Page 70 of Pretender

“Aiden,” she says, her voice croaky, her brow knitted. What’s this expression? “Um, I don’t know how to say this.”

Her voice is weak.

I lean closer, adrenaline rushing through me with the uncertainty of what she’s about to say.

“Mark said he’s worried about you giving up on finding someone special and that’s why you lied to your mum.”

Oh, I didn’t expect that.

“Mark said that?”

She nods. “I feel like—” She stops herself and furrows her brow even deeper. “Aiden.”

“Yes?” I shift to the edge of my seat.

“Oh, fuck.” She closes her eyes, pinching them shut.

“What is it, Linnea? You can tell me anything.”

“I feel…” she whispers, but her eyes flick down, as if it’s hard to say. I move my chair to the side of the table to be closer. I think she’s trying to tell me something important, and she doesn’t have the courage. My stomach prickles and flutters with excitement.

“What are you feeling?” I put a hand on her shoulder, and that’s when I realise.

“I feel sick.”

Her skin is cold but clammy, and she finally lifts her gaze to mine. Her eyes are glossy.

“It’s going to come out.” Her voice is barely audible. “But I’m not sure which way,” she whispers and presses her lips together.

“Oh,” I say. There’s no time for awkwardness here—we’ve had a large meal, some items raw, and I didn’t keep track of everything she had by the river. “There’s a hotel across the street. We’ll get a suite. Don’t worry—I’ll take care of everything.”

“Can we go now?” she rasps.

I make haste. I’ve had food poisoning once in my life and it’s not something I’d like to repeat, and I wouldn’t wish it upon my Linnea who I can see is trying to hold herself together. While paying for the meal, I give a call to my chief of staff, who gets paid well enough to help me late on a Sunday.

We make it out the door of the restaurant, Linnea leaning into my side, and once we’re on the pavement I shift her swiftly into my arms to a small huff from her (luckily not in a state to complain about being carried, as I’m sure she’d love to), and stride across the street to the hotel I spotted earlier.

My staff has already sorted out a room for me and, understanding the situation, the concierge is quick to set up the room key and show us to the lifts.

“One room?” she mutters.

“Don’t worry, you have your own bed and ensuite. Full privacy.”

“Brgh,” is all she says and when the lift doors ding, I pick up my pace. She’s nearly green now, sweat on her forehead, her hair clinging to her skin. I need to get her to a bathroom.

The concierge helps us into the double-roomed suite on the top floor. There’s enough privacy here for Linnea to be sick without making her uncomfortable, and for me to stay close enough to take care of her.

“Grazie-mille,” I say to the concierge and he nods and steps out of the room. I’ll tip him generously later. “Here you go,” I say, gently putting Linnea down in front of the ensuite and rush to find a robe for her. “Turn around.”

She does as she’s told and I unzip her dress at the back, and drape the robe over her shoulders.

“Can you shimmy out of your dress and into the robe? You’ll be more comfortable.”

Again, she does as I ask, but the second she shrugs the robe on, she heaves and runs to the toilet.

I follow because, as she rushes through the door, her hair flows around her shoulders.

She’ll need help holding it up.