Page 33 of The Rules of Their Red-Hot Reunion

CHAPTER EIGHT

AISHABROKEOFFa piece of fish and looked at him from her side of the picnic table overlooking the wide, stunning beach. Their helmets rested on the wooden bench next to them and icy bottles of beer dripped condensation onto the wooden table.

She’d pulled her hair back into a loose knot at the back of her neck and the sunglasses he’d lent her kept slipping down her nose. She had a grease smudge on the side of her mouth, and she kept making take-me-now noises as she worked her way through the greasy but fantastic fish and chips.

After spilling his soul earlier—those brown-black eyes were like a truth drug—Pasco vowed to keep the rest of their day fun and light-hearted. Instead of taking one of his three cars, he’d handed her a helmet and put her behind him on his powerful Ducati, thinking it was a truly excellent day to drive the magnificent Chapman’s Peak road. Aisha just smiled, plastered her chest against his back, wrapped her slim arms around him, and, following his lead, leaned into the corners, confident in his ability to keep her safe on the dangerous road.

When they stopped, at a viewpoint or for coffee, and she removed her helmet and his sunglasses, he saw excitement sparkling in her eyes and he wondered how he’d lived his life for so long—in both New York and, before that, in London—without days like these. Easy days, loving days, days he never wanted to end. Hearing her laughter coming over his intercom system and enjoying her relaxed body behind him, he’d carried on driving up the coast, eventually stopping for lunch in Pringle Bay, a charming coastal village situated on the famous Whale Route. Instead of a fancy restaurant, he’d headed for a small fish and chips shop and ordered them a takeaway lunch. He wasn’t disappointed with the meal; the hake was perfectly cooked, he thought, licking salt off his fingers, tipping his face up to enjoy the autumn sun.

‘God, this is good,’ she muttered, picking up another chip and waving it around. ‘Tell me about Pringle Bay. I’ve never been here before.’

Pasco gestured to a mountain to his right. ‘The town is surrounded by mountains on three sides and the ocean and the bay, as you can see, is awesome.’

Aisha wiped her hands on a paper serviette and took a sip of her beer. ‘Who was Mr Pringle?’

Pasco smiled at her. ‘That would be Rear Admiral Thomas Pringle to you, sweetheart. The town was established in the late 1700s. There’s also a cave around here, which was used by prisoners and runaway slaves as a hideaway in the eighteenth century.’

Aisha’s eyes widened. ‘Seriously? Can we see it?’

He shook his head. ‘It’s on private ground and is hard to find. It’s in an inlet washed by the sea and you get to it by a rope between rock walls. I think I remember something about someone in the 1890s finding skeletons in the cave.’

Aisha turned sideways on the bench, lifted her feet, and wrapped her arms around her legs. He was happy to sit in the sun, drink his beer and watch her.

Pasco tipped his bottle to his mouth, mentally running through the last twenty-four hours. Sex with Aisha had been wonderful a decade ago, but last night it had been nothing short of spectacular. She was less inhibited—thank God—than she’d been at nineteen, he more patient, and the combination was explosive. He could still taste her on his lips, could smell her scent, feel her soft skin under her hands...feel himself stirring once again.

He wanted her again. He didn’t think there’d be a time when he’d ever not want Aisha. He was drawn to her in a primal, moth-to-a-flame way—wanting her was in his DNA.

He could understand the physical connection—she was a stunning woman who made men’s heads turn, their attraction was understandable—but he didn’t understand why he’d told her about his dad, about his life before his family moved to Franschhoek. He never spoke to anyone about what his dad put them through, preferred to forget it, to not think about it at all. As far as he was concerned, his life started when they moved to Franschhoek, and John started dating his mum.

But he’d told Aisha about his life before this life, and he wondered why he’d done that. He’d had many lovers since their divorce, but he always kept things simple, not delving into their lives and keeping them from digging into his. When they pushed for more, for a deeper connection, he always, always ended things, stating that he didn’t have the time, that his life was too chaotic for a love affair. A few called him on his emotional unavailability, but he didn’t allow their tears or anger to affect him.

He didn’t talk. Okay, sure, he’d got through two conversations about their marriage with Aisha—yay him!—but those were super-necessary, had to be done so that they could move on. But what was the point of harping on the past? It couldn’t be changed by some back-and-forth exchange of words.

Then, strangely, he’d opened up about his dad. But he still hadn’t been able to tell Aisha the worst of it. Only his mum, his brother, and his stepdad John knew the next chapter of that godawful saga.

‘It’s very pretty here. As lovely as St Urban.’

‘Mmm. I looked at buying property here when I returned from the States,’ Pasco told her.

‘To do what?’ Aisha asked, turning her head to look at him.

He shrugged. ‘I had this idea of buying a plot of land, establishing greenhouses, and running a small farm-to-table place, little work, no pressure. Living the simple life, you know.’

Her eyebrows rose, as if she couldn’t conceive the notion.

‘I know, right? I don’t blame you for your disbelief. I would’ve gone off my head in six months.’

‘Actually, I’m surprised by the wistfulness I heard in your voice. It sounds like that’s something you’d like to do.’

There she went again, seeing through his layers. ‘It’s not me, Aisha. I do better in high-pressure environments.’

‘But do you like it?’

He frowned at her. ‘Sorry?’

‘Do you like running your swish restaurant at The Vane, Binta, the restaurant in Franschhoek? Does it make you happy?’

The returns, the money in the bank did. The security it gave him made him very happy indeed. Being successful, not following in his father’s reckless, unsuccessful footsteps, was all that mattered.

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