Zara’s phone buzzes, and she jumps. My hands clench on the wheel. What if it’s that bastard from the hotel? What if he got to her, despite my efforts? What if she’s more interested in him than in me? Christ, I never even asked her. Just assumed she would want me.
But I know I’m not imagining how she responded to me, how her body had fit so well against mine.
“Your meeting has been moved back,” she says. Her voice is still rough, a little catch in it that tugs at my heart. “To 4pm. Something about a representative of the king coming?” She turns wide eyes to me. They’re a little bit pink at the corners, but she seems more herself again. I glance down at the swell of her breasts beneath her dress, trying not to think about how easily I’d touched them, pulling the neckline down.
“Uh, right,” I say, feeling strangled. “Fine.”
“So I can let them know we… er, you’ll be there?”
The little slip almost undoes me. “Zara, can we talk about what happened?”
She doesn’t say anything. I glance at her again to see her staring down at her phone. She’s blinking, her throat moving. “I can’t,” she whispers. “I need to figure this out.” The words are so low I can barely hear them.
My heart is light and heavy at the same time. Heavy that I’ve hurt her, that I’ve created this impossible situation between us. And light, that she said she needed to figure it out. The door isn’t closed. I hope.
I need to give her the space to choose to open it, though. I stare at the mountains, ancient and implacable, like a wall at the edge of the world. There’s about an hour until we reach the outskirts of Marrakech. I’m just going to spend it in the moment with her, however she wants me.
Zara
I don’t know if my heart has ever hurt this much.
Even when Mum died there was some relief, that she wasn’t suffering anymore. But this is unrelenting sorrow. I spent most of the night tossing and turning, in between bouts of tears. I dragged myself out of bed around nine, forcing myself to eat something before handing in my key and heading up to where I’d agreed to meet Myles. My breath caught at the sight of him, dressed in his usual linen, navy trousers with a cream shirt, highlighting his broad shoulders, his long legs. There are dark circles under his eyes, though. I suppose mine are just the same.
And now, as we speed across the brown and gold landscape, I can barely stand to look at him. I’m completely aware of him, though. So close to me, yet so far away.
What a fool I’ve been. Falling for my boss, like a girl in a story. I’ve become exactly the cliché I didn’t want to be. What on earth was I thinking? I could have said no, could have gone back to my room last night when we got back to the hotel, but I didn’t. And then, like an idiot, I ran away from him, like none of the million sophisticated beautiful women he’s dated would ever do. But the worst part of all is the fact I have to resign from one of the best jobs I’ve ever had, and never see him again.
I try not to look at his hands on the wheel, try not to remember how good his fingers felt, sliding in and out of me. This can’t happen. I can’t let my heart be hurt anymore. I need to cut myself off from him, rather than prolonging the agony. Once we return to London Big Red will be back in the picture and I’ll be relegated to Zara, the assistant who was incredibly inappropriate with him on a work trip. I have no choice but to resign. I just need to get through the next three days.
We leave the freeway, taking a long straight road past houses and shops and dusty orchards, snow-capped crags rise in the background like frozen waves. We speed past carts laden with leafy green branches studded with oranges, donkeys pulling them along. It feels like another world, the wonder of this place tugging at me again.
Then he asks me if we can talk about what happened.
Yes, I want to say. Yes, let’s talk about it, how magical it was, how your hands are fucking amazing and I want to know what the rest of you can do, as well as tell you I’m falling for you.
I don’t say any of those things. When I look at him, he’s staring ahead, his jaw tight. I feel as small and useless as the dead grasses at the side of the road. Morocco is a magical place, I realise, and it wove a spell around us last night. But it will have to remain a memory.
In my mind I draw the line again, even though my arms stretch over it, reaching for him, my heart yearning for his touch. It’s better this way.
It doesn’t feel like it, though.
ChapterTwenty-Seven
Zara
Traffic in Marrakech is madness. I close my eyes several times, convinced we’re about to crash as Myles manoeuvres us through the tangle of motorcycles, cars and donkey-carts. Lanes seem to be a suggestion rather than something anyone actually drives in. We make our way through winding streets lined with two-storey buildings the colour of the desert, palm trees visible over high walls hinting at courtyards beyond.
Despite the chaos of the roads I’m enchanted, feeling as though I’ve strayed into a story, this city with its ancient streets and distant backdrop of mountains seeming to call to me. A tower rises ahead of us, a golden finger of carved stone high above the rest of the buildings.
“La Koutoubia,” Myles says, as we cross several lanes of traffic and turn down a narrow side street. “The mosque,” he continues, at my questioning look. “Built in the twelfth century. The largest one in Marrakech.”
“It’s beautiful.” I twist in my seat to look at it again. Things have relaxed between us somewhat, or are at least less tense. And I’m excited, despite the ache in my chest, looking forward to getting out and exploring. Who knows when I’ll get the chance to do this again?
We pull up outside a terracotta-coloured building with pale ornate pillars set into the façade. There’s greenery between the pillars, more spilling over the top of the wall like a fringe. The street is packed with people, porters with wagons, tourists, cyclists and shopkeepers. It’s chaos.
“Is this the hotel?” I’d envisioned something calm and hidden, an oasis down a side-street.
“It is.” Myles grins, getting out of the car. He starts undoing the straps tying his surfboards to the roof.
