Page 1 of The Rules of Their Red-Hot Reunion

CHAPTER ONE

WALKINGDOWNTHEstone pathway bisecting the emerald green swathe of grass, Aisha Shetty sent Ro Miya-Matthews’s huge stomach a worried look. They’d just left the St Urban manor house, which would, under Aisha’s direction, become a six-star boutique.

Enchanted that this amazing two-hundred-year-old building was going to be her base for the foreseeable future—six months, maybe more—Aisha couldn’t wait to see what else St Urban had to offer. She just hoped her new boss didn’t go into labour before they reached the old wine cellars, the next stop on their tour of St Urban.

The woman was waddling like a duck...a very pregnant, about-to-pop duck.

‘How long to go?’ Aisha gestured to her stomach, shortening her long stride to accommodate Ro’s waddle.

Ro pulled a face. ‘Eight weeks. I’m carrying twins, boys, and they are, apparently, huge.’

Aisha’s eyebrows flew up. ‘Seriously?’

‘Seriously,’ Ro replied, placing her hands on her hips and arching her back. Her stomach lifted and, underneath her tight T-shirt, Ro saw her stomach ripple. Ro placed her hand on the bump, her blue eyes soft and full of joy. ‘I promised Muzi I’d start taking it easy, so I’m thrilled we managed to finalise your contract and that you are here.’

Aisha thought about the contract she’d signed and had to physically stop herself from dancing on the spot. As one of ten consultants working for Lintel & Lily, an international company dedicated to designing, decorating, renovating, and establishing boutique hotels all over the world, she’d been awarded the contract to implement Ro’s ambitious vision for St Urban.

The building renovations were all done and the house stood empty. From wallpaper to the waitstaff uniforms, labourers to the layout of the gardens, it was her job to take this now structurally sound, empty building and turn it into a super-luxurious home away from home.

And if she was successful, she would be in the running for a promotion to Chief of Operations when Miles Lintel, her direct boss, became CEO when her famous and wealthy father retired at the end of the year.

The title of Chief of Operations would come with more pressure, a huge jump in salary, and stress, but she’d finally be able to have a home base, buy a home, create her nest.

She’d been working out of hotel rooms and rented accommodation for nearly ten years, and she wanted to sleep in a bed she’d purchased, look at art she’d chosen, cook in a kitchen she’d designed.

She was tired of being a professional vagrant, a wealthy world wanderer. She’d still have to do some travelling, but she’d have her own home, roots, a city she could call hers. Established in South Africa, the now international company of Lintel & Lily had headquarters in both Johannesburg and London, and either city was an option for her home base.

Since her family—parents and four sisters—lived in Cape Town, she was probably going to choose London. She and her family tended to get along a lot better when there were ten thousand miles and a continent between them.

‘Do you like the manager’s cottage, Aisha?’ Ro asked her, sounding a little worried.

Aisha thought of the two-bedroom cottage tucked into the trees at the back of the property with its amazing view of the toothy Simonsberg mountain. It was the beginning of autumn and the weather was still lovely, but winter was wet and cold in the Western Cape. Her cottage had a wood-burning fireplace, a cosy lounge, and a soft queen-size bed. It was beautifully, tastefully decorated and she’d be fine there.

‘It’s lovely, thank you,’ she told Ro.

Ro’s phone buzzed and she excused herself, turning away to take the call. Aisha looked around. Similar to the house, the wine cellar was a whitewashed stone building with a modest gable above its entrance, with oak barrels in a temperature-controlled, cavernous room beneath the ground floor. It was situated on the other side of a grove of oak trees, the leaves of the trees turning gold and orange. The grounds of St Urban were extensive, and a small river ran between the vineyards and the buildings. It was romantic and lovely and there were worse places to spend the next few months.

But Aisha still couldn’t wait to settle into her own house, a place that was completely hers, surrounded by the things she’d spent the last ten years collecting. She’d take her time to find her perfect home, her first real home.

She couldn’t believe eleven years had passed, give or take a week or two, since she’d last lived in the Cape. Over a decade since she met Pasco, ten years since their divorce. Five years since she last spoke to her parents...and she couldn’t remember when last she spoke to three of her four sisters.

Like her parents, who were university professors, the Shetty sisters were all academically brilliant and unbelievably perfect. But Aisha was only on speaking terms with Priya, the only family member to stand up for her all those years ago. Priya, always the peacemaker, was overly excited about Aisha being back in the Cape and kept dropping hints about her rejoining the family flock.

‘You can’t be the black sheep for ever, Aisha.’

Aisha responded by telling her to hold her beer...

Being the only non-brilliant sibling, and the youngest, she’d always stood on the outside of the family circle, the one who never quite fitted in. At school, she’d been referred to as Hema’s, Isha’s, Priya’s or Reyka’s sister, and she doubted any of the teachers knew her real name. Academically average, she walked in their shadows, blinded by their light, constantly falling short of her siblings’ many successes.

She’d been their sister, her parents’ daughter, and then Pasco’s wife. It had taken a teenage rebellion, a crap marriage, and a heartbreaking divorce, working demon hours to establish her career—basically, a long, long time—to become Aisha, and she was damned if she’d put herself in any situation that would make her question her self-worth or her place in the world.

So...no. Throwing herself back into those piranha-infested waters wasn’t something she was keen to do.

‘As I mentioned, we asked various landscape designers to submit their landscaping ideas and I’d like to sit down with you to discuss them,’ Ro said after ending her call. She walked down the side of the building and stopped where the building ended. ‘We need to get the plants in so they will be established by the time we open.’

The St Urban boutique hotel was due to open in November, a scant five and a half months away. And there was still so much to do: staff to hire and train, rooms to decorate, a marketing plan to activate. And it was her job to make St Urban picture perfect so that things ran like clockwork from the day St Urban opened its two-hundred-year-old doors to paying guests. Ro Miya-Matthews was paying L&L big bucks to make St Urban one of a handful of six-star boutique hotels in Africa.

She’d established a hotel on the edge of the Virunga National Park, in Rwanda and the Bahamas, in Goa and Bhutan. Despite her being the family dunce—her parents and sisters had genius IQs—she’d done very well for herself, thank you very much. In her eyes, not theirs.

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