Page 4 of Pretender

“Of course, Aiden, tell me when and where.”

Once I’m on my feet in the residential sector I can finally leave Aiden Aurellan and any connection to Henry behind.

It’s already dark and just starting to rain when I push open the heavy wooden door to my home. My home. A Victorian semi-detached house I bought in my late twenties with the sizeable inheritance and huge amount of love my grandfather left me.

He’d be proud of the investment I made in this up-and-coming neighbourhood. Shepherd’s Bush isn’t Mayfair, but it’s home. And living mortgage-free in London is probably the greatest freedom one could have in this volatile world.

Every time I walk through the door and down the hallway to the open and airy kitchen and living room, I thank my past self for standing my ground and not selling this, as Henry wanted me to. And he couldn’t take it from me in the divorce because it was mine before we got married.

All mine.

No trace of him here.

My stomach growls so loudly I can hear it over the rain hammering on the conservatory. I forgot to eat again; it’s been such a busy day. And now that I’m meeting Aiden at seven bloody a.m. tomorrow morning, I’ll need to do my client research tonight. Will I have time to call Jamie and Sophie? Oh, I hope so.

“Hey, little trees,” I croon in the general direction of the three pint-sized bonsais on the wooden sideboard in the living room.

When I flip the switch on the wall by the kitchen, the light flickers, and then it’s out.

All of it.

“Fuck.”

The fuse box is in the wine cellar.

I kick my heels off and find a torch in the everything-drawer in the kitchen.

“Might as well grab a Malbec while I’m down there,” I mutter to the trees, or myself. Whichever version is healthier. “Wine does wonders for client research, doesn’t it?”

Moments later, I’ve sorted the fuse, grabbed my dusty wine, and cleaned away the cobwebs on the ceiling with the top of my head—entirely part of the plan.

Small English cellars were not made for five-foot-eight Norwegians, and this particular Norwegian tends to forget that.

After brushing the cobwebs off my hair, I walk over to my bonsais. They’re like having little leafy pets.

“Here you go, Pedro, Erling, and for you, Jonathan,” I say as I mist each of them. Once the guys are happy, I locate the wine opener in my everything-drawer and—after three tries—pull the cork out of the Malbec with an audible pop.

“Check me out.”

Getting better at that every time.

While the wine breathes, I open the fridge. It’s blindingly bright in there, and there’s nothing that doesn’t require de-moulding.

“Yuck.”

I’m a thirty-six-year-old company director, feeding myself should be a surmountable task.

How is it I have this massive kitchen, and there’s nothing to eat?

I open the pantry instead.

Crackers. Mini gherkins. And those are only still there because I’ve not been able to open the bloody lid.

“Tiny pickles, we meet again,” I say as I take it down from the shelf and give it a good try.

Oh, yep. The lid is still stuck.

“Ngh—”