Catching Feelings (Saltwater Secrets #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

Zara

I pull the neckline of my coat closed, shivering in the grey morning, peering around my umbrella at the dull sky, the endless rain. It feels as though it’s been raining non-stop for a month or more. I step back from the kerb, glaring at the driver who angled his car just to splash me.

I wish I could go back to bed. Not just because of the miserable weather, but also because, even though I like my job, it’s tough working for someone who seems to barely tolerate me.

Myles Brandon. Billionaire owner of Ocean’s Curl, the hottest surf wear label on the planet.

A brilliant entrepreneur with a finger in a dozen pies, from clean energy to tech development.

Mid-thirties, tall, and a bit too handsome for his own good, as far as I’m concerned.

Real romance novel material, with his permanently tousled raven hair, lean hips and steel grey eyes. And the glowering frown to go with it.

I hadn’t been sure where to look when we first met, my hand tingling after our handshake, my throat dry during the short interview. I still can’t quite believe I got the job as his personal assistant at the London office. It’s a shame he doesn’t seem to like me. At all.

“He’s soooo lovely,” Eloise had gushed down the phone when she’d told me about the job.

Maybe he is to her. Eloise is one of my oldest friends.

One of my only friends, really. She was the one who recommended me for the role, covering for her while she’s on maternity leave.

We’ve been friends since school, moving to London together and sharing a flat until Eloise met her Mr Right and decamped to a Victorian terrace in Islington, leaving me in our little place with the lease paid up.

I’d stayed until it ended, then moved out.

With no Mr Right on my horizon, I made the decision to follow my own dreams.

Then I met Dean.

I check my phone for the fifth time this morning.

No messages. Then I look over my shoulder at the large 1930s house set back from the road, gold light twinkling behind the old stained-glass windows.

It looks very grand, but the panel of buttons beside the front door tells the real story.

I have a room with my own bathroom, and share a kitchen with the other tenants.

They’re nice, for the most part. One of them has a cat who, on days when I’m home and it’s cold outside, will curl up with me on the sofa as I read endless romance novels or watch films, dreaming of the day when my own fantasies will come true.

The fact Dean and I have the same dream is one of the things we bonded over. To one day move out of the city, wake up to the sound of waves, the smell of salt. Go for long walks on the beach together, make love as the sun sets over the water.

But now there are buses to catch and irascible bosses to deal with.

I sigh, clenching my fingers around my Oyster card.

The bus approaches, gleaming red in the February gloom.

I close my umbrella and climb on board, breathing in the damp air, water pooled on the floor beneath my feet.

All the seats are taken so I hold on to a pole as we sway along crowded streets, people and cars outside reduced to smears of colour through the fogged-up windows.

I ring the bell for my stop then get off, joining the stream of commuters heading into the Tube station, a scent of oil and smoke and heat coming from below.

I keep away from the edge of the narrow platform as the train trundles into the station, then press forward with everyone else, shuffling into the packed carriage and holding on again as the train begins to move.

It’s the usual rush-hour crush, people packed so tightly together you can almost count the change in their pockets.

I shift slightly, trying to angle myself away from a young man with brown hair wearing a tight suit.

I glance at him, frowning, and he pushes up against me, too close even for this crowded space.

He grins, revealing unnaturally white teeth, his hair pushed back from his tanned forehead. “Bit close, isn’t it, love?”

“It doesn’t need to be,” I reply through gritted teeth, trying to avoid the overly familiar press of his body.

Then I feel a hand cupping my ass. Oh, that is it .

He’s not the first groper I’ve met on the Tube, and I’m sure he won’t be the last. As the train turns, pressing tight against the tunnel, I lurch to the side as though off-balance, bringing up my elbow.

“Oof.” The explosion of breath from the sleazy young man is almost too satisfying, my elbow digging deep into his gut.

“Gosh, sorry,” I say, widening my eyes. The train slows and comes to a stop. I push past him, more forcefully than perhaps I need to. Then I’m out the doors, following the crush of people up the stairs and narrow escalator to emerge, finally, into a different world.

This is the heart of old London, yet it beats with a modern pulse.

Gleaming skyscrapers sit next to Victorian and Georgian grandeur, the river a nearby gleam of grey between the buildings.

I approach one of the glassy towers and head inside.

Charlie is on security today and I smile at him as I go to the elevators, pressing the button.

A few moments later I’m crossing the scented plush foyer of MB Holdings International, the parent office for Myles’s companies.

Sure, there’s a trendy design space in Soho, other offices in LA and Melbourne, but this is the beating heart of his organisation.

“Hey, Zara.” Alice, all smiles and immaculate blonde hair, is already in place at reception. “Heads up.” She lowers her voice. “Big Red is here. And she seems pissed.”

“Oh no. What’s happened?” Big Red is Myles’s girlfriend.

“Who knows? Just another day ending in ‘y’ for her.” Alice rolls her eyes then answers another call.

Oh God. This is all I need to start the day.

I’m busy enough without having to deal with whatever nonsense Big Red has in store for me.

I head to the small kitchen and make myself a coffee from the machine, pinching a chocolate biscuit from the jar because I’m going to need it.

While the coffee brews, I pull out my phone and check it again.

No messages. I head to my desk and put my mug down, then hang up my coat in the tall cupboard before taking a seat.

I glance at the door to Myles’s office, biting my lip.

It’s closed but I can hear shouting, the words muffled.

Okay. It’s none of my business what Myles and his latest supermodel girlfriend are up to. I have a job to do and I need to get on with it. He’s already going to be in a bad mood by the time I get to see him, so I don’t want to make things worse.

I take in a breath, closing my eyes, inhaling the scent of fresh flowers.

There’s a vase on my desk, the bouquets changing every couple of days.

I don’t know who arranges it or why no one else seems to have flowers, apart from the huge arrangements at the front reception.

It’s not my job to order flowers, unless they’re for one of Myles’s girlfriends.

The shouting has reached a crescendo. I try to ignore it as I log in, scrolling through Myles’s calendar, checking his appointments before going through his email and messages, marking things that need his urgent attention.

There’s a file folder on my desk with a sticky note attached.

I pick it up and smile. Hopefully this will cheer him up a little.

Or at least make him less grumpy. I’d noticed a scribbled note on his desk blotter about pulling out some of the original artwork for Ocean’s Curl.

Acting on a hunch I’d emailed the Soho studio and asked them to send what they had.

Looks as though they’ve come through. I leaf through the old catalogue pages and magazine clippings from the earliest days of the label, when Myles was a teenager, working out of his dad’s garage.

He’s even in some of the photographs, tall and gangly in his wetsuit, the broad shoulders and steel-grey gaze already apparent.

The office door behind me opens, then slams shut. I close the file with a snap and drop it on my desk. If Big Red is in a mood the last thing she needs is to find me ogling old photos of her boyfriend. Not that I’m ogling him. At all.

I return to my computer, starting work on a letter Myles asked me to draft.

A shoe, high-heeled and completely ridiculous, lands on my desk, knocking my coffee mug so it spills. I move the file out of the way just in time.

“Get that fixed.”

Big Red or, as the world knows her, Katya Evanovna, is standing next to my desk, hands on her slender hips.

We call her Big Red because she’s six feet tall and has famously red hair.

She’s also a nightmare, dropping her dry-cleaning on my desk, demanding I arrange things for her and generally acting as though I’m her personal slave, no matter how many times Myles tells her I don’t work for her.

I pick up the shoe. It’s Valentino, spangled and stunning and equivalent, no doubt, to a month’s salary for me. “The shoe?”

“Yeah, the fucking shoe. I need it done for tomorrow.”

I often wonder how someone so gorgeous on the outside can be so miserable on the inside.

Katya is one of the most beautiful women in the world, her face on billboards around the globe, her lush curves spilling from lingerie and evening gowns, draped around expensive handbags or drenched in designer perfume.

Maybe she’s different with Myles. Or maybe not.

“I’m afraid I can’t today.” I hold the shoe out to her. “I’m sorry.”

I’m not sorry. But Myles has made it clear I’m not to take on any more of her errands, and I already feel as though I’m on thin ice with him. Katya’s expression darkens. I swallow, my hand starting to tremble.