Page 47 of The Rules of Their Red-Hot Reunion

CHAPTER ELEVEN

AISHAFIDDLEDWITHthe stem of her wine glass and fought the urge to look at her watch again. It was half-nine and she’d been sitting at this table in Michel’s for the past forty-five minutes waiting for Pasco. She felt the inquisitive eyes of her waitress on her and knew that if she met her gaze, she’d see sympathy and curiosity on her face.

Sympathy because, yeah, she’d been stood up, curiosity because few people had the balls to miss a meal at Michel’s.

Pasco was one of the few people who would.

Aisha ran her fingertips over her forehead, her elbow on the table. What a stupid, crazy, super-stressful day. The strategy session ran later than expected and she saw Mr Lintel’s frown when she excused herself, not happy she was leaving early. When she ran into the domestic departure terminal, her name was being called on the public announcement system. She cleared check-in at speed and ran to her gate, apologising to the unimpressed attendants.

She found her seat on the plane, ignored the dirty looks she received at holding up the flight—It was five minutes, people!—and fastened her seat belt. She, and everyone else, expected to hear the engines start but nothing happened. Fifteen minutes later, she was told that the flight was delayed because another aircraft needed to land unexpectedly.

It wasn’t an emergency, the air hostess told them over loud groans, but they were expecting a half-hour delay, which turned into forty-five minutes.

On hearing she would be landing in Cape Town later than expected, she called Pasco to give him an update, but he didn’t answer his phone. She sent him an email, a text message, and a WhatsApp message, all of which he didn’t respond to.

When she landed in Cape Town, she still hadn’t heard from him and placed another call; this time his message went straight to voicemail. Unsure what to do—had he lost his phone? Was it dead?—she called Michel’s and asked them whether he’d cancelled their reservation. He hadn’t so she decided to head straight for the restaurant. Choosing to believe, fool that she was, that he’d be there.

She arrived at eight forty-five and he’d yet to contact her.

Was he hurt? Dead? What the hell was wrong with his phone that he couldn’t call?

Aisha looked down at her white shirt, which looked a little limp and not so white any more. She’d bought a red cocktail dress for this occasion, gorgeous shoes, and had planned on curling her hair. She’d rushed from the airport to this fancy restaurant and, feeling limp and looking ragged—and sitting here alone—she stuck out like a sore thumb.

Dammit, Kildare, where the hell are you?

He’ll be here, a little voice deep inside her responded, just give him more time.

She’d wait another ten minutes, not a minute more. Aisha took a sip of wine and looked out of the window to watch the waves breaking over the rocks below. The spotlight on the restaurant’s roof illuminated the rocky seascape below and Aisha idly watched a crab scuttle across a rock, dodging an incoming wave.

That was how she felt about life with Pasco, as if she were constantly dodging rogue waves.

Aisha sighed. Why had she ignored her rule not to fall in love with him, to keep her emotional distance? When they first reunited, she knew she had to be careful, that he could upend her world again. But instead of setting out clear boundaries, obeying the rules, she’d fallen under his spell again.

Could she have been more of a fool?

Aisha watched as an older woman across the room pulled out a credit card to pay for her and her husband’s meal. That was what she wanted, she thought, an equal partnership, give and take, to be able to make decisions with him. She wanted Pasco to respect her career and to support her in it.

And she wanted to spend time with him, eating the whole fruit basket instead of just taking bites of the apple now and again.

But the reality was that if they decided to take another chance on their relationship, and to make it work, one of them would have to slow down. Would Pasco expect her to cut back on her workload without changing his hours? Would she be the one to make the sacrifices, working twice as hard as he did to give their relationship a shot?

Look, she got it, she wasn’t stupid. He was a hotshot chef with a billion-dollar empire to look after and that ate up his time. But to have a relationship, one of them would have to concede, to give more than the other, and Aisha knew it would be her.

And if she did that, how long would it take before she started to feel resentful, for her to start nagging him to spend more time with her? How long would it be before she left him again?

What would Pasco give up? If anything?

Aisha dumped some more red wine into her glass and scowled at the empty seat opposite her. Another five minutes had passed, and she’d heard crickets. There was no excuse for his behaviour.

He wasn’t dead or hurt, he was probably just ignoring her calls because he’d got sucked into work—at The Vane, in Franschhoek, or at Binta—and he didn’t want to deal with her annoyance and anger.

In the morning he’d rock up at her door and apologise, saying he got delayed or his phone died or some other stupid excuse, and he’d try to charm her into forgiving him. If words didn’t work he’d kiss her, knowing she was putty in his hands. He’d take her to bed, hoping that some good sex would improve her mood.

To be fair, it normally did.

Aisha felt fury burn away the moisture in her eyes. She’d had a hell of a day, and she’d all but killed herself to make her flight, had driven like a madman to get to this restaurant. She’d left a work event, incurring the chairman of the board’s displeasure at her leaving the strategy meeting early—something she wasn’t too worried about because she had Miles’s support—to make this date with Pasco...

And he’d bloody stood her up.

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