“Is there… Do you need something?” I watch her mouth as she talks.
You. I need you to come up to my room with me and let me slowly strip you naked, untie your hair so it falls over your shoulders, then make love to you until you come, over and over.The thought crashes through me, and I take a swig of water to cover my confusion.
“Just this.” I hold up my drink. “Just had a surf.”
“Oh. That’s nice,” she says, but there’s still uncertainty in her brown eyes. “Um, there should have been mineral water in the room. Is it not there? I can arrange some for you?—”
“Go back to your drink,” I snap, more harshly than I mean to. But I can see people starting to recognise me, and that’s the last thing I need. Maybe I should have just rented a villa somewhere, instead of staying here. But this place feels like home to me.
I wish I could turn back time and take back my harsh words, as I see her face fall.
Her soft mouth twists. “All right,” she says, quietly. “Just let me know if you need anything. Your first meeting is booked for tomorrow at ten and?—”
“I know,” I say, more gently than before. I toss back the remainder of my drink, putting the glass on the bar. “It’s fine. Honestly. And I’m sorry I snapped at you. I will need you to come with me tomorrow afternoon, though. Be ready at 12.30.”
Her eyes widen for a moment. “All right,” she says. “And?—”
“I’m going up,” I say, hating that I’m cutting her off, but knowing that I need to. “See you later.”
ChapterFourteen
Zara
Taghazout is beautiful, just like everywhere else I’ve seen in Morocco so far. The main street is lined with small shops, restaurants and apartment buildings, the modern next to the ancient. Walls are painted white or blue as the sky, shutters the colour of the ocean decorate the windows, multi-coloured tiles on the stairs and underfoot. Alleyways lead downhill towards the water. I glance down them as we pass, wondering where Myles is taking me.
I’d woken late, not sure where I was for a moment. Then I remembered and jumped from the bed and threw open the long shutters. The ocean roared below me, blue and beautiful, birds darting in the tops of the palm trees. There were surfers out again and I watched them for a moment, wondering whether Myles was one of them. My mind wandered back to how he’d looked the day before, his wetsuit bunched around his lean hips, the damp rash vest clinging to his muscular chest and flat stomach, droplets of water in his raven hair. Like a dream of a perfect guy, despite the way he’d snapped at me. He’d apologised right away, though, softening in his grey eyes. But I hadn’t been able to escape the twist of guilt in my stomach, even though he’d told me to relax.
When I checked the time, I’d gasped. It was past 10am already. Myles was already at his meeting, not out in the water. And he was coming back for me at 12.30. I hastily showered and dressed, choosing another Eloise skirt, long and black, which I paired with the embroidered shirt from the charity shop. The dress Myles had given me still hung in the cupboard, but something stopped me from wearing it yet.
I’d breakfasted on my terrace, sipping coffee as I munched pastries and checked Myles’s emails. At noon I stood in the bathroom, pinching colour into my cheeks, redoing my ponytail, examining myself from every angle. It’s to make sure I look appropriate, I told myself, as I tied the shirt at my waist for the twentieth time. But I hadn’t been able to help a flicker of excitement as the large black four-wheel-drive pulled up in the car park, Myles at the wheel. I slung my bag over my shoulder and climbed in, trying to ignore how my heart leapt at the sight of him.
I am vulnerable, I reminded myself. Heartbroken. And mybosscannot be my rebound fling. No matter how good he smells, or how he smiles at me.
The drive to the village was mercifully short, only a few minutes or so, and we parked on the main street, pulling in with the lines of cars and vans.
Now I’m following Myles along the wide pavement, glancing in shop windows and at stalls laden with scarves and bags and jewellery, hanging kaftans catching the breeze from the sea. I mark down a couple of places I want to come back to, if I have some free time.
Myles glances back at me. “Come on, keep up,” he says, jerking his head. He smiles, and my heart leaps. I wonder, for probably the thousandth time, what the hell is going on. Perhaps it’s being in Morocco, I think, as I hurry to catch up to him. The place is magical, just as I hoped it would be, and it’s difficult at times to remember why I’m really here. As Myles smiles at me again my breath catches, and walking next to him feels perilously close to crossing that black pen line, as though he might at any moment sling his arm around my shoulders, pulling me to him. I don’t know whether it’s the thought of it happening that makes my heart beat so fast, or the fact that I want him to, desperately.
Myles
I want to touch her. So much so that it’s torture. It just feels so natural, as she walks alongside me, to put my arm around her slender waist and pull her closer. My fist clenches in an effort to stop myself from doing so, nails digging into the palm of my hand.
Zara pauses at yet another stall, her hand gliding across a silk scarf. She bites her lip, frowning slightly. And I realise. I’ve been there myself, had a lot of lean financial times before I hit it big. I pay her well, so I’m not sure why things are like that for her, nor is it my business. Still, as I recognise the yearning in her, my heart clenches in my chest. I’d buy her the whole damn village, if she wanted it. She only has to ask.
But as she turns to me, her brown eyes wide, I realise she never will. She’s not that type. I think of Katya and her demands, the silk-ribboned parcels and jewellery boxes. I hadn’t minded– I never mind spoiling my lovers– but it’s refreshing to be with someone who doesn’t seem to want anything material from me.
Then I remind myself, for what seems like the thousandth time, that she isn’t with me for any reason apart from the fact that I’m her boss and she was asked to come here. I can’t make it more than that, no matter how my mind wanders, how blood seems to rush to my groin at the sight of her.
“Sorry, I’m holding you up,” she says. “I might come back here later, if there’s time?” Her voice rises at the end of the sentence.
“What are you looking for?”
“Oh. A rug, possibly, if I can… um… Or one of those lovely scarves. Just something to remember this place by.”
“So, you’ve fallen in love?”
She flinches. And I realise there’s a weight to the question I hadn’t considered. “With Morocco,” I add, perhaps a little too quickly. “I fell under her spell right away too.”
