Chapter 14
Chapter Fourteen
Zara
T aghazout 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 my boss cannot 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.”
She smiles, and I swear I would give her the entire country if it was mine to offer. “I have.” She laughs, sounding relieved. “It’s just so…” She waves one graceful arm in a circle.
I get it. I feel the same way about the place.
It’s why I’m so keen to invest here, to work with their artisans and help grow their surf movement.
The meeting this morning has already been productive, and I’ve lined up another for tomorrow, discussing sponsorship for the Taghazout Surf Expo, one of the newest stops on the surf competition circuit.
But now I have someone else to meet. I didn’t need to bring Zara along with me; I just wanted to. Wanted to watch her face as she explored the village, wanted her at my side.
I don’t know what it means. But here beneath the bright sun, honesty seems to be required. I’m not sure I’m ready to be totally honest yet, not with her, or with myself. I just want her with me, so I’m going with that for now. We’ll see where it leads.
A few minutes later we’re standing at an open-fronted shop at the end of the village.
The shop itself is small, not much more than a three-sided box lined with shelves groaning with metal lanterns and enamelled bowls, ceramic tagines lined up like triangular hats.
However, spread across the wide mosaic pavement in front of the stall are rugs, and it’s those that I’ve come to speak to the supplier about.
I’ve been talking with the design team about expanding into homewares for a while now.
But they need to be the right kind of homewares.
The kind of stuff a surfer would pick up as they travelled the world, all created by and bought for a fair price from local artisans.
I don’t want mass-produced stuff. Just small lines of interesting things.
When they’re gone, they’re gone. We’ve already started the procurement process for a few pieces, but this is the next item I’m interested in.
“Hello, my friend.” The man coming towards us is short and fine-boned, his ancient face, marked by time, as deeply scored as the gullies alongside the road. His smile is wide and he holds out his hand. “Mr Brandon?”
I nod, taking his hand in greeting. “Myles. And this is my assistant, Zara.”
The man smiles, bowing his head to her. “Zara. I am Ibrahim.”
She returns his smile, and I can’t stop watching her.
“So, Myles.” Ibrahim is rubbing his hands together.
“Will you and your lady join me for tea?” He gestures to a small carved wooden table and stools set up near the entrance to the shop, shaded by a cloth awning.
A silver tray sits on the table with a tall silver teapot and several small turquoise tumblers.
“A moment.” I hold up my hand. “If you please.”
Zara glances at me. Ibrahim waits, a smile still hovering around his lips.
“Zara, you mentioned wanting a rug. If you could choose any of these, which one would it be?”
She blinks. “Um…” She takes a moment, her brows drawing together.
I could watch her face change for ever. Her expression clears, and she points to one lying flat on the pavement.
It’s rectangular, not huge, and woven in a design of geometric shapes in reds and blues and greens, on a cream and navy background. “That one.”
“Why that one?”
I know I sound like a schoolmaster. Then I imagine spanking Zara on her creamy ass and have to cough. I need to get a handle on this.
“I just like the colours,” she says. “And the different textures. It looks soft.”
“Your lady has good taste,” Ibrahim says, eyes twinkling.
“That is a Taznakht rug.” At Zara’s quizzical glance he continues.
“Made in the Atlas Mountains by Berber artisans, from the softest wool. Each one is unique. See, feel it.” He picks up the rug and brings it to Zara.
She runs her hand over it, and I try not to imagine her lying on it, open to my hungry gaze. She nods at Ibrahim.
“It’s very soft,” she says.
“Ibrahim is right,” I say, coming closer to her. I can’t help it. “You do have good taste. These rugs are the reason we’re here.”
“Let us sit, then,” Ibrahim says, moving towards the table, one arm out. “We have much to discuss.”