Myles is standing there, dressed in rumpled cream linen, his raven hair tousled. He looks like a dream, like my world, like everything I’ve ever wanted. My dream flashes into my mind again, his hands, his mouth on me, and my breath catches. There’s no way I can continue working for him, not in a million years. He’s watching me, and there’s something in his steel-grey gaze that pierces my heart.
So I ask him if he needs me.
God, I wish more than anything that he did, that I was something more to him than a girl he kissed on a beach. I try to gather up my strength again, but it’s hopeless. I want him, desperately.
I try and keep space between us, so I don’t act on the pull I feel, the one that demands his hands on me, now. I eat my breakfast, trying to have a conversation like a normal person, not like someone whose entire body is aching for him.
“What will you do today?” he says, once we’ve eaten and drunk a little.
“I’m not sure.” Kissing Myles again isn’t an option I can pursue, so it’s the truth, I guess. “I mean, there’s work to do, but I’d like to see the medina, if I can. I might ask about getting a guide.”
“I can take you,” he says.
I swallow. “You can?”
“I know this place well,” he says, looking at me with those grey eyes. “And the medina is vast. Let me take you into the really interesting parts.” He smiles. “It would be my pleasure, truly.”
“Don’t you have a meeting?”
“I do. But I’ll be finished by midday.”
God. It’s so tempting. I try to find the wall I built, the one where I’m sensible and professional and do my job until I can get back to London and resign, but it seems to be gone. I realise there’s something I need to say. He’s tried to talk to me about it. The least I can do is give him the chance. I don’t look at him, because I don’t want to see the rejection in his eyes.
“Myles, about the other night…” I pause, trying to find the words. “I realise… I don’t think we should have… it was unprofessional and you have a girlfriend and?—”
“Zara.” He stops me. Not surprising, really, that he doesn’t want to talk about it. But then he surprises me. “I ended things with Katya. Before we came here.”
“You did?” Relief jolts through me.
“Hmm.” Myles finishes his pastry. “She won’t be coming into the office again, and you don’t need to accept any of her parcels.”
Oh, so that’s why he’s telling me. I bite back at the snarl of disappointment in my mind. “Um, well, I’m sorry. She seemed nice.”
Myles laughs. “She did? I’m aware she didn’t make things easy for you, despite how I tried to rein her in. But she wasn’t a bad person. Just… temperamental.”
That’s one way to describe her. I hold my tongue, though.
“I just… I wanted you to know.” Myles glances at me. “As for the other night, it happened, and we need to move on from it.” He says it as though it was just another night to him. Perhaps it was. I have to accept this. “But we can enjoy the time we have left here. Forget about work. Will you let me take you out today? I would really like to.” But there’s an odd note to his voice and, when I look at him, there’s softness in his clear gaze. “Will you come?” he says.
Heat floods my body, and I remember his hands on me, his voice in my ear.
How can I refuse?
Myles
I love this place.
The medina in Marrakech is ancient, almost a thousand years old, a warren of narrow streets lined with market stalls and mosques opening out to the huge expanse of Jemaa el-Fnaa, the central square. I’ve wandered its alleyways many times, dodging motorcycles and carts pulled by donkeys, aggressive touts and tourist crowds. I’ve been here alone, with lovers and with friends, and discovered something new each time. It’s like something from a story, a place apart from the modern world where treasure might be found behind crumbling stone walls, a hidden palace oasis behind tall gates.
But now, with Zara, it’s as though I’m seeing it for the first time, and I’m filled with wonder.
She walks close to me, close enough to touch, her face lighting up with each new sight and sound. I take her across the vast square, past musicians and market sellers and people taking selfies, then into the twisting tangled streets.
We bypass the more touristy stalls close to the main square, heading deeper into where the artisans are. A man sitting outside one shop is carefully perforating a thin sheet of metal using a metal punch and hammer, creating intricate patterns for use in a lantern. More lanterns hang behind him, suspended like stars from the wooden ceiling of his shop. When Zara stops he looks up at her and smiles, offering her the punch. “You want to try?”
“Oh, no, thank you,” she replies. “But your shop is beautiful.”
“Let’s go in.” My hand comes to her waist briefly, ushering her through the low doorway. She doesn’t move away from me this time.
