Chapter 9 #2
Fine lines fanned from the corners of those eyes, catching the light when she smiled. She was aging naturally. Gracefully. Untouched by artifice. No trace of fillers or the frozen perfection he saw too often in his world. Just real beauty. The kind that settled under a man’s skin and stayed there.
“Thank you for helping out,” she said after wolfing down the second piece. “And for bringing me the food. I was starving.” She picked up her mug and blew on the steaming liquid.
He swallowed back the sudden, irrational urge to steal that breath from her mouth. “It was a pleasure. I really enjoy cooking.”
“How did that come about?” she asked. “Never imagined an A-lister in a kitchen.”
“Research,” he said, kicking back in the seat.
“For that romcom I did ages ago — Heart and Thyme. I spent three months shadowing a chef in an L.A. restaurant. Grew up with staff, so cooking wasn’t exactly encouraged.
Didn’t know basting from braising.” He smiled at the memory. “But I discovered I loved it.”
“Rather you than me,” she said with a rueful laugh. “I’m in the kitchen strictly under duress.”
He loved her accent — a mellow South African lilt, soft around the edges, vowels smoothed by sun and sea air.
She switched easily between languages, spoke Afrikaans with as much ease as isiXhosa, then back to English again.
Suzette Bosch was, indeed, a truly fascinating woman.
And he was falling for her deeper and harder than he’d first thought.
“Tell me something random about yourself.”
Her eyes flicked to him, and she let out a quiet laugh. “I have unfinished projects crammed into every available nook. It’s embarrassing, actually.”
“Such as?”
“Oh gosh. A crochet blanket. Beadwork. A jersey. And a set of paints I bought during a ‘creative awakening’ that lasted … about three hours.”
He grinned. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure.”
“I knit.”
She blinked. “You… knit.”
“I do. Long-haul flights, downtime on set — anywhere, really. And nothing beats a cold winter night in front of a fire with a glass of whiskey and a pair of needles and some colorful yarn.”
“Bet the tabloids would love to get hold of that tidbit. It would do some serious damage to your Callum Slater cred.”
He chuckled. “Guess who taught me to knit?”
“Your … grandmother?” She lifted a brow.
“Nope.”
“Tell me.”
“A Navy SEAL.”
She stared. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, remembering it vividly. “One of the team guys who trained me before the first Operation movie knitted. I was just as stunned as you are.”
She tilted her head. “You should put that in your next Operation movie. It would be a total hit.”
“Yeah?”
“I can see it.” She spread her hands in the air. “Operation: Clandestine Craft.”
He burst out laughing. And sobered just as fast. “Strangely enough, my knitting prowess is featured in the next movie. The one we’ve just completed.”
“Yes?”
“Hmm. It’s based on Silas Kent’s life. He’s the SEAL who trained me.”
Her brow furrowed. “Something happened to him, didn’t it?”
He nodded slowly, his throat tightening. “He suffered from PTSD. It led to his eventual suicide.”
She stilled, the softness in her eyes replacing her earlier humor. “I’m so sorry, Justin. That must’ve hit you hard.”
“Yeah. It did.” His voice roughened. “The suicide rate among veterans is staggering.”
Her expression deepened with tenderness. “I think it’s incredible that you’re honoring him.”
“The honor was mine,” he murmured. “Learning from him.”
“What is the movie called?”
“A Soldier’s Echo.”
“Wow. That’s … perfect.”
He shook his head lightly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to dampen the mood.”
“It’s fine.” She hesitated, her voice softening. “It … helps to air things out sometimes.”
He nodded slowly, a small weight settling in his chest. He found himself wondering what her things were. What shadows she carried, what stories she kept tucked away.
Maybe, if he was lucky, she’d trust him enough to share them.
Someday. But today wasn’t that day.
Silence settled between them, soft but weighted.
She shifted in her chair, drawing one leg beneath her, the sunlight catching in the fine strands of hair escaping her twist.
It struck him that she wore no jewelry today — earlobes bare, bracelets silent, no stacked chains or beads catching the light.
And that made him think of the lovely pendant he’d seen in the hotel’s little gift shop.
He wasn’t sure what stone it was, only that the blue matched her eyes.
With Christmas only a few days away and no gift yet for her, it felt like a sign. A visit was due.
“I can feel you staring,” she said without looking at him, her voice mild but carrying that quiet amusement he was beginning to recognize as her defense.
“Can you?” he murmured, leaning back. “I’m just enjoying the view. Besides, we both needed a minute.”
He studied her profile — the quiet strength in the set of her jaw, the faint shadows beneath her eyes — and felt something twist inside him.
It took everything in him to not haul her onto his lap and promise to take care of her for the rest of her life. Instead, he lifted his mug, inhaled the sharp scent of coffee, and let the silence stretch between them.