The woman huffed, looking dubious, but fortunately the person in front moved on and the cashier called impatiently, “Next.”
Pocketing her card, Suzette patted his back. “Come, Dimitri,móy milyy, let’s go before you cause a riot.”
He flashed her a grin, pushed the cart toward the doors — and froze when he saw a phone aimed at them. The man by thecigarette counter wasn’t even pretending to hide his interest in them.
“Let’s hurry,” he muttered, lowering his gaze, slipping the sunglasses back in place. He couldn’t even confront the man and request the footage be deleted. That would only confirm who he was.
The walk back to the Honda was silent, tension threading every step. They loaded the bags in quick, efficient motions, and she didn’t even protest when he gently took the keys from her. He didn’t want her behind the wheel and panicking if someone decided to follow them. This — exactly this — was why he had security. And today of all days, he’d told them to give him space.
“Sorry about that,” he said as he pulled out of the parking lot.
“I guess that happens a lot.”
“Yeah.” And here it was — the point where she’d finally decide he was more hassle than any sane woman would sign up for.
But, yet again, his sweet Suzette surprised him. After a few minutes of silence she asked, “How do you feel about baked cheesecake?” just as he stopped at a traffic light.
He glanced at her. “I like it just fine.”
“Up for a detour? I know a place that makes the best cheesecake.”
He blinked. “You’re willing to risk appearing in public with me again?”
She shrugged, grinning. “Maybe I fancy the Russian accent.”
The car behind them honked, and he eased forward. “I’ll learn Russian tomorrow.”
Her laugh was light and bright. “Take a right at the next intersection. We’re heading up Helshoogte.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He maneuvered around a slow truck, easing into the turn lane. “So, what does moy melee mean, and where did you learn Russian?”
“We had a Russian family visit several years back. The grandpa took a shine to me.Móy milyymeans my sweet.”
“How old was this grandpa?” he growled. No one but him was allowed to call Suzettemy sweet.
“In his seventies.” She chuckled. “Be glad I didn’t call youstaryi perdun.”
“Stah-ree per-doon?” he repeated carefully.
“Hmm. That’s what his wife called him.”
The car struggled up the steep hill, and he geared down, giving it a surge of power. “Dare I ask what that means?”
“Old fart.”
*
“You’re right. This is delicious. And the setting incredible,” Justin murmured before taking another bite.
They sat at a small table on the patio’s edge, the rambling rose hedge low enough that the sweep of Banghoek Valley lay just beyond it, soft and hazy in the midday light. On the far side, the mountain rose in layered greens and granite — a scene so serene it almost felt like a painting, the kind you could stare at until the calmness washed through your soul.
It wasn’t enough to settle her today.
“But why do I think we’re here for more than the … gastric delights?” he asked, a touch of suspicion in his voice.
He was beside her again, sunglasses and cap restored like a shield, reducing him to anonymity. The earlier encounter in the supermarket still pulsed under her skin — a jolt, a reminder, a reality check.
This thing between them, however breathless and bright, came with a shadow. His fame wasn’t something she could outrun. And she didn’t want to live in a world where strangers dissected her life, where every step was captured, twisted, broadcast. She stayed off social media for a reason. It was amarketplace of outrage — one careless comment away from a landslide of cruelty.
