Page 124 of Pretender

“Oh, uh… more clothes. He was being salesy.”

I get that unease in my gut—he’s not telling me everything. I want to press on. I want to know. Why is he not telling me the truth? Or maybe he is and I’m just a paranoid mess.

“Is that all?” I ask, and I hate how small my voice sounds. “Do you want to talk about Florence?”

“That’s not a conversation to have right before we go to work.”

“I thought we were eating.”

“I’ll have to take it to go. There’s something I need to sort out.” He traces a thumb across his lower lip, his eyes unfocused.

“Oh.”

I don’t hide my disappointment, and he drops his hand, shaking himself back into focus before stepping closer.

“Did you like the dress?” he asks, nodding towards the couch.

The dress.

I turn to where I put the garment bag down. “I love it, thank you. Although you shouldn’t have. It must have cost a fortune.”

“Will you wear it to the wedding? You can take it home with you now. Mo will drive you.” He traces his lower lip with a finger, again he seems distant. Like he’s saying words but his mind is elsewhere.

“I’ll come back later and grab it, okay?”

He nods, staring blankly at the garment bag. And after a moment that stretches longer than I like, he says, “Sure.”

“Alright.” There’s something in the air right now and I can’t put my finger on it. What just happened?

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

blank slate

AIDEN

I swivel in my office chair, staring at the screen. After lying to Linnea, saying I needed to do something, I’ve been trying to do anything that would seem urgent enough to justify breaking her trust like that.

Fuck, I saw it in her face, she sensed something was up.

But having the Aurato man come to my door, asking for me to come see the family like that, it was upsetting. And I’m not ready to tell her about it all.

I don’t know how to get the words out.

What if she thinks ‘like father, like son’ as I’ve heard throughout my life. From Mum mostly, but the Beckers too. They all mean well… Mark and Sebastian have also been compared to their dads their entire lives—by mothers, teachers, friends of the family. Which I’m well aware Sebastian hates even more than I do. His dad is a cold fucking arsehole.

I loved being compared to my dad when I was little, until I learned what I learned at twenty-three. Since then, I’d rather someone said I’m just like my mum. Which I know is true in so many ways.

Maybe Linnea wouldn’t compare me at all. She struggles with her parents too, clearly, although I’m not sure why. I should’ve asked. So many times I’ve had the chance to ask about her past, to learn more about her. But I’m scared she’ll ask me back.

I’m failing Linnea.

“Fuck!” I throw a pen across the room and it hits the front of the bookshelf with a clack, and lands somewhere behind the half-circle green couch that, together with the round coffee table, takes up the centre of the room. I hate that couch. I hate the boring table.

This is not a Linnea design, that’s one reason I don’t like this room. And because this is where I do the part of my job I don’t enjoy, like reviewing budgets. I don’t hate it because the numbers are bad. My company’s doing well, but I detest the time-suck of it because it’s not about the money. I don’t care about it.

For me, all this is not some clever strategy and grand plan to take over Mayfair the way I sometimes portray it.

It’s a thrill. And I just happen to have a knack for it.