Page 12 of Pretender

“I play tennis on occasion.” I’m not sure what else to say, so I focus on cutting a few slices of saucisson while he pops a chunk of cheese on a piece of bread and stuffs his mouth. “But I have some nostalgia for croquet. I played it in my grandfather’s garden every summer in Oslo.”

“Were you close with your grandfather?”

“I was.” He was the only genuine warmth I knew. “But he was a vicious croquet player, so it wasn’t all silly.”

“It should be silly. Croquet is a fun game.”

“We had lots of fun. My grandfather always made me laugh, even when sending my ball off to the end of his massive garden.”

Aiden huffs a laugh.

“Once it went straight off the cliff and into the ocean. I laughed so hard I rolled on the grass, and he rolled with me.”

Aiden’s face breaks into his widest kind of smile and I’m oddly pleased.

“Croquet earned me this scar,” I say, pointing at my nose. “My grandfather got a bit too enthusiastic and caught me right in the face.” Aiden winces. “Yeah, it wasn’t great. He was mortified, poor man. For two years after that, he refused to play anything but badminton.”

This earns me a laugh and I hate that my ears are visible right now.

“Did you grow up in Oslo?” he asks, eyes still on mine.

“No, my parents were both IT expats, so we travelled the world until they settled us in Wimbledon when I was sixteen.”

I clear my throat and bite into my charcuterie mix so that I don’t share even more. How does he do this? This is surely why he’s so good at business development. He makes people feel at ease. Let down their guard.

I lean my hip on the counter. The steel is cold through the soft fabric of my dress.

Aiden mirrors my stance across from me and takes another huge bite of his cheesy slice.

We stand there for a few minutes, just munching cheese and meat in silence. The dripping of a faucet and the faint whirring of some ventilation system are all I can hear.

“This saucisson is divine,” I say and hold back a groan that wants out, humming instead. “Thanks for this.”

“Anytime,” Aiden says.

Voices drift from inside the restaurant, and I turn just as the kitchen door flies open. In come two rather loud, brown-haired men in white chef’s uniforms, along with Aiden’s coordinator, Vic. I recognise him from Aiden’s many events.

“Oh, we didn’t realise someone was here,” one of the chefs says. “Mr Aurellan, very good to see you again. Apologies if we’re interrupting something,” he adds and winks at me.

For fuck’s sake.

I should’ve fixed my hair. This doesn’t look great.

“No, we apologise,” Aiden says, and I turn so I can see him as well. He’s not showing an inkling of the surprise I feel. “We won’t be in your way. We thought we’d pop in and catch Vic, actually, and realised we were hungry.”

Did he just make that up on the spot? Why? I guess he’s not shared anything about the Grafton Street project with them.

Vic’s eyes widen, and you can see his mind working hard on why his boss wants him.

“Come, Vic, let’s leave the chefs to their home away from home and talk out here.”

I follow them out of the kitchen, not wanting to be in the chefs’ way. Aiden talks about the augmented reality event and what he wants Vic to do instead of playing host here at Millefleuré.

So, he must have planned to see Vic today. He wouldn’t rearrange everything on a whim, would he? Or maybe he would. He’s known for making decisions on the spot and rolling with them.

Maybe I need to learn from him. The only decision I ever made without careful consideration ended in six years of a downward-spiralling marriage and a divorce on fire.

“Linnea, I need to have a private chat with Vic, if you don’t mind. See you back at the house?”