Chapter 8
Chapter Eight
Myles
I head into my office, dropping my phone on my desk.
My gaze moves to the dress hanging from one of the metal and timber shelves that line the wall.
It’s soft silk with billowing sleeves, printed in blues and pinks.
The dress Zara liked, from the photographs I showed her.
I asked the design team to send the sample over after our conversation.
She’ll need a work wardrobe for the trip, and I think she’ll be a good showcase for our brand.
The fact I’m fantasising about undoing the ties and slipping it from her shoulders is something that will have to remain just that, a fantasy.
No matter how much my cock would like it to be otherwise.
But now I’m wondering if she’ll even be able to come with me.
I know it was last minute, but I could see on her face when I asked her that she had something going on.
Something she didn’t want to talk about.
But the way her dreamy expression changed to panic when I asked her to rearrange it tells me that it’s most likely something romantic.
I tell myself that it’s none of my business, I don’t even know if she’d be interested in me anyway, and besides, I’ve already decided I’m not going there.
Even if the thought of her in someone else’s bed claws at my stomach. I need to take a step back.
I can’t force her to come with me. But Morocco is one of my favourite places in the world, and I want to share it with her.
Plus, I think it’d be a good opportunity for her as she moves into a design assistant role.
I don’t really give a shit if people think I’m playing favourites.
At the moment she’s my personal assistant, so if I need to take her on a trip with me, it shouldn’t raise any eyebrows at all.
I make myself another coffee from the gleaming chrome machine in the corner of my office. I’m about to sit down when there’s a knock at my office door.
“Come in.”
The door opens slowly. Zara is standing there. Her eyes are red, and her usually creamy skin has a slight greenish tinge. I frown as she comes closer.
“Everything all right?”
She grimaces, as though my voice is too loud. I try not to laugh. This is not Zara; at least it’s not the Zara I know, who is professional to the last degree. I hope this isn’t how she spends her weekends, though.
“Yes, fine.” Her voice is huskier than usual, sexy as hell. “I just wanted to tell you I can come to Morocco next week.” Her gaze is downcast and she seems, somehow, deflated. More than her obvious hangover can account for.
“You’ve rearranged your plans?” Relief flows through me. She’s wearing trousers today, black and high-waisted, showing off her long legs and curving hips. Why is she so damn distracting? It’s like I can barely think when she’s in the room with me.
“They… they were cancelled.” Her mouth twists a little.
Rage fills my heart. Someone has obviously hurt her. I rein it in. None of my business, I remind myself.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” I push my freshly made coffee across the desk to her. “Take this. You’ll need it.”
She lifts her gaze to me then. “What?”
“Make the arrangements you need, then go home. And possibly have a nap?”
Do not think about your assistant in bed. Do not think about her hair loose around her shoulders. Do not pass GO, do not collect ￡200, do not get involved with your employee. I hold back my longing with an iron fist.
“Um, thank you.”
God, that rasp in her voice. I can feel myself getting hard. “The dress is for you. Take it.” I nod towards where it hangs from the shelving, then turn away from her, going to the coffee machine to make myself another cup.
Zara
I feel like death. I don’t even remember getting home last night. I have a vague memory of crying myself to sleep. And more vague memories of singing, a lot. My throat is sore. And now I’ve agreed to go on a trip with Myles.
What the hell else am I supposed to do? It’s not like I have any other plans, not anymore. But I still feel as though I’m stepping off a cliff when I tell him. Could be the hangover, though.
I go to the shelf and take down the dress. It’s even more gorgeous than the photograph, the silk beautifully soft, billowing in my arms. It’s like this is happening to someone else, the room spinning slightly.
“Thank you,” I manage to say, hugging it to me.
“You’ll need an appropriate wardrobe for the trip.” Myles still has his back to me. The hiss and whirr of the coffee machine are unbearably loud. “Make sure you pack one.”
“I will.” I try to pull myself together. I can do this. I need to get out of London, and this is the perfect opportunity. I can get away, be work Zara for a week or so, clear my head. And then come back, hunt down Dean and Saffron, and…
And what, Zara? What the hell am I going to do when I find them that won’t get me thrown in jail? It’s not worth it. Honestly, they’re both obviously appalling people, so they’re perfect for each other. Good riddance. I try to forget how much I loved him. I wonder whether I really knew him at all.
“Is there something else?”
I come back to myself with a start, realising I’m standing there with the dress clutched in my arms like a security blanket. Myles, coffee cup in hand, the picture of perfectly tailored elegance, has an eyebrow raised.
“Uh, no. Thanks again. I’ll sort out the, uh, the arrangements. And then I’ll go home.”
My cheeks heat up as I grab the coffee and head out of his office. I drink it almost in one go, grimacing at the heat and bitterness. But it clears my head enough so that I can change the hotel arrangements, as well as booking myself a cab to the airport for Wednesday morning.
Then I roll up the dress and stuff it in my bag, before heading home.
A few hours later I feel slightly more human, thanks to a shower, a nap and a couple of grilled cheese sandwiches.
I’m trying to keep busy, because if I don’t I think I might start crying and not be able to stop.
So I stand in my bedroom, my meagre summer wardrobe spread across the bed.
Shit. Apart from the dress Myles has inexplicably given me, that’s probably a pretty good way to describe it, to be honest. I do have another dress, a deep red sundress smocked across the bust with shoulder ties, then flowing loose to my ankles.
Another charity shop bargain. But I worry about the bare shoulders.
This is a business trip and, Morocco or not, I want to remain professional.
You’ll need an appropriate wardrobe. Myles’s voice echoes in my head.
It’s all very well for him, I think crossly, bending to pull my small suitcase from under the bed. I bet he’s got a thousand things to wear. I try not to imagine him out of his sharp suits, his immaculately tailored shirts. Though I do wonder how he’ll look.
Oh God. How am I supposed to do this? I drop the case on the bed and sit down, grabbing my phone. I scroll down until I reach Eloise’s number.
I should have called her already. Should have told her about Dean.
I told her when I thought he was going to propose, so I should tell her now that everything’s fallen apart.
I’m embarrassed, I realise, even though I know she won’t care, that she loves me and she’ll be there for me.
She’s my dearest friend in the world. But she warned me to be careful, and I wasn’t, and things are all fucked up now.
Plus I know that whatever barrier is holding back my tears is going to break the minute I speak to her. Maybe it’s better that way. Better to process things now rather than having a breakdown in front of Myles, heaven forbid.
I hit dial. A few seconds later, she answers.
“It’s Zara. Can I come over?”