Page 3 of The Rules of Their Red-Hot Reunion

Aisha far preferred to work from detailed plans and briefs and she wasn’t a fan of freestyling. She didn’t like imposing her design preferences on a space that wasn’t hers—too much could go wrong!—and chefs, in particular, were a nightmare to work with. They didn’t take orders, or even suggestions, well.

What to do? How to handle this?

Aisha heard the low rumble of male voices coming from the side of the building. She watched Ro, standing at the corner of the building, turn and heard her release a long quiet sigh. Her eyes softened and her mouth curved, and a look of pure bliss crossed her face.

Aisha recognised that look, knew it well. It was how a woman in love looked at her man; it was the way she’d looked at Pasco a lifetime ago. She’d loved him completely, as much as any woman could love her guy. She’d thought that if she made him the centre of her world, she’d become the centre of his and he’d give the love and attention she’d been missing all her life.

But Pasco’s job was his first love—his only love, his mistress, and his reason to wake up every morning. She’d come, maybe, a distant fourth or fifth, or tenth, on his list of priorities.

A tall man wearing expensive chino shorts and a yellow T-shirt, a perfect foil for his dark brown skin, hurried over to Ro and laid a possessive hand on her stomach and covered her mouth with his. He pulled back and tucked a strand of Ro’s hair behind her ear, his expression chiding.

‘Sweetheart, you’ve been on your feet all day. You need to rest.’

‘Don’t fuss, Muzi,’ Ro told him. She gestured to Aisha.

‘Meet Aisha, our get-it-up-and-running manager,’ Ro told her husband, pulling a face at Aisha. ‘Sorry, I’ve forgotten your official title.’

Aisha grinned. ‘Officially, I’m a hotel management consultant, but what you said works just as well,’ Aisha said, shaking Muzi’s massive hand. ‘It’s nice to meet you, Muzi.’

‘And you, Aisha,’ Muzi said. He looked over her shoulder and jerked his head. ‘Ah, he’s done with his call.’

A tall man stepped around the corner of the house, and Aisha felt the blood drop from her head, her brain short-circuit. The world faded in and out, and Aisha heard a roar in her ears, the sound of an incoming train coming in to flatten her. This couldn’t be happening to her...

It couldnotbe happening.

‘Aisha Shetty, meet Pasco Kildare.’

Oh, man, it was absolutely happening.

His first thought was,There she is, the second was that she looked amazing and the third, roaring in behind the others, was that he still wanted her.

When his brain restarted, Pasco, who’d had more practice at hiding his shock than Aisha—hers was the most expressive face he’d ever encountered—stared at her, hoping his expression remained impassive.

But, God, his ex-wife looked good. No, that was a ridiculous statement, she looked spectacular. She was tall and still slim, with a pair of legs that made his mouth water. A tangerine and white dress, her small waist highlighted by a thin leather belt, skimmed her slim frame and ended two inches above her pretty knees, the backs of which were ticklish.

Her hair was longer than it was when she was younger, pulled back from her face and hitting the middle of her back in a tumble of sable-black curls. Her triangular face was, achingly, the same. High and defined cheekbones, a full, lush mouth made for kissing and big black eyes framed by mile-long eyelashes.

He’d thought her lovely at nineteen; she was exquisite now. This stunning woman had once been his wife. He’d made promises to her, she to him, promises neither of them had been able to keep. They’d failed, he’d failed, and failure wasn’t something he spoke about or advertised.

Pasco ran his hand over his face, thinking back on their impulsive decision to marry, three or so weeks after they first met. He’d needed to return to Johannesburg to start work as a sous chef under one of the country’s best chefs and hadn’t been able to see how, with his long hours, they’d manage a long-distance relationship. She’d told him her parents would never give permission for her to leave Cape Town, or for them to live together. Not wanting to lose her, he’d suggested they get married.

She’d surprised him by agreeing and a few days later they’d said their ‘I do’s in a dingy courthouse.

On a sexual and emotional high, with her reeling from a brutal fight with her parents, they’d left for Johannesburg and moved into his small flat. It had taken him less than a week to realise he was no longer responsible for just himself, he was now responsible for her: her safety, security, and well-being were in his hands. By signing that marriage certificate, he was now a husband and was under contract—in his mind at least—to provide her with stability, a home, and a decent lifestyle.

Remembering his up-and-down childhood, the famines and the feasts, he’d had a mini panic attack at the thought.

All he’d known back then was that he couldn’t be like his dad, hurt Aisha the way his dad had hurt his mum. He’d known what it was like to live with uncertainty, to be scared of what tomorrow could bring, and he’d vowed, lying on their small bed in their rabbit-hutch apartment, that he’d be the husband his dad never was. He’d work as hard as he could, be successful, be a man she would be proud to call her husband. He’d show his dad, wherever the hell he was, what true success looked like. How to have it all...

In that small bed, her half lying on him, he’d vowed to give her everything. He’d never give her an excuse to leave him, a reason to walk away, leaving tornado-like devastation behind.

But, ironically, that was exactly what Aisha did.

‘Hello, Aisha,’ he said, rocked off his feet when her eyes slammed into his. ‘It’s been a while.’

The last time he’d seen her was when he’d left for work on an early autumn morning, thinking he’d see her later, if not after the lunch service, then when he was done for the day. He clearly remembered the night before she left, how excited he’d been to tell her he’d been offered big money to take an executive chef position at a new exclusive restaurant in London. They were on their way...

He’d brought home a bottle of champagne and he’d guzzled it, telling her of his plans, how he’d use this opportunity to look for investors in his own place. She’d have to stay in South Africa for a few weeks, maybe a month or two, while she waited for her visa, but he’d find a home for them, set it up so it was ready for her when she arrived.

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