Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Zara
I finish my orange juice then pad back into the kitchen to refill the glass, grabbing another pastry from the box on the counter.
As I take a bite my gaze goes to the colourful rug spread across one end of my corner sofa.
It’s the rug I admired yesterday, when Myles had taken me to meet the trader in Taghazout.
He’d shown up just as the light was sliding from gold to lilac, standing in my doorway like a fragment of a dream, his steel-grey gaze turned down.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I shouldn’t have spoken to you like that.” He was yielding and unyielding at the same time, as though I was a wave hurtling towards him, about to crash on his cliff face.
I’d still been hurt by what he’d said to me, and how he’d said it. But I also had to admit to myself that he was right. I’m supposed to be here to work, and he pays me to be where he needs me to be. I shouldn’t have forgotten that. This isn’t a holiday, no matter how much it feels like one.
“I’m sorry too,” I’d said. “I should have been on time.”
“Damn it, Zara! No, you shouldn’t. I’m not…” He’d rubbed his free hand over his face. “Listen. This isn’t the office. The lines are less… clear.” His eyes had narrowed, briefly. “You have nothing to apologise for.”
He’d held out the object in his other hand. It was bulky, wrapped in fabric. Wondering, I’d taken it from him.
“Ibrahim gave it to me,” he’d said, as I undid the wrapping. “As a thank you. And I want you to have it.”
I’d run my hands over the soft tufts of wool, the bright patterns. “It’s beautiful,” I’d said, my voice slightly husky. “I love it. Thank you.”
We’d stared at each other for a long moment, and it had looked as though he was going to say something else. I hadn’t been sure what to do. Inviting him in had felt… dangerous. He’d stared at me a little longer, then pushed himself off the doorjamb with what sounded like a sigh.
“Take tomorrow off,” he’d said.
When I’d started to protest, he’d held up his hand. “I’m in meetings most of the day anyway, and you deserve it. I do appreciate you, you know.” His lips had tilted up at the corner, maddeningly, and I’d felt an overwhelming urge to run to him, to press my mouth against his.
He’d turned away, heading up the stairs towards the rooftop restaurant. There was something sad about the thought of him eating alone up there, but I couldn’t invite myself along. This was work, nothing more.
I look at the rug again, my heart warming. It’s something solid, something beautiful, and will always be a reminder of him and of this place. I have that, at least.
I carry my juice and the remnants of my pastry outside again, and sit in my chair with a sigh.
I know. I shouldn’t be sighing. It’s a beautiful morning and I have the whole day ahead of me.
It feels as though it should be full of possibilities, as though anything could happen.
So why am I wondering where Myles is and what he’s doing, thinking about what might have happened if I’d invited him in?
I take a deep breath, giving myself a mental slap.
What would have happened is that he would have said yes, just to be polite, and it would have been awkward.
My fantasies of unbuttoning his linen shirt and sliding my hands across his hard muscular chest need to stay just that.
He’s my boss. And he’s definitely not interested in anything more, no matter how he might make me feel.
I need to face up to that too, though. How I feel.
Myles was angry with me yesterday, and kind of a dick about it.
But I could hear the worry underneath it all, that he cared about where I was.
Despite how firmly I draw that line between us in my mind, it’s blurring.
Being here with him, seeing him out of the office, out of his suits, is changing things between us. I wonder whether it’s the same for him.
And that’s the problem. I shouldn’t be wondering.
I’m here to work, and that’s it. Yet when I lie alone in the dark it’s Myles I’m thinking about, the way he smiles at me, the way it feels as though we’re friends, rather than work colleagues.
Maybe I’m just grateful that he’s brought me to this magical place, just as I needed healing.
But I can’t escape the fact I’m desperately attracted to him.
I always have been, to be honest, but it was tempered by my longing for Dean.
When I think of Dean now it’s like a sort of wild dream, a mad romance followed by lonely months of longing for someone who was never really there.
Quite different from the heat and immediacy of being close to Myles.
Shit. I need to pull myself together. I head into the bathroom and splash cold water on my face before getting ready.
A short while later I’m in a taxi heading for the village.
The day is bright and sunny, like all the days here seem to be, and my mood lifts as we wind along the dusty road, eventually pulling up in the main street.
I pay the driver, thanking him, hoisting my tote bag on my shoulder once I’m out of the car.
Excitement bubbles in the pit of my stomach.
Something about this place makes me feel more alive than I have in a long time, the rigid control I hold over myself easing, replaced with a desire to follow my heart.
It feels as though I’m free for the first time in years, like a butterfly newly emerged from her chrysalis, poised to take flight.
I start along the now familiar street, my skirt swirling around my legs.
It’s another Eloise loan, block-printed Indian cotton, and I’ve paired it with a plain white T-shirt.
It’s cool and comfortable, and I wonder what Myles would think of it, whether it would be a ‘suitable’ work wardrobe.
I still can’t bring myself to wear the dress he gave me, something seeming to stop me every time I lay my hand on it.
Maybe I’ll wear it on the last day of the trip, when we’re back in Marrakech.
I try not to think about that, though. Back in Marrakech means that the magic will almost be over, that this trip, and the wonders of Morocco, will almost be a memory.
That I’ll be returning to grey skies instead of brilliant blue, red brick instead of painted plaster walls, a dull river instead of a shimmering sea.
Back to the office, and the grind of commuting and saving almost every penny I earn.
Back to being Myles’s assistant, to lines between us that are firmly drawn. Back to dealing with what happened with Dean. Back to being alone.
I need to stop thinking about that. Today is about me. I pat my purse, conscious of the little stash of notes I have inside. Now that Myles has given me a rug, perhaps I can treat myself. I make my way to the stall where I’d stopped the day before to admire a scarf.
It’s still hanging there, woven and soft with tasselled edges, the soft pinks and blues similar to the colours of the skirt I’m wearing.
“How much?” I ask the smiling vendor.
“Ah,” he says, coming over to take the scarf down, draping the fabric across his hands. “This is very nice quality.”
He names a price that isn’t too bad, but I know what’s expected of me.
I counteroffer with a lower price and he shakes his head, protesting, but there’s a twinkle in his eye.
He counters, offering to throw in another scarf, this one in shades of green.
It’s so pretty I’m tempted to accept, but I bring up my offer a bit.
The back and forth continues, until he holds out his hand.
I take it, shaking it, then give him the money. He wraps up both scarves, to my surprise.
“Oh, I thought I just bought one?”
“You don’t want the other?”
I do want it, actually. And the price is too good to say no. “Oh no, that’s fine. Thank you,” I add.
“Of course. Have you tried our argan oil? Very nice for the hair and skin, speciality of Morocco.” He indicates a display of glass bottles and square soaps, beautifully wrapped.
I shake my head, smiling. “ Lo shokran ,” I reply, and his face lights up. This is, as far as I can tell, the polite way to say “no thank you” in Arabic. Hopefully I’ve said it correctly and not asked him to marry me or something. When he hands me my bag I say “ Shokran ” again, as a thank you.
“You are welcome, lady. Come back any time. Tell your friends,” he calls after me, as I leave the stall and continue along the street.
I wave, then tuck my scarves in my tote bag.
I think I might go down another of the alleyways, back to the waterfront.
Part of me wonders if I’m hoping to run into Jared again.
If I’m going to have a holiday fling, he seems like the safest bet, if he’s interested.
Something uncomplicated. I hadn’t gone down to the BBQ area at the hotel the night before.
I hadn’t been able to face it after the day I’d had, and the strange visit from Myles with his gift.
“Hey, Zara!”
As though my thoughts have conjured him, Jared lopes up to me. He’s wearing an Ocean’s Curl T-shirt with a pair of dark board shorts and surf sandals on his bare feet. His hair is tousled, his smile wide.
“Hi, Jared.”
“Missed you last night. Thought you’d stood me up.” He winks at me. “You doing anything right now?”
“Just some shopping,” I say. “Bought a couple of scarves.” I open my tote bag to show him.
“Nice,” he says. “Listen,” he hesitates for a moment, “d’you want to grab some lunch? With me?”
I stare at him for a moment. Eloise, I think, as though she can hear me. I’m taking your advice. One holiday fling coming up. Then, for some reason, I think of Myles. I push him firmly out of my head, back over the black pen line. It’s my day off. I can do whatever and see whoever I want.
“Sure,” I say.
Myles