1
Late November, Cape Town, South Africa
“Typical celebrity,” she muttered, striding across the polished marble floors to the large windows overlooking the end of the runway at Cape Town International Airport. “Keeping us mere mortals waiting.”
The late-November sun poured over everything, turning polished fuselages to liquid silver as planes arrived and departed in a carefully choreographed ballet of motion and precision. In the far distance, the Hottentots-Holland Mountains rose in a purple-blue silhouette etched against a sky so clear it looked brittle.
The private lounge hummed with hushed privilege — cool air, rich coffee, and the quiet sigh of leather seats. A far cry from the frenzy of a public airport. Suzette was acutely aware of how little this world belonged to her.
Once, she’d been days away from homelessness, clawing her way back only because Miem had given her an escape. Her bankaccount looked healthy now — but not this healthy. Not private-jet healthy.
No, that luxury belonged to the man she was waiting on — the very definition of unreachable.
Miem joined her, handing her a tall glass of chilled water. No plastic bottles for executive passengers.
“Thanks.”
Miem popped a miniature meatball into her mouth, dabbing delicately at the corners with a cloth serviette. “That charming young man who drove us here said JK is twelve minutes out.”
JK.
JK Kenzie.
Hollywood film star.
She’d been crushing on the man for as long as she could remember — from the adorable child actor to the brooding teen idol, to the leading man of romcoms and high-octane blockbusters. In her darkest moments, his movies had been a lifeline, lifting her spirits when nothing else could.
And she, Suzette Antoinette Bosch, fifty-six-year-old widow, hotel manager, was meeting him today.
In. Real. Life.
When he eventually arrived.
In twelve minutes.
They’d already been here for fifty. An entire hour she could’ve spent back in Paternoster making sure the woman in Room Twelve, the one fighting cancer, had extra towels and quiet. Or chasing down the plumber about the dripping tap in Room Nine.
The weeks leading up to the hotel’s busiest season were the worst time to take a week-long break.
Even if the reason was her daughter’s wedding.
“These meatballs are perfect. Here, try one.”
Suzette eyed the plate Miem thrust toward her, but her stomach tightened, the restless knot inside bubbling like awitch’s brew. “Not now,” she murmured, gently pushing her friend’s hand away.
She forced her gaze back to the window and spotted a small, sleek silver jet descending rapidly. Narrowing her eyes, she followed the aircraft as it approached the runway. Had to be him. Right?
How many other private flights were expected? There’d been no other passengers since they’d arrived.
“That’s him!” Miem practically vibrated beside her. “Can you believe it? We’re going to meet JK, Suze.” Her voice lowered to an urgent whisper. “The one whose image covered the walls of your little corner of the dormitory. Remember? You had posters everywhere!”
Ugh. She remembered all too well. Never mind that she still owned his entire DVD collection and watched them far too often.
The jet touched down, wheels kissing the tarmac in a perfect landing. Suzette’s chest tightened, adrenaline making her fingers tingle, a flutter rising in her stomach. Her heart hammered in a wild rhythm she couldn’t slow as the plane taxied toward the private apron with unerring grace.
What was wrong with her?
He was just a man. Flesh and blood.
