Page 10 of Pretender

Shit, I’ve had it up in a messy bun all day. I normally keep it down to hide my blushing ears. It’s the one thing that can betray my feelings. And they’re burning hot right now.

“Oh, did I hit a nerve?” he asks, his eyes darting in my lava-ears’ direction, that classic easy smile of his pulling at the sides of his mouth.

“No,” I snap. “If you must know, I was exhausted and fell asleep in a chair in my library, which is quite embarrassing.”

My stomach reminds me why: because I hadn’t eaten and then had a large glass of red wine that took me out on the spot. I still haven’t eaten, and I’m starving, but I have a long day ahead mapping out this space and Aiden’s vision for it.

Aiden cocks his head at me. “You’re hungry.”

“It’s fine, I’ll grab something later.”

“I’m famished,” he says. “Let’s go eat.”

Go eat?

Small talk and hanging out?

With Aiden?

“Is there anything open at this hour?” I ask. “I’ll just pop to Pret around the corner.”

“Please, you insult me,” Aiden quips. “Millefleuré is closer. We can raid the kitchen there.”

Millefleuré—Aiden’s restaurant, my design. The most floral and wild I’ve ever gone. He opened it a year ago, but I hardly remember the success it was. I even got an award for it. Yet what I remember best is the opening night and Henry’s hand on Harriet’s back. The way he whispered into her ear. When I caught one of my designers’ eyes across the room, it was obvious she’d seen it, too, and there was no surprise in her expression. How long had she known? I stood there with a glass of champagne turning warm in my hand, the same glass I’d clinked against my husband’s ten minutes earlier, celebrating my thriving business.

My stomach complains again, from hunger and the visceral memory, and my ears burn with unease.

Fuck.

“Okay,” I relent.

“Your ears are blushing,” Aiden points out as we exit the house. “I haven’t noticed that before.”

“Yeah.”

No point denying it. At least I’ve hidden it well so far. He doesn’t need to know all the emotions that make me blush. It’s too much of a tell when I get annoyed with him.

We walk side by side down the street lined with Victorian townhouses and red-brick apartment buildings. The sun is just climbing above one of them, lighting up the white houses on the opposite side.

“I bet you’re fantastic at poker with your hair down, then,” Aiden says.

“I am, actually.”

“You play?”

“I used to, with my grandfather, and a bit at university. Not much playing of any sort in the later years.”

“I love playing games,” he says, and I can hear the grin in his voice, but it’s another one of those buttery versus potentially genuine comments that I’m not sure about.

“What’s your favourite game?” I ask because I’d rather continue talking than be rude and leave an awkward silence between us. As much as he irks me, I need him on my side.

“Oh, you don’t know me well enough for me to tell you that, Linnea,” he says in a deeper voice and my eyes cut back to his.

I wish I hadn’t done that.

There’s a playful smirk on his face, and his eyes are darker, looking at me instead of the street ahead. Suddenly, I’m extremely aware of my warm ears. I recoil, turning my head, and he chuckles.

Two years I’ve worked for the man and kept myself at arm’s length from his charm and teasing, never letting him get to me. Visibly, anyway.