Maybe seeing him in real life would finally cure her of the foolish daydreams — the posters, the DVDs, and, mortifyingly worse, the late-night fantasies she’d never admitted to anyone.
He was probably an arrogant and narcissistic prima donna — what was the male equivalent of a prima donna, anyway? — and that would cure her of this terrible affliction she had going on.
Miem squeezed her arm. “He’s here, Suze! Can you even—?”
The aircraft eased to a stop in front of the executive building. Her stomach fluttered again, her throat tightening. The door opened, and a set of steps extended gracefully to the tarmac.
Two men emerged and paused. Neither were JK. They scanned the area before loping down the steps to speak to the driver who’d brought them here. Bodyguards. Of course. A movie star would need them — to keep the mere mortals at bay.
And then he appeared, confident, upright, radiating effortless charm. Suzette’s heart lurched violently, a staccato rhythm that made her stomach flutter as if it wanted to leap into her throat.
Miem let out a small, barely contained squeal and leaned closer. “There! There he is!”
Suzette’s chest tightened further, a strange warmth pooling behind her ribs. She forced herself to breathe, though each inhale came shallow, uneven. Every step the man took down the jet’s stairs sent a ripple through her — treacherous, uninvited, impossible to ignore. Her body had apparently missed the memo that she was far too old for this nonsense.
Pausing at the bottom, he passed his duffel to a waiting crew member, and walked toward another jet. Sleeker and larger, it gleamed beneath the sun like a monument to excess, as if it waited only for its owner. He greeted the waiting man with that easy, back-slapping camaraderie men seemed born knowing how to do.
And then he looked toward the building.
Toward her.
Awareness jolted through her, leaving her frozen and acutely alive. Surely he couldn’t see her. Or could he?
Her pulse surged; her skin tingled. What on earth was happening to her?
“Need the bathroom,” she mumbled, bolting for the relative privacy of the restrooms.
Her shoes squeaked against the tile as she hurried down the short corridor. The air felt thinner here, heavy with the tang of disinfectant. She gripped the sink’s edge and stared at thewoman in the mirror — flushed cheeks, wide eyes, every inch the fool she swore she wasn’t.
“Get a grip, Suzette,” she muttered, forcing her voice steady. “You are not a starstruck teenager anymore.”
Her hands trembled slightly as she splashed cold water onto her face, the shock grounding her just enough to think. Her pulse still raced, her stomach fluttering in ways that made no sense. She pressed her palms to her cheeks, breathing deeply, willing the flood of sensation to settle.
He was no longer the man on the screen, but flesh and blood, and far more dangerous to her composure than she’d ever imagined. But it was still a dream.
Because why on earth would a man like JK Kenzie give her the time of day?
*
The Cessna banked low over False Bay, its engines droning a steady hum through his bones. He’d flown in smaller planes, landed on rougher strips, and sweated through hotter zones, but today even the gentle descent felt like punishment.
He rolled his shoulder, grimacing as a dull ache flared under his ribs. The medic on set had called it a bruise, not a crack, but hell, it hurt. That’s what he got for insisting on doing his own stunts.
Fifty-nine and still trying to prove he could fly through an explosion without a double. Idiot.
He rubbed absently at the spot, eyes on the water below. It was a rare wind-free day, the usually choppy ocean lay still, a calm basin of blues and golds along the curve of the bay. Stunning, yes. But he was too wrung out to appreciate it. And he had a long flight ahead. Twenty hours, if refueling and immigration went smoothly.
Listen to you, old boy. Moaning when you fly in the lap of luxury.
He mentally ran through the week ahead.
An overnight flight to Texas to drop off his passengers.
Then on to Los Angeles to ensure the film he’d poured his heart and soul into got the final cut it deserved. The action drama set in Mpumalanga was his passion project. He’d wanted something honest. Something that mattered. And he got that — at great physical and emotional cost.
After LA, it was back to Texas for his nephew’s Thanksgiving wedding. Max had asked him to stand beside him when he said his vows to Esther. It was a request that had surprised him more than he’d let on.
The Cessna’s tires squealed as they hit tarmac, the plane shuddering before slowing and coasting toward the private hangars. Justin exhaled, unbuckled, and grabbed his duffel. He thanked the crew and followed his security team into the sunlight. The glare hit him hard, and he reached for his sunglasses. Ah. Better.
