“I’ll meet you at the airport,” Zara says. Still cool, except for the faint hint of pink in her cheeks.
“If you’re sure?”
“I am.”
“It’s an early flight.”
“I don’t mind.”
I don’t know why I’m pushing this so much. If she wants to meet me at the airport, then that’s what she should do. I try to tell myself it’s because I’m worried about her missing the flight, not because I can’t wait to be alone with her. We’re flying by private jet anyway, but we do have a take-off slot booked and I don’t want to miss it. “And you have everything ready?”
“Just about.” The pink disappears from her cheeks as we move onto more familiar ground. I can almost feel the shift in her. “All the paperwork is in place, you have appointments lined up with artisans in Agadir, Taghazout and Marrakech, the hire car is confirmed, and all the accommodation. You have three business meetings, one to discuss renewables projects, one with the Surf Expo people, and the third with coastal development officials. I imagine we’ll schedule more once we get there.”
“And surf time?”
“Plenty of surf time,” she replies. One corner of her mouth curves for a moment, just a flicker of movement. I’m mesmerised by it. I want to kiss it.
Yeah, this will be fine.
ChapterEleven
Myles
It’s dark, the sun just a flicker of pale gold on the horizon. Heathrow Airport is already busy, I’m sure, beyond the quiet walls of the private lounge. My hands clench and unclench, and I wipe them on my linen trousers for what feels like the hundredth time, sitting forward in the comfortable chair. Where the hell is she?
I check the time again. She’s not hugely late, but it’s unlike Zara to not be punctual. I wonder whether she’s got cold feet. I hope she hasn’t. I check my phone, but there’s no message.
“Excuse me, Mr Brandon.” I turn to see one of the young women from the front desk of the lounge, an expensively perfumed dream girl, all sleek black hair and dark eyes. “But there’s someone here. She says she’s travelling with you but we wanted to make sure…” Her brows draw together slightly, her lips pursing.
What the hell? I jump to my feet and push past her, heading for the lounge reception area. Zara, beautiful and looking slightly bewildered, is standing there, a small shabby suitcase next to her. She’s wearing a pale blue knee-length skirt, a white T-shirt tucked into it. It’s more fitted than the clothes she usually wears, and I pause for a second, taken by her small waist, the full breasts and slender calves.
Fucking hell. It’s three and a half hours to Agadir, and I wonder whether I’ll make it through the flight without trying to kiss her.
“Myles?” Her voice is soft, hesitant, her brown eyes wide and worried.
“Are you all right?” I hasten towards her. If anyone has given her a hard time…
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” She looks even more worried, as if I might snap her head off. I suppose she has cause. “I was here on time, but then they made me wait at the FastTrack while they checked everything out, and then I couldn’t find the lounge, and then…”
“Is there a problem?” I say to the other woman on reception. She’s eyeing Zara’s passport with a frown.
“What?” She looks up, seeming flustered. “Oh no, Mr Brandon. Not at all. It’s just… we have to check everyone who tries to get in here. We can’t let just anyone in.” Her gaze flicks, just for a moment, to Zara’s suitcase.
“Well, you can stop checking her right now,” I snap. “She’s with me.” I glare at the receptionist, anger sharp in my chest. So what if Zara just has one case, and it isn’t designer? Who gives a shit? Better than someone like Katya, who would have brought at least four Louis Vuitton cases for a one-week trip.
“Of course, Mr Brandon.” The woman is all smooth professionalism again, handing Zara’s passport back to her with a smile. But I’m still pissed. How dare they look Zara up and down like that? I want to put my arm around her, kiss the frown from her soft brow. But instead, all I do is smile at her.
Her eyes widen, then she smiles back. Tentatively, but a real smile. A dimple appears in her cheek. I groan inwardly. How am I going to get through this week without screwing everything up?
“Come on,” I say. “Get yourself a drink, and some breakfast if you need it. We leave in forty-five minutes.” I nod towards the nearby breakfast buffet, a barista hovering near the coffee machine.
I grab Zara’s case and take it back to where I was sitting. A few minutes later she joins me, holding a steaming cup of coffee and a plate with several pastries.
“I brought extra,” she says in her soft voice. “In case you want any.”
“I’m fine,” I say. Curt again. But as I sit back and start scrolling through my phone, relief floods through me, warm and relaxing as water. She’s here. I glance at her, just as she glances at me.
Yeah. This is fine. It’s all going to be fine. I hope.
