God help him, he wanted to be the man she could trust.
But right now, he was the one she feared.
And fear — that quiet, stubborn emotion — was the wall standing between them, keeping her from admitting what he already knew was there.
“I’m sad you feel that you can’t trust me,” he said softly. “Trust this … whatever it is between us.”
Unable to stop himself this time, he reached across the table and took her hand in his. Her skin was warm, soft, and he felt the faint tremor that betrayed everything her words wouldn’t.
“And yes,” he continued, his thumb brushing gently over her knuckles, “being seen with me will bring a measure of disruption to your life.”
The words tasted bitter because they were true. The tabloids hadn’t found him yet — yet being the key word. They always did. It was only a matter of time before some telephoto lens caught a shot of them together and the feeding frenzy began.
Not for the first time in his career, he felt the weight of the curse of recognition. The constant exposure, the judgment, the endless cycle of speculation and half-truths. The fame he tolerated with mild amusement suddenly felt like a burden, one that could crush something fragile and good before it even had a chance to breathe.
For the first time in his life, he wished he could strip that notoriety away — peel it off like a second skin and finally just be.
*
An itch.
Is that really what she’d called it? That life-changing night in Texas? The one that had upended everything she thought she knew about herself?
Yes. Be strong, Suzette. Don’t let him get under your skin. He has the power to destroy you.
But then he brushed his thumb over the back of her hand, slow and unhurried, and her breath caught. It was such asimple touch — skin against skin — yet it sent a tremor through her, lighting up every nerve ending as if her body remembered something her mind refused to.
God help her, she wanted to close her eyes and lean into it.
He was asking for more. Not just another night or another taste, but the chance to see where this fragile, impossible connection could lead.
Could she even consider it? Could she risk her heart again, riskherselffor a man whose world revolved around cameras, film, and flashing lights? For a man who lived a thousand lives when she had finally made peace with her one quiet, ordinary existence?
Her hard-won life here at the southern tip of Africa had taken years to build. And now this man sat before her, undoing it with a single touch and a look that promised both heaven and heartbreak.
“How…?” She swallowed, her throat dry, then tried again, hardly believing she was letting the words leave her mouth. “How do you see the next two weeks looking?”
A flicker of surprise — and unmistakable relief — crossed his face before he masked it beneath quiet determination.
“We spend as much time together as possible—”
She lifted a hand, cutting him off. “Now see, that there is already a problem. I have a job. This is our busiest season. I don’t have time to—”
“I’ll fit in with your downtime,” he said smoothly, that familiar mix of charm and certainty threading through his voice.
Her brows lifted. “My downtime?”
He gave a small, unapologetic smile. “Coffee breaks. Late dinners. Early mornings. Whatever you can spare, I’ll take it.”
The simplicity of it disarmed her. No demands, no grand gestures — just quiet insistence. And that, more than anything, made it harder to say no.
“And … after?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“I have a few things to wrap up on the current production,” he said, leaning back slightly, the tension in his shoulders easing as he spoke. “And I’ve already committed to the final Operation film, which we’ll be shooting all throughout Europe.” The corners of his mouth tugged upward. “Beyond that …” He shrugged, casual, but his gaze stayed locked on hers. “Maybe I’ll buy a place here. It’s restful. Beautiful. I can think of worse places to live.”
Her jaw dropped before she could stop it. “You’re joking.”
He tilted his head in slight amusement. “Do I look like I’m joking?”
