*
Justin set the tray down and placed a steaming mug and a small plate in front of her. “Rooibos tea with lemon and honey. Ham and cheese,” he said, nodding toward the croissant neatly sectioned into thirds. “You must be starving.”
For a moment she just blinked at him, startled, as if the simple gesture had caught her off guard. Her gaze dropped to the plate and something in her expression eased. “You’re my hero,” she said quietly, the words carrying more gratitude than humor. She leaned forward, lifted one of the pieces, and bit off a corner of the flaky roll.
He took quiet pleasure in watching her enjoy the simple meal he’d prepared. According to Miem, she was hopeless in the kitchen, and her slim frame suggested she either watched what she ate or, more likely, seldom bothered to cook for herself. He’d also noted the faint smudges under her eyes earlier, indicating a lack of sleep. He hoped his arrival hadn’t put those shadows there, but he suspected he was the reason.
Justin picked up his own mug — coffee, not tea — and sat back, taking in the peaceful scene: the gentle murmur of breaking waves, the faint hum of voices from inside, and the wide, exquisite African sky stretching above an equally exquisite ocean … And woman.
A few tendrils of blonde hair had escaped her loose twist and fluttered around her face. The turquoise of her blouse — light and airy — echoed the shimmer of the sea beyond her shoulder and made her eyes appear impossibly blue.
Fine lines fanned from the corners of those eyes, catching the light when she smiled. She was aging naturally. Gracefully. Untouched by artifice. No trace of fillers or the frozen perfection he saw too often in his world. Just real beauty. The kind that settled under a man’s skin and stayed there.
“Thank you for helping out,” she said after wolfing down the second piece. “And for bringing me the food. I was starving.” She picked up her mug and blew on the steaming liquid.
He swallowed back the sudden, irrational urge to steal that breath from her mouth. “It was a pleasure. I really enjoy cooking.”
“How did that come about?” she asked. “Never imagined an A-lister in a kitchen.”
“Research,” he said, kicking back in the seat. “For that romcom I did ages ago —Heart and Thyme.I spent three months shadowing a chef in an L.A. restaurant. Grew up with staff, so cooking wasn’t exactly encouraged. Didn’t know basting from braising.” He smiled at the memory. “But I discovered I loved it.”
“Rather you than me,” she said with a rueful laugh. “I’m in the kitchen strictly under duress.”
He loved her accent — a mellow South African lilt, soft around the edges, vowels smoothed by sun and sea air. She switched easily between languages, spoke Afrikaans with as much ease as isiXhosa, then back to English again. Suzette Bosch was, indeed, a truly fascinating woman. And he was falling for her deeper and harder than he’d first thought.
“Tell me something random about yourself.”
Her eyes flicked to him, and she let out a quiet laugh. “I have unfinished projects crammed into every available nook. It’s embarrassing, actually.”
“Such as?”
“Oh gosh. A crochet blanket. Beadwork. A jersey. And a set of paints I bought during a ‘creative awakening’ that lasted … about three hours.”
He grinned. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Sure.”
“I knit.”
She blinked. “You… knit.”
“I do. Long-haul flights, downtime on set — anywhere, really. And nothing beats a cold winter night in front of a fire with a glass of whiskey and a pair of needles and some colorful yarn.”
“Bet the tabloids would love to get hold of that tidbit. It would do some serious damage to your Callum Slater cred.”
He chuckled. “Guess who taught me to knit?”
“Your … grandmother?” She lifted a brow.
“Nope.”
“Tell me.”
“A Navy SEAL.”
She stared. “You’re kidding.”
He shook his head, remembering it vividly. “One of the team guys who trained me before the firstOperationmovie knitted. I was just as stunned as you are.”
