Page 7 of Pretender

I open my mouth to apologise again, but realise what he asked. Am I okay? What, no jokes?

So I’m such a mess he doesn’t even make fun of me. Excellent. As if the Halloween incident needed a contender for my dignity’s lowest point.

“Umm, yes?” I say, fighting the urge to shrink myself the way I would for Henry. But I’m done with that version of myself. Instead, I keep my head high and straighten my back. “Yes, I’m okay. But I really am sorry for wasting your time.”

He raises an eyebrow while opening the door wider for me to step in.

“So why did you?”

The question makes me pause on the doorstep. My heart races, but I keep my face calm. How do I explain without sounding even more like the sad wreck he must think I am?

I had too much wine and fell asleep on a chair?

Nope.

“I didn’t hear my alarm. I wasn’t near my pho⁠—”

“Alright,” he interrupts, his voice clipped, and our eyes meet, making my breath hitch. Did I upset him? Then he gives me a half-smile, but his eyes don’t crinkle as they do with his proper wide one. “I don’t need your dirty details,” he says and makes a sound that could be a laugh, but I’m not sure. He gestures for me to enter, and I step inside, holding my breath. Oh my god, what is he alluding to?

Fuck knows what his opinion is of me. The chaotic divorcée, who is also rude, irresponsible, and careless, showing up late and dishevelled. That’d be worse than before.

Stop spiralling. Focus on the job.

I finally take a deep breath and lift my chin. Finding my confidence. I’m here to do what I excel at, never mind what his idea of me is.

Aiden closes the door, and I step up to the arch between the hallway and the front parlour, scanning the space that will hopefully keep my team occupied until I find more clients.

It looks smaller from this angle than from outside. The partitions, pillars, and this dark, stained carpet give that impression. Its best features right now are the original white coffered ceiling and tall windows. Bright morning light streams in across the wood-panelled walls.

A thick, blue rope blocks the black-painted stairs leading up to the first floor.

“Upstairs is closed for now,” Aiden says. “We’re focusing on the ground floor and the basement.”

“Okay.” I walk a couple of steps into the main room. “What’s the vibe you’re going for this time?”

“Extravagant, exuberant, and excessive—as always. Similar to The Orion, but it won’t be a membership club. I want that exclusive feel to it, though.”

“Is it meant to be relaxing or upbeat?”

“The basement club will be wild, but this floor should be relaxing. A release after a long week. A breathing space, I guess. And there’s a small kitchen and dining room on the other side.”

I nod, scanning the space with this in mind. The carpet needs to go, that’s for sure.

What’s underneath it?

“What do you do to relax after a long week, Linnea?” Aiden asks, in that buttery voice he uses on all the women. I’m well aware he’s not actually putting a move on me. I just don’t think he can stop himself.

Which means I’ll answer all his questions, regardless of tone, as professionally as I can. If I make no other assumption, he can’t make me flustered or distracted, as I’ve seen him do to so many others over the last two years. That poor floral decorator we used for his Millefleuré restaurant opening couldn’t focus for a minute when he talked to her.

“I have a glass of wine and read a book,” I answer as I walk to the corner of the front parlour and crouch down, glad I’m in a knee-length soft bodycon dress today that allows this move.

“What have you read lately?”

I turn to him, considering my answer. He leans against the white-painted arch, hands in his pockets, his eyes wide and genuine. The lie I spewed to my friends last night doesn’t roll as easily off my tongue today.

“Not much, unfortunately. I’ve not had a very relaxing time as of late.”

His brow furrows, and he tilts his head. “Of course, I’m sorry.”