Page 67 of Pretender

Huh.

I glance up at Aiden.

“Is this family … umm … related to yours somehow?” I ask, scanning his face for a reaction.

There’s a subtle flex of his jaw, but he continues staring at the photos and the plaque below. When did he blink last?

“Is this why the woman at the shop asked about your name?”

“Hm.”

A grunt. Okay.

He turns and starts walking away without comment.

“Are you okay?” I ask to his broad back and he stops. He inhales and tilts his head up towards the ceiling. Then he turns back towards me, wearing an blank expression I don’t recognise.

“Hey, I’m famished,” he says, checking his watch. “Still a couple of hours before Italian dinner time, shall we explore the riverside bars for something to nibble on?”

He’s standing there in his fresh black shirt and suit pants, his hair in that effortless, tousled style. His face relaxes back into his classic Aiden smirk. Hmm. Not a care in the world except a light hunger, apparently. Why can’t I shake the feeling he’s performing for me now? He’s hiding something about his family.

He gives me that easy smile, just lifting the sides of his mouth. It’s the well-rehearsed smile he has. Or am I overthinking it?

Ugh, I need to stop assuming everyone has something to hide. I’m too cynical after Henry and his massive lies. So Aiden doesn’t want to talk about his dad or whatever he was thinking about these photos. I’m sure it’s for good reason.

“Okay,” I say and he walks out in front of me. I stop by the plaque that made him pause. There’s something about the Aurato family on here, and I spot the name Giorgio. Was that his dad’s name? I can’t decipher enough to make sense of it. I take a quick photo so I can translate it later, curiosity winning over blind trust.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

that’s flawless

AIDEN

This was a fucking terrible idea. Going on an impulsive trip with my fake date who I have an unrequited crush on… Absolute misery.

But also the best time I’ve had in a while.

She’s across from me at Enoteca Verato, a three-Michelin-star restaurant I’ve had my eye on whenever I’ve considered flying down here. 150,000 wines in the cellar. The purest of Italian produce. Art on a plate.

“Do you have any allergies? Dislikes?”

“No, I’ll try anything once,” she says, perusing the menu, but I’m just holding mine, eyes on her instead. I don’t want to miss a second of her in that dress, and I enjoy watching the way she purses her lips while reading. The menu is in Italian; does she understand any of it? This could be her way of avoiding looking at me.

She definitely didn’t avoid it earlier. Her eyes were on me when we were at Casa Aurato, roaming over my bare torso. A complete coincidence, of course. I didn’t realise there was a gap in the curtain. But I didn’t mind it when I noticed her looking. The sense of her enjoying what she saw… Now if only she would like the rest of me too.

When the sound of her zipper came from the other side of the curtain I had to bite my fist. My immature brain fought itself trying not to picture her in there, not imagining how her summer dress fell to the floor, leaving nothing but soft curves and smooth skin in its wake. So close, yet so far away.

But the nail in my composure-coffin was when she came out in that coral dress. Pure perfection. The flowing fabric licked her skin, hugging her curves so smoothly it took all my willpower not to reach out and run a hand over the indent of her waist, the shape of her hip.

Then her expression… That smile.

She seemed so pleased, and I know I was staring. Gaping, even.

While Linnea was picking out her shoes, I told the signora to charge me for the royal blue dress and other items she’d recommend for us both. My staff will sort it out with the shop to get it delivered home to my flat.

Drinks and nibbles, aperitivo, by the river with Linnea was relaxing, and it’s not something I say about many people. As much as I enjoy company, hers is by far the most rewarding. Hearing her talking, watching her notice and point at things, or how she wrinkles her nose or quirks her lips as she reacts to the world, it’s kept a stupid grin on my face all afternoon.

When we were strolling side by side, I was itching to hold her, to press a hand to her lower back, or to brush her arm. There’s been no reason to touch her, and she hasn’t showed she wants me to. She said it clearly: no mixing business and pleasure, and there’s no concern she’ll fall for me.