Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
Myles
T oday has been the longest damn day of my life.
Once I left Zara, I went and had a cold shower, then headed to my meeting.
But I can’t face going back to the hotel yet, to my empty room and complicated feelings.
I need some space to sort things out. So, after my meeting I take the coast road past La Coeur, driving until I reach Essaouira.
It’s an ancient port, the harbour protected by eighteenth-century ramparts.
It’s also a romantic place, with its clear waters and golden walls, blue fishing boats pulled up on the beaches. I sit there for a while, staring out at the waves as kite surfers swirl and dance with the wind, kicking up diamond spray.
I wish Zara could see this.
It doesn’t matter how many miles I put between us.
She’s all I can think about. My heart still pounds at how easily I could have lost her this morning, if I hadn’t got there in time.
How terrified I was when I saw her go under.
Or how she felt, pressed against me, her damp silken skin, her rosy nipples against my chest.
My mouth curves at the memory of her trying to cover her lush breasts, their fullness held under her arms as she fought with her ridiculous bathing suit, pink on her cheekbones.
It had taken all I had to hold on to my composure, to not sweep her up in my arms and take her to my rooms and slowly kiss her all over until her trembling subsided, then make love to her.
Making her tea, all the while aware she was naked in the shower in the next room, had been almost more than I could bear. I’d had to get out of there.
The intensity of my feelings surprises me.
I suppose I’ve been holding them back for months, ever since she first walked into my office and held out her hand.
It had been easier to hold onto them in London, where the lines are more clearly defined.
But here, in this place of sun and sky and ocean, it’s as though they’ve been unleashed.
I don’t know if it’s going to be possible to go back to work with her again, returning to the formality between us.
I don’t want that. But what the fuck do I want?
I need to figure this shit out, I think, as I get back into the car.
I know I had a plan, but it feels more and more like bullshit.
I want her. So maybe the plan needs to change.
I check my phone before I start the drive back to the hotel, just in case she’s tried to call me.
Nothing. But there is a message from Tariq.
He’s been trying to arrange a dinner for me and others from a few of the surf companies in the area, but it’s fallen through. His voice is full of regret.
I don’t mind at all, to be honest. We can do it the next time I’m in Morocco. And it means that tonight is free.
My heart lightens as I speed back along the curving road towards La Coeur, feeling in some strange way as though I’m coming home. It’s risky, but I’ve decided I’m going to blur the lines a little more, if Zara’s up for it.
But when I get back there, I chicken out. That fracture in my heart aches again, though it’s more of an itch in my chest now, as though it’s healing. But the remnants are still there, still keeping me leashed, cautious. I head into my room and pull out my laptop.
Then I close it, shoving it away from me.
I don’t want to answer any more emails, or make any more fucking calls.
The sound of waves is calling to me. I step out onto my balcony to see perfect lines of breakers rolling in, one after the other.
I don’t have anything else on today, thanks to Zara.
I’d asked her to build in surfing time on this trip, thinking I’d be here with Scott and we’d make the most of it.
And she’s done just that, just as she seems to anticipate my every need.
I try not to think about the other needs I want her to anticipate. And satisfy.
I swallow, shifting my stance. I need to stick to my plan, no matter how much I want her, how I can’t seem to stay away from her.
I sip my coffee, wondering what the hell I’m doing to myself, bringing her here with me.
I glance down to her balcony– it’s almost habit now– but it’s empty.
Yet the few walls between us feel somehow insubstantial, as though a force greater than anything is pulling me to her, connecting us.
It’s fucking frightening. But at the same time, more exciting than almost anything I’ve ever experienced.
I finish my coffee, then pull on my wetsuit and grab one of my boards. It’s the Black Axe, one of my favourites, and perfect for carving through clean surf. There’s not too much swell, the wind just right.
A few minutes later I’m on wet sand, fastening my leg rope around my ankle, then wading into the water.
I duck dive under a few waves, then start paddling, the burn in my shoulders and arms helping to ease my turmoil, the ocean washing away my turbulent thoughts.
There are a few other surfers already on the break, and I nod to the one nearest as I take my spot, waiting my turn.
I sit up on my board, legs dangling either side, letting the waves lift me, lull me.
But I still can’t stop thinking about Zara.
As the water rises and falls, my thoughts drift with it, wondering how she’d feel beneath me, above me, naked and open. What sounds she might make, when I’m inside her. What those breasts might feel like in my hands, her nipples under my tongue. What she might do to me, when I get her in my bed.
Fuck.
This is not what I came out here for. I wrench my focus back with an effort.
The waves are picking up, a nice set coming through.
I check my spot, then lie down and start paddling, feeling the wave lift me.
I tuck my feet under me, standing, letting it take me in past the rocky point, Morocco unfurling ahead of me like a magical carpet of green and gold and brown and blue, a moment of perfect, effortless flight.
I whoop as I dive off the wave, letting the water tumble me as I reach for my board, popping up again. I start the long paddle out again.
An hour or so later I feel the burn in my abs, my thighs and shoulders.
It’s a good ache, one of the best. And I’ve managed to mostly drive the thoughts of Zara out of my head.
I surf my last wave in, coasting almost to the shore, white water fizzing around me.
I head back along the beach to the hotel and open the small gate to the pool area.
The late afternoon sun is still hot, so I prop my board against the wall and unzip my wetsuit, rolling the top down, then pull off my rash vest and wring it out.
I rinse off under the outdoor shower, washing the sand from my feet, the salt from my hair and skin.
There are a few people in the outdoor bar area.
I think I recognise the dickhead who was talking to Zara the other day.
On impulse, I head over there, asking the barman for a soda water with fresh lime.
Then I lean against the bar, wondering what the hell I’m doing.
It’s none of my business if she wants to see someone while she’s here, as long as it doesn’t interfere with her work.
And I’m sure the last thing this guy wants is her boss getting over-protective.
I’m about to leave when I hear a burst of laughter from the group he’s with.
They haven’t noticed I’m there, all of them watching the surf.
“You just need to turn on that charm again, mate. Then you’ll be back in.” This is a stocky blond guy who seems vaguely familiar.
“Yeah, I know. Going to ask her out tonight and then… well, we’ll see. Hopefully she can still sort me out. I reckon she might be a bit of a goer.”
More laughter from the group. My hand tightens on my glass.
Screw him. He isn’t getting anywhere near her.
I put my drink down and leave, heading straight up the stairs, knocking on her door before I can remind myself I’m not supposed to interfere.
To paraphrase Shakespeare, fuck the lawyers.
It’s just dinner. Plenty of people on business trips eat meals together. It doesn’t have to be anything else.
The door opens.
Zara
I’ve stayed in my apartment all day, too embarrassed to go out in case I see Myles again.
I’m not sure how I’ll make it through the rest of this trip, to be honest. He doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d give me a hard time about accidentally exposing myself.
But he also doesn’t seem like the type of person who’d forget.
I imagine someone calling him for a reference if I leave the company.
Oh yes, she was very good at her job, apart from the time she flashed me.
Who knows? It might actually tip things in my favour for some of the jobs available in London.
I sit down and open my laptop to check Myles’s emails, then go over all the confirmations for the remainder of the trip.
We’re staying near the medina, the ancient market in Marrakech.
Myles has requested a place he often visits.
It’s an old palace which has been converted into a hotel, built around a central courtyard with a pool.
There are private suites on the roof, and two floors of rooms below.
Myles is booked into one of the suites; Scott was supposed to be in the one next to it but I’d changed it when I found out I was coming on the trip, and booked myself a room on one of the floors below.
I’m more glad than ever that I decided to do this.
I scroll through the emails once more, check the appointments and forward anything new to Myles. Then I close my laptop with a snap and put my elbows on the table, my head dropping into my hands.
Who am I kidding? I know this stuff like the back of my hand.
I’m only doing this because it’s supposed to be a work trip, and I’m trying to convince myself of that.
Because the reality is that this is very far from any sort of work trip.
I can’t deny it any longer. Myles said he brought me along because he wanted me to make sure things ran smoothly.
But I could have stayed in the London office and done essentially the same thing.
He even sent me away from the one meeting I attended with him, as though I wasn’t even good enough to choose a couple of rugs. So, why am I here?
Maybe he’s having second thoughts about the job with the design team.
Perhaps I should just leave the company when my contract ends and use some of my savings to study design.
But I don’t want to leave Ocean’s Curl, or pass up the job opportunity, even if he does regret offering it to me.
I don’t need to see him very often once I’m in the Soho office.
I have options, even if he has seen my nipples.
My mind wanders, remembering how it felt to be pressed against him and then, while I was in the shower, knowing he was only a few feet away. There was part of me, a growing part, that wished he’d come in the shower with me, opening the door to pull me against him once more, and then…
Feeling flushed all over I get to my feet, shoving the chair away as though it’s what’s making me feel so uncomfortable. I go to the kitchen and make myself a cup of tea, then take it back to the sofa, where I curl up, a blanket over my legs.
There’s a knock on the door. I answer it, thinking it might be Amira.
Oh my god. I actually put my hand to my chest, like a heroine in some sort of Victorian novel, like I’m about to faint.
But seriously. My God . Myles is in my doorway, wearing a wetsuit, rolled down to his waist. And that’s it.
One muscular arm is braced against the doorframe, close to my head.
His dark hair is damp, just starting to curl, pushed back from his handsome face.
I try not to look at his rippling chest and abs, the dusting of dark hair trailing downwards.
Try not to remember how I was pressed against him just a few hours ago. And how I flashed him.
Heat rushes to my cheeks. “Uh, do you?—”
“I want you to have dinner with me tonight.” The words are rushed, slightly, like he’s in a hurry. “Upstairs.”
I stare at him for a moment. It’s hard to breathe, for some reason.
“Will you?” His voice cracks slightly.
I can’t think of one single reason why not.
I can’t think of much of anything except how close he is to me.
How, if I just put my hand out, I could touch him, run my hand over his chest. Dangerous, dangerous ground.
Absolutely unstable. But the whole absence-of-reasons-to-say-no thing is still there. I go with it.
“Yes.”