy manners and American drawls earning more than a few giggles. Thankfully, Justin had the sense to stay in the kitchen. One riot per day, thank you very much.
As the morning wore on and more guests drifted in, the orders kept streaming from the kitchen. Hot, prompt, and surprisingly well-plated. Somehow, Justin and Miem had found a rhythm.
Now and then, Miem’s sharp voice cut through the swinging doors, followed by Justin’s deep, rolling chuckle.
That sound did something traitorous to her chest.
Irritatingly warm, like his voice, which always seemed to seep into her blood and linger there, pulsing with quiet heat.
Sometimes — in the past, mind you — while watching his movies, she’d close her eyes and just listen.
Because that voice…
The problem was, now she knew what his touch felt like, too.
And how he tasted—
Enough.
By late-morning, the chaos had settled into a steady post-breakfast hum.
Staff were trickling in. Miem had waved goodbye after passing the reins to the chef, and Justin …
well, she hadn’t seen or heard him for a while.
And his bodyguards were gone, too. She swallowed her disappointment.
It would’ve been nice of him to at least say goodbye, give her the chance to thank him.
Suzette made her way to the edge of the patio and gratefully settled back in a cushioned chair.
She closed her eyes, kneading her temples, exhaustion threading through her limbs.
Her stomach gave an impatient growl — she hadn’t eaten since last night — but she just needed a moment to breathe before deciding what to feed herself.
And then he materialized.
*
Justin set the tray down and placed a steaming mug and a small plate in front of her. “Rooibos tea with lemon and honey. Ham and cheese,” he said, nodding toward the croissant neatly sectioned into thirds. “You must be starving.”
For a moment she just blinked at him, startled, as if the simple gesture had caught her off guard.
Her gaze dropped to the plate and something in her expression eased.
“You’re my hero,” she said quietly, the words carrying more gratitude than humor.
She leaned forward, lifted one of the pieces, and bit off a corner of the flaky roll.
He took quiet pleasure in watching her enjoy the simple meal he’d prepared.
According to Miem, she was hopeless in the kitchen, and her slim frame suggested she either watched what she ate or, more likely, seldom bothered to cook for herself.
He’d also noted the faint smudges under her eyes earlier, indicating a lack of sleep.
He hoped his arrival hadn’t put those shadows there, but he suspected he was the reason.
Justin picked up his own mug — coffee, not tea — and sat back, taking in the peaceful scene: the gentle murmur of breaking waves, the faint hum of voices from inside, and the wide, exquisite African sky stretching above an equally exquisite ocean … And woman.
A few tendrils of blonde hair had escaped her loose twist and fluttered around her face. The turquoise of her blouse — light and airy — echoed the shimmer of the sea beyond her shoulder and made her eyes appear impossibly blue.