Myles is still here, but there’s only one cup of tea, and a plate with a couple of chocolate biscuits, the last of my stash.
“Have these.” His voice sounds oddly strained. “And just sit and rest. I have a meeting to get to, so I’ll check in on you later.”
Before I can say anything he’s gone, the door closing behind him. As I head to the counter and pick up my tea, I realise I forgot to put a bra on under my T-shirt. It’s black, thank God, but my nipples are standing out like cherries under the soft fabric.
What the hell must he think of me?
I sip my tea and eat my biscuits and try not to dissolve into a puddle of shame.
ChapterTwenty
Myles
Today 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.
