Page 12 of The Rules of Their Red-Hot Reunion

Pasco, dressed in his oldest pair of jeans, and his most comfortable boots, walked up the road towards St Urban, looking up at the branches of the oak trees forming a leafy canopy over the road. The trees were flaunting their beautiful colours, red and gold, and bronze, and now and again one drifted down to the road, dancing on the light breeze. His property, a smallholding he’d bought on selling his restaurant in New York, had once been part of St Urban and bordered Ro’s place to the east. His house wasn’t far from her new abode, the manager’s cottage situated in the corner of the property. Instead of walking for a good forty-five minutes, he could’ve hopped a couple of fences, crossed a paddock, navigated his way through a vineyard, and reached her place in ten minutes.

But the long walk had given him time to think and, God, he knew he needed every moment to work out how he could apologise without sounding like a complete moron.

On returning to his place last night, he’d headed straight for his home office and fired up his state-of-the-art laptop. He’d never, not once, done an Internet search on Aisha in all the years they’d been divorced. He didn’t believe in looking back, or torturing himself, so he’d kept his curiosity tightly leashed. He’d initially typed ‘Aisha Kildare’ into the search engine and couldn’t understand why he came up with no results or, to be accurate, nothing relating to her. He realised his mistake and with a thumping heart typed in her maiden name and various images and results jumped out at him. There were testimonials about her work as a consultant—all five stars—a write-up stating she was one of the hospitality sector’s most exciting and innovative consultants, and he came across a series of articles she’d written for a trade magazine. Then he visited the Lintel & Lily website and, under their ‘Meet Our Team’ tab, read the write-up on his ex-wife. She had, indeed, received her MBA, graduating near the top of her class. She’d set up hotels in far-flung, sometimes inhospitable places and was respected for her cool head and her practical streak. She was fast, efficient, and smart, and a valued member of the Lintel & Lily family. Her employees and clients adored her.

Basically, if someone wanted to set up a hospitality-based operation, Aisha Shetty was the person you hired to do that. Ro had employed the best of the best.

And he was, as she’d said, an ass.

An ass who needed to apologise.

Pasco pushed his sunglasses up into his hair and rubbed his tired eyes with his thumb and index finger. Sleep, always elusive, had been non-existent last night. He’d sprawled out on his couch in front of his large-screen TV, watching reruns of old international rugby games, but his full attention had been on the hot-as-fire kiss they’d shared. They’d always had chemistry, but their kiss last night had gone beyond that; they’d been radioactive. Her body, slimmer than it had been when she was younger, had fitted against his perfectly, and her scent, edgier now, had invaded his nostrils and settled in his brain. And her mouth, God, her mouth...her taste. It kicked up a yearning in him to know her again, to discover all the ways she’d changed. And the ways she’d not.

Pasco kicked a stone with his boot and watched it skitter into the grass. Taking Aisha back to bed was not a good idea, in fact, it was a comprehensively disastrous one. They’d tried once, they’d failed. He wasn’t into reliving the past, revisiting mistakes. So, no, jumping back into bed with his ex was not a good idea. But he still wanted her, goddammit.

Impulsively, Pasco veered left and ambled down the path leading to the cellars. He walked around to the back of the building to look at the renovations for Ro’s restaurant. He slipped through the unlocked door and, standing on the newly sanded floor, looked at the unpainted walls and the magnificent view.

This...

A restaurant like this was his unspoken, deepest, never-spoken-of dream. A small kitchen, doing most things himself. Growing as much produce as he could in his own gardens and orchards, picking it in the morning and using the ingredients for lunch and supper, his entire focus on creating excellent food in a non-pressurised environment, forgetting about stars and rewards and reviews.

In a perfect world and alternate reality of himself, he’d ditch his high-pressure restaurants, his travel shows, and the persona of being the country’s first international celebrity chef. He’d read, work on a cook book, wander about in a greenhouse he built, raise chickens and goats, make cheese. He wouldn’t run from business to business, project to project, dealing with staff and suppliers, making sure the steep and exacting standards he set were consistently exceeded by himself and his staff.

He was tired, dammit.

But whenever he considered closing down his restaurants, leaving his high-powered life, he felt his heart rate speed up, a hand squeezing his lungs. He knew what it was like to lose everything of value, houses and cars and, yeah, money, knew how devastating it was to have his life flipped upside down in the blink of an eye. Living a simple life, free of pressure and ambition, was a lovely idea, but it was a pipe dream, a mirage.

He needed different eggs in a variety of baskets so that if one venture failed, another would keep him afloat. He needed the pressure, the accolades, the five-star reviews, and the attention because it put distance between him and his father, reminded him he was nothing like the man who was so determined to have the easy life while putting in little to no work. Growing up, all he’d heard was how like his father he was, that they looked the same, talked the same.

He might be his father’s mini-me, but working hard, moving fast was his way of showing the world that, below the surface, he wasn’t his father’s son.

He had pots of money but one bad decision, one financial misstep, could wipe a business out. That was why he had backup plans for his backup plans, ten different slush funds, and why he diversified. If something went wrong with Pasco’s at The Vane, he could rely on income from Pasco’s, Franschhoek and his share in Binta. If they all went belly up, he could expand his travel and cooking show. He would not be like his mother and be blindsided.

No, stepping back, having a small restaurant, pottering really, was a nutty dream. And he was anything but daft. He’d satisfy those cravings for a small restaurant by helping Ro set up hers and, possibly, running it for a month or two. That would have to be enough.

Pasco left the cellar and headed for the path that would take him to the manager’s cottage, conscious of the spark of excitement burning in his belly. Since he seldom felt excited about much any more, he reluctantly admitted he was eager to spend more time with his ex-wife. His all-grown-up, now feisty, occasionally fierce, ten times more attractive than she had been, kissed like she was on fire, ex-wife.

Pasco sighed. God, he was up the creek, his paddle was long gone and hungry alligators were snaking on his ass.

Excellent.

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