Page 18 of Pretender

Why am I still thinking about saucissons?

I make it through the night without Mum blatantly proposing marriage on my behalf, and it seems she’s let it go.

But alas, my hopes were too high.

If it’s not Mum, it’s someone else…

“Are you going to give her your number?” Aunt Giulia asks, and it’s just loud enough for Chiara to hear.

She freezes for a beat as she collects her jacket and purse from the coat hanger in the hallway, and it’s like she slows down to give me a chance to do as my aunt says.

Quick. Say something. Don’t embarrass the woman.

There’s nothing wrong with her.

“I’m actually seeing someone?” I mentally punch myself for letting it come out as a question.

“Aiden Aurellan.” Aunt Giulia slaps my upper arm and puts her fists on her ample hips. “You’ve been sitting here all night and you’ve not shared this news with us? With your mother?”

“I didn’t think it right to do so in front of the guests.”

Chiara clears her throat, clearly uncomfortable now.

“I’ll be going. It was lovely to meet you all.”

“Darling, please wait a minute,” Mum tells her, keeping a gentle but decisive hand on Chiara’s forearm. She turns to me. “Aiden, you get her number and you can call her when you’re ready.”

“Mum, I just told you I’m seeing someone.” I insert some more conviction this time.

Mum narrows her eyes at me. “Is she as wonderful as Chiara?”

I glance at Chiara, and she turns her head towards the open front door, muttering something about her parents waiting for her.

“Jesus, Mum, have you had a bit too much wine?” I whisper in Italian, although the Russos will very much understand.

“What’s her name?” Mum asks.

“Who?”

“The woman you’re seeing? Tell me who in the world could suit you better than this fantastic lady right here.”

I open my mouth. What am I supposed to say now?

Sorry, I lied just so I wouldn’t have to take Chiara out?

Her parents have stopped on the steps outside, and even they seem to be waiting in anticipation. This is fucking surreal. Everyone’s drunk and weird.

“Well?” Mum presses, folding her arms across her chest.

“Her name is…” Blue eyes. Blond hair. Cheekbones from heaven. “Linnea.” I relax my shoulders and let out a long breath. “She’s Linnea.”

“I’ve never heard this name,” Mum says, but her voice is softer.

“She’s Norwegian.”

Mum wrinkles her nose. “I don’t know any Norwegians.”

“She moved to Wimbledon when she was sixteen.”