She shook her head. “I can’t. I have plans.”
Disappointment flickered through him.An excuse? A brushoff?
“Bridge tournament,” she said. “Our last game of the year.”
“You play bridge?”
“I do.”
“Bet you’re good at it.”
“Very. Doyouplay?”
“A time or two,” he quipped, lips twitching.
She rolled her eyes. “Bet you’re brilliant.”
“Maybe.” His smile softened. “You free tomorrow evening?”
Her lips curved. “Maybe.”
“Touche, sweet Suze.” He tilted his head, voice dropping low. “Will you please have dinner with me tomorrow evening?”
Sunlight caught in her hair, turning the strands to gold — a halo that made his chest ache with something dangerously close to reverence. Her eyes, blue as the sea rolling beyond them, met his. Earnest. Contemplative. The teasing spark was gone now. A thousand things unsaid flickered there, but her face remained carefully composed, revealing nothing.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, she gave a small nod. “Okay,” she said softly.
Relief loosened the knot in his chest. His mouth curved. “Seven. I’ll pick you up.”
“Seven-thirty. My day ends at seven.” She tilted her head slightly, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear — her bracelets chiming again, soft and musical. “You staying at the Driftwood Villa?”
“I am.”
“No need to fetch me. It’s a five-minute walk.” She nodded once, composure firmly back in place, and reached for the carafe. “I’ll send a server to take your order.”
Just like that, she was gone — the faint jangle of her bracelets and the lingering fragrance of a summer garden leaving him wondering how the hell fourteen days was ever going to be enough.
And whether it was fair dragging her into his world, into the chaos that followed him everywhere he went.
It wouldn’t take long for the paparazzi hounds to sniff him out, even in a sleepy coastal town like this. And when that happened, no matter how discreet he tried to be, Suzette would be thrust into the gossip cycle — photographed, speculated about, picked apart.
Normally, he dated women who knew the game — actresses, models, women fluent in the language of publicity. It was easier that way. Safe. Predictable.
But Suzette Bosch? She wasn’t any of those things. And that, he realized, was exactly why he couldn’t stay away.
The quiet arrival of the server interrupted his musings. The young man placed a plate of artfully arranged fruit beside a bowl of muesli crowned with a neat dollop of yogurt and a drizzle of honey.
“Mrs. Bosch suggests you try the lobster eggs Benedict, sir.”
Justin’s mouth curved, a low hum escaping him. He glanced toward the dining room, catching a flash of her hair, the sway of blue material as she moved among the guests, and felt his pulse kick up again.
“Sounds wonderful.”
“How would you like your eggs, sir?”
“Soft.”
“Soft it is.” The young man gave a polite nod before spinning away, collecting a few empty plates from a nearby table as he went.
