“Us, Justin. We’re celebrating us.”
His broad smile spoke of quiet satisfaction, the candlelight catching the green-gold flecks in his eyes while shadows played across the lines and grooves of his face, glinting off the silver woven through his hair.
Her belly fluttered — an entire swarm of butterflies set loose — and her body hummed with anticipation, every feminine instinct wholly in tune with the direction this evening was taking.
He pulled out her chair with an exaggerated flourish. “Then let the celebration begin.”
As she sat, a soft flow of warm air brushed over her hair, and she tilted her head back. He didn’t waste the opportunity to close the small distance and his lips found hers in a playful, upside-down kiss that stole her breath and left her smiling against his mouth.
When he finally took his seat, they both wore matching, foolish grins. He was close enough that their knees brushed beneath the table, a quiet spark pulsing between them that neither of them seemed in any hurry to tame.
He tilted his head toward the boma. “Your guests?”
“Miem’s in charge.”
“For how long?”
She hesitated, then smiled faintly. “For as long as needed.”
“Remind me to thank her.”
He reached for the bottle of sparkling wine, ice tinkling softly in the bucket. “Shall I pour you some?” he asked, one brow lifting in that teasing, gentlemanly way of his.
“Please,” she said, her voice low, a smile curving her lips.
The cork gave a satisfying pop, followed by the delicate fizz of bubbles. He tipped the bottle, filling both flutes with the pale gold sparkle, the fine stream catching the candlelight before settling into a soft, celebratory shimmer.
He lifted his glass. “A toast?” he said, his gaze never leaving hers.
Her breath hitched, but she reached for her own flute, the cool glass smooth against her fingers.
“To us,” he murmured.
Suzette’s lips curved. Her glass met his, the faint chime sealing the moment between them. “To us,” she echoed.
Easy banter accompanied their starter of lobster medallions layered with creamy avocado and thinly sliced blood orange, drizzled with a lime-chili dressing.
The sounds of the night wrapped around them: waves lapping against the shore, the shimmer of a rising moon on the ocean, the distant rhythm of drums and saxophone drifting from the boma, the soft murmur of conversation and the occasional burst of laughter.
“This is perfect,” Suzette whispered, voicing the thought before it could slip away.
“Almost.” Justin caught her hand, lifting it to his lips. His gaze held hers, dark and unflinching. “The only way to make it perfect,” he murmured, “is if you’re on top of me. Skin to skin.”
Her breath caught; the world seemed to narrow to the heat in his eyes. “Later,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
His Adam’s apple bobbed, a muscle ticking in his jaw. “Tonight?”
Anticipation shimmered up her spine, and she smiled, slow and certain. “Tonight.”
The soft thud of footsteps warned of someone approaching. The head chef appeared with one of the servers in tow, their movements practiced and unobtrusive. In moments, the empty plates were whisked away and replaced with the main course: slow-roasted lamb, the meat tender enough to yield beneath the fork, perfumed with rosemary and drizzled in its own rich jus, accompanied by perfectly roasted vegetables glistening with olive oil and sea salt.
They were a few mouthfuls into their main course when Justin set his knife and fork down and studied the dish for a moment before lifting his gaze to her. “I’ve dined in some of the best restaurants in the world — top Michelin-rated establishments. But this meal …” He paused, his eyes warm, sincere. “This meal tops any of them. And I know without a doubt that you are the force behind it. Your staff” — he gestured toward the kitchen — “they’d follow you to the ends of the earth to please you. Well done, Suzette Bosch.”
His praise settled over her like a warm blanket. She knew she was good at her job — had worked damn hard to create the unity and trust that made nights like this run seamlessly — but hearing it from him hit different.
*
The gratefulness in the smile she aimed his way only reinforced what he already knew — asking Suzette to give up her life here for him would be the wrong move. This washerworld, the one she’d built with care and purpose.
