Page 48 of The Rules of Their Red-Hot Reunion

If she needed a clear message on how life with Pasco would be going forward, this was it, big and bold and written in sparkly, six-foot-high letters.

You are always going to be last on his list of priorities...

She’d been kidding herself to think that anything had changed, that Pasco had changed, that he was ready to make space for her in his life. He was as committed to his career as he always was, he’d shown that over and over again. She’d struggled to get him to pay attention to the pop-up restaurant and when she did make arrangements with him to meet, he stood her up. He’d told her, time and time again, that he decided on his priorities and that his work, and his business interests, came first.

She stood on the outside of his life, only welcome in when it suited him. And didn’t that feel familiar? Wasn’t that the way she felt with her family? And, God, why did she keep choosing to love people who made her feel unseen, neglected, and less than?

She had to stop that, had to break that cycle. She was worthy of a man who put her first, who moved heaven and earth to be with her. She deserved to be a priority, to be considered, to be seen... She deserved a man who would support her, who would respect her enough to send her a damn message when he couldn’t make a date.

Enough!

Enough of waiting for him, hoping for him to change, hoping for more than Pasco was able to give. This stopped now, tonight. She was done with hoping and wishing...

It was time to face the truth. She loved Pasco, she did, but she didn’t like feeling ‘less than’, unsupported, dismissed. She needed to be a priority in his life, to be an equal partner, to step into the inner circle of his life.

It wasn’t going to happen, and it was time she accepted that. Yes, she loved him, probably always would, but love couldn’t exist in a vacuum and sometimes it simply wasn’t enough.

Aisha reached into her bag to pull out her purse and placed enough money under the side plate to cover the mostly full bottle of wine. She pushed her purse back into her bag and her heart went into freefall when she saw her screen light up, showing an unfamiliar number.

She jabbed her finger on the green button and held the device up to her ear.

‘Aish? Sorry—’

Aisha heard a man shouting, was Pasco in apub? His voice faded in and out—the signal was terrible—but she heard a ‘sorry’ and ‘in the morning’.

Aisha didn’t say anything, she just cut the call, stood up on shaky legs, and pulled her bag over her shoulder.

She’d made him a priority but, to him, she was still an option.

That stopped right now.

The fire at Pasco’s, Franschhoek broke out in the late afternoon, shortly after he left Franschhoek to head back to the city for his date with Aisha. By the time Pasco arrived back in the village, the old cottage, with its wooden floors, door frames, and wooden furniture, was fully engulfed. The fire engine took its time getting there, and the firefighters found him, his brother, Cam, his staff and many Franschhoek residents trying to douse the flames with hosepipes and buckets of water.

Frankly, their efforts hadn’t made any difference.

Pasco glanced at the mountain, bathed in the early-morning light as he walked the long route to Aisha’s cottage after a night of no sleep.

He needed the time to think, to work out what he was going to say to her, how to apologise. After telling Aisha how important this date was, how much he was looking forward to finding a way forward, it had been hours before he thought to call her. On seeing the fire, he’d immediately gone into his solve-this-and-sort-it-out zone, not allowing himself to be distracted. He’d hauled hosepipes and buckets of water, manned the hose of the ancient fire engine, beat at the burning bushes with blankets. He’d comforted his shocked employees and driven those who used public transport home.

He’d had a building and a business to save, and nothing else, at that moment, was important. He’d inherited his ability to focus on one thing, to the exclusion of everything else, from his father, and it made him an incredible chef, perfectionistic and driven. It also made him a lousy human being.

It wasn’t that he hadn’t thought about her—he had, he’d just pushed the need to contact her away. Caught up with the fire and what he had to do, he’d decided she could wait. But it really wouldn’t have taken much to run to his car and send her a message, a quick call...five minutes? Ten? But no, because he was a control freak, he couldn’t step away for even that long. Something might happen, he might miss something, he might be needed... As a result, it was after nine before he called her and, although the signal had been terrible, he’d immediately sensed her anger and disappointment.

He’d let her downagain.

Was he ever going to stop doing that? Was it evenpossible?

Feeling sick and sad, he let his thoughts drift from Aisha to his restaurant and the cause of the fire. He’d heard mutterings about old wiring starting the blaze, or a pan of oil being left on the stove. BS, all of it. He’d had the house completely rewired a couple of years ago and his staff followed protocols at the end of a shift, including the washing and packing away of all used pots and pans. The fryer was emptied of oil and power cut to all the equipment in the kitchen. He knew without a shadow of a doubt that all those protocols had been followed because he’d run the kitchen during the lunch service and he’d checked.

Pasco knocked on the door to Aisha’s cottage and waited for her to answer the door. There was only one logical explanation for a fire that burned so hot and so fast and that was that it had had some help from an accelerant.

And there was only one person who was pissed off enough to do that to him. Jesus, Jason.

Aisha answered the door, dressed in a pair of men’s style flannel pyjamas, her hair early-morning messy. She frowned at him.

‘It’s just past seven, Kildare. What are you doing here so early?’ she asked, her tone cool and her expression closed off. ‘Actually, you know what? I don’t care. Just go away.’

Her reaction wasn’t unexpected, but because she didn’t slam the door in his face, he followed her into the kitchen area, where she immediately headed for the coffee machine. Using the side of her fist, she hit the button to turn it on and checked the level of the water and the beans. She looked as if she’d had less sleep than he had, and he’d had, well, none.

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