Page 36 of Pretender

“I mean,” I continue when he doesn’t answer fast enough. “Do whatever you need to do, but at least tell me, will you? I don’t want to feel lied to.”

“I won’t see anyone else in any capacity. I’ll be fine,” he says, and I’m not as relieved as I thought I would be. He’ll be fine … because he’s not tempted by me.

“Are you sure you will?” he asks.

I laugh, my first go at letting it out when he’s being funny, and his face lights up in response. “Yes, I’ll be more than fine,” I answer, waving a hand. The blushing ears and flutter in my stomach are just nervousness about this whole arrangement, not related to his devastating smile in reaction to my laugh. And definitely not related to the way he forces it back down, rolling his lips, making that dimple appear again.

I’ll be fine, I’m sure of it.

CHAPTER TEN

fancy napkin

AIDEN

Mum answers on the third ring, out of breath and laughing.

“Hellooo, gioia di mamma,” she croons.

“What are you up to?” I ask, nodding my thanks to the hostess and then the doorman as I step out of The Orion.

“We were practising our dance for the wedding and then it … escalated.”

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Christ, Mum, you don’t have to tell me that.”

“What? Oh, for heaven’s sake, son. We’re dancing! Get your head out of the gutter.”

I let out a huff of relief.

“Will has shown me some British dance moves. They’re hysterical.”

Glad she can’t see me, I shake my head, picturing them on the floor doing ‘Oops Upside Your Head’ and five excuses why I can’t make it to their wedding spring to mind.

“I’m glad you’re having fun,” I say instead. “Hey, I’m just calling to check something with you.”

My driver arrives right on time in my sleek, black EV.

“Of course, what is it?”

I get in the car and say a quiet ‘hey’ to Mo via the mirror. It’s the first time he’s dropping me off at Southbank. ‘Should I cover you, sir?’ he asked when I called him about it earlier. He’s my security detail as well as driver if I need it, but I’ll draw more attention to myself than necessary if I have a burly, curly-haired, suited man close behind me.

I turn my attention back to Mum on the phone. “Did you tell anyone about Linnea? It made it into that What Happens in Mayfair blog and I’m curious how.”

The PI Vic engaged for me hasn’t come up with anything concrete yet. Only a vague suspicion that some commenters have a connection to The Orion.

“Oh, honey, was I not supposed to tell anyone? The Russos already knew, so I didn’t think it a secret! I may have mentioned it to my hairdresser. And my nail lady.”

Jesus Christ.

“I don’t see them talking directly to the blogger, though,” I muse. They must hear gossip left, right, and centre. Could they be sharing? Impossible to be certain. And the Russos? No idea.

Fuck, it’ll be hard to pinpoint this one.

“And I told Lady Beauchamp, of course,” Mum adds.

Ah, yes… I exhale. But she’s a collector of information, as far as I know. Not the spreader of it.