“Yes, Zara, I do.” A smile tugs at his gorgeous mouth as he opens his office door, beckoning me inside.
I have no choice but to follow.
Myles
I hate feeling like such an ogre. But it’s the only way to protect myself from my feelings about Zara.
And maybe to protect her, as well. I have my reasons for acting the way I do, apart from the fact she’s my employee. The last time I gave my heart, I almost lost everything.
Cassandra was a brilliant businesswoman. A couple of years older than me, with hair the colour of honey, an incisive mind and a body that made everyone stand to attention as she passed by. I was fascinated by her, almost immediately, when she joined our management team. Things happened quickly between us and I took steps, I thought, to protect myself and the company, taking myself out of her chain of command, detailing everything with HR, all the while falling for her.
We moved in together, and I was ready to propose. Until I found out she was sleeping with a competitor, and feeding him company secrets. A fucking double knife to the heart. I went into damage control, moving everything out of our house, locking down the company and terminating her employment with immediate effect. My lawyers urged me to sue, but I didn’t want to do that to her, preferring to take the high road. Then she’d sued me, threatening to expose intimate photos and video she’d taken without my knowledge, unless I paid out her contract. I paid it out. Then I let everyone know what she’d tried to do to my business. I threw myself into work, limiting my relationships to casual flings, more to satisfy an urge than anything else. The company grew exponentially. And I grew very good at keeping myself apart.
Yet, as Zara leans over the large glass table in my office, her slender fingers moving pieces of paper around, it’s all I can do not to stand close behind her, breathing her in. Her perfume tantalises my nostrils, pale afternoon light catching the sheen of her hair. I’m utterly drawn in by her.
“What do you think?” The words come out rough, and I clear my throat.
She turns to me, a questioning look in her eyes. She’s still slightly bent over and the movement causes her shirt to shift, a gap opening up between the buttons. I glimpse a curve of soft breast, a hint of lace. Christ. This is going to undo me in a moment.
“About the photos?”
“And the clothes. All of it.”
She blinks, the slender line of her throat moving as she goes back to the images on the table.
They’re sample photographs for our latest line of Ocean’s Curl clothing, dresses made using fabrics printed by female artisans in India. A few of the shots feature Sarah Peterson, one of our Sand Stars. She’s dancing, twirling, her arms in the air, the dresses swirling around her. They’re beautiful images, but I’m not sure. I need a second opinion, and my gut is telling me to ask Zara. I haven’t got where I am without following my instincts but, as she leans forward again, I wonder whether it’s my gut or my dick that’s guiding me in this instance.
“Um.” Zara has her bottom lip between her teeth and I watch, mesmerised, as she worries the soft pink flesh. She glances at me, her brown eyes wide.
“Say it.” The words come out curt, more than I mean to. I soften my tone. “Be honest.”
She nods, once, then straightens up. Her hands twist together in front of her. “Okay, so, the dresses look nice.”
“Nice?”
A little crease appears between her brows. “The thing is…” She points at one of the dresses. “This one. It has ribbon ties at the wrists and, well, I know they’d be super irritating to wear, as well as difficult to fasten.”
“Go on.”
“And this one. It’s pretty, but it makes Sarah look… bulky.” She glances at me again. “If she doesn’t look good in it, what hope do the rest of us have?”
“Anything else?”
She pauses. “Do any of them have pockets?”
“Pockets?”
Pink blooms in her cheeks. “Yes. Women like pockets in their dresses.”
“They do?” I grin, unable to help it.
She smiles back, a flash of light, then turns back to the photographs. Her cheeks are still pink. “Pockets,” she says again. “And maybe some of these could be longer? Not everyone wears miniskirts.”
Unable to resist, I move to stand next to her. She’s absolutely right, I realise, as I look at the images. “Which ones should be longer?”
“This one.” Her hand trembles slightly as she touches one of the photographs. “And… this one.” She’s chosen the two styles I also think should be longer. “I love this one, though.” She points to a knee-length wrap dress in soft printed silk, with a flowing skirt and loose sleeves gathered at the wrists. She would look amazing in it. Especially with nothing underneath.
“Very good,” I say.
