Chapter 15
It was a spur-of-the-moment decision, and she could only hope it wouldn’t come back to haunt her as the biggest mistake of her life. But watching Justin linger in the shadows loosened the tight hold on her resolve.
He was staying hidden for her. For them.
For more than two decades, she’d made every choice around keeping her life calm, contained, predictable.
And she did love it — the serenity of this West Coast fishing village, the rhythm of tides and seasons, the familiarity of white-washed cottages and sun-bleached decks.
But there was life beyond the sand and boulders …
and maybe, just maybe, that life included whatever Justin McKenzie brought with him.
They climbed the stairs to the dining veranda. Her heels clicked softly against the planks as she led him toward the far corner. Tonight, fairy lights and silken drapes wove a soft glow around a lattice screen, offering them privacy from wandering guests and curious eyes.
The table waited, elegant in its simplicity: white linen overlaid with pale blue, a bottle of sparkling wine chilling in a silver bucket, crystal flutes glinting in the candlelight. Two chairs sat at an easy angle, domed plates poised on silver chargers.
“Johannes deserves a night off,” she murmured, quietly pleased with the results of her earlier request. Then she turned to him with a small, almost shy smile. “I couldn’t let you stay in the shadows. It’s Christmas Eve, after all. A season of celebration.”
He trailed the backs of his fingers down her cheek before catching a loose tendril and giving it a gentle tug. “What are we celebrating, Suzette?”
This is it, Suzette. Your personal Rubicon.
“Us, Justin. We’re celebrating us.”
His broad smile spoke of quiet satisfaction, the candlelight catching the green-gold flecks in his eyes while shadows played across the lines and grooves of his face, glinting off the silver woven through his hair.
Her belly fluttered — an entire swarm of butterflies set loose — and her body hummed with anticipation, every feminine instinct wholly in tune with the direction this evening was taking.
He pulled out her chair with an exaggerated flourish. “Then let the celebration begin.”
As she sat, a soft flow of warm air brushed over her hair, and she tilted her head back. He didn’t waste the opportunity to close the small distance and his lips found hers in a playful, upside-down kiss that stole her breath and left her smiling against his mouth.
When he finally took his seat, they both wore matching, foolish grins. He was close enough that their knees brushed beneath the table, a quiet spark pulsing between them that neither of them seemed in any hurry to tame.
He tilted his head toward the boma. “Your guests?”
“Miem’s in charge.”
“For how long?”
She hesitated, then smiled faintly. “For as long as needed.”
“Remind me to thank her.”
He reached for the bottle of sparkling wine, ice tinkling softly in the bucket. “Shall I pour you some?” he asked, one brow lifting in that teasing, gentlemanly way of his.
“Please,” she said, her voice low, a smile curving her lips.
The cork gave a satisfying pop, followed by the delicate fizz of bubbles. He tipped the bottle, filling both flutes with the pale gold sparkle, the fine stream catching the candlelight before settling into a soft, celebratory shimmer.
He lifted his glass. “A toast?” he said, his gaze never leaving hers.
Her breath hitched, but she reached for her own flute, the cool glass smooth against her fingers.
“To us,” he murmured.
Suzette’s lips curved. Her glass met his, the faint chime sealing the moment between them. “To us,” she echoed.
Easy banter accompanied their starter of lobster medallions layered with creamy avocado and thinly sliced blood orange, drizzled with a lime-chili dressing.
The sounds of the night wrapped around them: waves lapping against the shore, the shimmer of a rising moon on the ocean, the distant rhythm of drums and saxophone drifting from the boma, the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.
“This is perfect,” Suzette whispered, voicing the thought before it could slip away.
“Almost.” Justin caught her hand, lifting it to his lips. His gaze held hers, dark and unflinching. “The only way to make it perfect,” he murmured, “is if you’re on top of me. Skin to skin.”
Her breath caught; the world seemed to narrow to the heat in his eyes. “Later,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Tonight?”
Anticipation shimmered up her spine, and she smiled, slow and certain. “Tonight.”
The soft thud of footsteps warned of someone approaching.
The head chef appeared with one of the servers in tow, their movements practiced and unobtrusive.
In moments, the empty plates were whisked away and replaced with the main course: slow-roasted lamb, the meat tender enough to yield beneath the fork, perfumed with rosemary and drizzled in its own rich jus, accompanied by perfectly roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil and sea salt.
They were a few mouthfuls into their main course when Justin set his knife and fork down and studied the dish for a moment before lifting his gaze to her.
“I’ve dined in some of the best restaurants in the world — top Michelin-rated establishments.
But this meal …” He paused, his eyes warm, sincere.
“This meal tops any of them. And I know without a doubt that you are the force behind it. Your staff” — he gestured toward the kitchen — “they’d follow you to the ends of the earth to please you. Well done, Suzette Bosch.”
His praise settled over her like a warm blanket. She knew she was good at her job — had worked damn hard to create the unity and trust that made nights like this run seamlessly — but hearing it from him hit different.
*
The gratefulness in the smile she aimed his way only reinforced what he already knew — asking Suzette to give up her life here for him would be the wrong move. This was her world, the one she’d built with care and purpose.
He was the outsider, the drifter passing through. The one who’d have to figure out how to untangle himself from the chaos of his own life if he ever hoped to find a place in hers.
Getting a bit ahead of yourself, aren’t you, old boy?
Then he looked at the scene she’d created — the soft candlelight, the perfect meal, the private corner tucked away from everyone else. All of it, done for him. So they could spend Christmas Eve together.
It had to mean something. Right?
He forced himself to stop overthinking, to stop searching for hidden meanings in candlelight and soft smiles. For once, maybe he could just let things be.
She’d chosen to spend her evening with him. That was enough.
For now.
Leaning back in his chair, he let the moment settle around him: the flicker of the candles, the easy rhythm of her laughter, the faint sound of waves rolling onto the beach below. For the first time in a long while, he wasn’t thinking about headlines, contracts, or the next film set.
All he wanted was this — her voice, her company, the peace that came with being near her.
If there was a way to hold onto it, to make it last beyond tonight, he’d find it. But for now, he was content to just be a man at a table with the woman who made everything else fade into the background.
“Do you need to go back to your guests tonight?”
Her fork hovered midair. She turned her head, meeting his gaze.
“No,” she said calmly — almost too calmly, he thought — considering how his pulse had just leaped clean off the charts.
“So … once we’re done eating … my place?”
He hadn’t realized he was holding his breath until her lips curved around a secretive smile.
“Mine’s closer.” She slipped the fork between her lips and began to chew.
Well. Damn. His heart would never recover a steady rhythm again. “I like your idea,” he managed, his voice rough.
“Hmm. I rather thought you might.”
Then it happened — a whisper of warmth brushing against his ankle under the table. His breath caught, eyes flicking to hers as the meaning sank in, heat flooding every thought.
“Suzette.”
She tilted her head, eyes wide and guileless. “Justin.”
“Are you done eating?” His appetite had shifted entirely. Hunger of a very different kind now coiled in his gut.
Still holding his gaze, she dabbed her lips with the napkin. “I am now.”
“Good.”
He pushed his chair back, the scrape loud in the hush between them, and rose to his feet. Taking her hand, he drew her up beside him. “Lead the way,” he said, his voice rough. “Fastest route.”
They didn’t bother with subtlety. Suzette led him straight through the kitchen, the air rich with the scent of roasted rosemary and sugar. A few staff glanced up but said nothing, knowing smiles curving their lips.
She paused at the cold station, snagging two martini glasses filled with white chocolate mousse, their tops dusted with cocoa and a curl of candied orange.
“Dessert to go,” she whispered over her shoulder.
Justin grinned. “You think of everything.” And he could think of very creative ways to eat that creamy dessert.
They slipped out the service entrance and crossed toward the staircase leading to her flat above the office extension.
The night air carried the brine of the sea and the distant hum of the boma’s music. Each step seemed to heighten the pull between them, until the only sound that mattered was the soft scuff of their shoes and the twin rhythm of their breath.
She handed him the glasses and dug a key from the pocket in the folds of her dress. He marveled at how steady her hands were when his own trembled slightly.
The door swung open, and they slipped inside. He nudged it shut with his foot and set the glasses on the nearest available surface.
For a second, neither of them moved.
The only light came from a reading lamp lit beside a deep wingback, the soft glow pooling across the room in golden warmth. The sound of the waves drifted through the open window, the steady rhythm of the sea matching the pulse thudding in his chest.
And then the distance between them simply ceased to exist.
Their lips met.
He drank her in — small sips, a sensory exploration, indulging himself, savoring their connection. The taste, so sweet; the feel, so soft.
Kissing Suzette … nirvana.
Experiencing her response … her fingers weaving through his hair, urging him closer … her body melting against his, yielding, offering …
Transcendent.
He angled his mouth on hers, their tongues tangling. His pulse crackled through his veins, urging him on.
More. He needed more. He needed everything.
She was everything.
And the words tore free from somewhere deep inside him. “You’re my everything, Suzette Bosch. Without you I’m an empty vessel — a shell of a man.”