*
Suzette stared at the denim skirt he held out to her. “You have women’s clothing on hand?” She couldn’t help the bite in her voice, sharp enough to mask the pang of disappointment that constricted her chest.
“I found it in the washer,” he said, seemingly unbothered, his tone calm. “The owners left in a hurry. Forgot to check the laundry.”
“Oh.” A flicker of embarrassment tightened her throat — quickly followed by irritation at herself.
“You’re the only woman I’m interested in,” he added quietly before she could say anything else.
The words landed somewhere deep, unwanted yet impossible to ignore.
For now. It’ll be good to remember that, Suzette.
She took the skirt from him, careful not to brush his fingers. “Bathroom?”
“Down the hallway,” he said, his gaze steady. “Towels beneath the basin.”
She nodded and slipped away, her bare feet whispering against the cool tiles.
Once inside, she closed the door and leaned back against it, exhaling hard. She pressed a trembling hand to her chest, feeling her heartbeat hammer through her blouse.
The room smelled faintly of soap and sea air. A single bulb above the mirror cast a warm, forgiving glow throughout the simple space — white tiles, a weathered wooden counter, a bowl of driftwood and shells. Her reflection stared back at her: flushed cheeks, wind-tossed hair, the glimmer of uncertainty in her eyes.
For a long moment, she stayed there, breathing deeply, trying to find her balance — because being near Justin McKenzie had a way of knocking the ground right out from under her feet.
And if she had any sense whatsoever, she’d hightail it back to the safety of her flat, lock the door, and forget she had ever met the man.
But sense never stood a chance against him. Against the warmth of his smile, the tenderness in his eyes, the way her skin still tingled where his fingers had brushed hers.
Oh, Suzette.
She sighed, fingers finding the tab of the zipper. The sound was loud in the quiet room, intimate somehow. The weight of the damp fabric dragged the skirt down her hips until it pooled at her feet in a heavy, salty wet heap. Her panties clung uncomfortably, also damp from the sea. She peeled them off.
I should’ve gone home.
Muttering under her breath, she stepped into the tub and turned on the hand spray. For a moment, she just stood there, letting the water run over her skin, trying to rinse away not only the sand but the chaos of the evening — the fall, the laughter, his voice, his touch, and the dangerous, impossible hope unfurling quietly inside her.
Stop.
The word came sharp and firm in her mind, cutting through the warm rush of memory and longing.
He’s a movie star. Here for fourteen days. Then gone.
Suzette gripped the edge of the tub, water beading down her legs, her pulse still racing for all the wrong reasons.
Was she really considering letting him in?
Letting this happen?
Was she prepared to open her heart to the hurt she knew would follow — the kind that settled deep and lingered long after the goodbye?
Because he would leave.
That was a certainty, written into the very fabric of his world.
She was just a woman, ordinary and real, and he was a man who lived on screens and in headlines.
A man who, for reasons she couldn’t begin to understand, was here.
