Page 64 of Pretender

“Did I?” I ask. Oops.

She gives a little shrug. “Where should we eat? I’m getting hungry already.”

“There’s a Michelin restaurant there I’ve been meaning to check out.”

“Oh?” She cocks her head at me. “How did you decide on Florence, by the way?” Clearly she’s forgotten I told her that’s where my dad’s from.

I’ve wanted to go there for a while, but haven’t taken the time out. Going with Linnea will make it special. For me, at least. She might have a different opinion.

“Had to tell the pilot something, and it was the first place that came to mind.”

“Can I wear this to a Michelin restaurant?” she asks, brushing a hand over her green dress.

“You can, but I can’t wear this,” I gesture to my jeans. “We’ll go shopping.”

Her eyebrows go even higher now and I laugh.

The flight takes another hour and a half, and I spend the time sneakily observing Linnea while she talks about Oslo and her grandfather and answers all my questions about expat life in Indonesia. The taxi from the airport is only twenty minutes, and we arrive at the southern end of Via de’ Tornabuoni and the Florentine designer shop Casa Aurato. A voice in the back of my head is screaming at me, but I muffle it. I’m ready to check it out.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

aurellan?

LINNEA

The late afternoon sun hangs in the sky just above the river, and the shadows of the handful of pedestrians stretch long down the old street. There’s a soft, warm breeze. Mid-July in Florence seems to be an excellent time to visit. The air carries a waft of leather—like new shoes or leather bags—and a hint of something floral.

“Wow,” I say, craning my neck to take in the entirety of the sandstone brick buildings surrounding us. Four storeys with tall, arched windows. “Is it an old factory?”

“It’s a fifteenth-century aristocratic palace, actually. Palazzo Aurato.”

“How do you know this off the top of your head?”

Aiden shrugs. “Come, let’s get some Florentine designer clothes.”

He turns to the suited doorman in front of the massive, polished wooden door and says something to him in Italian.

I can’t quite get used to him speaking another language. I’ve only heard his perfect Cambridge English for the past two years, and here he is speaking Italian fluently. Sure, I noticed him speaking Italian at his mum’s party last week, but it was drowned out by the noise of everyone else. There were enough non-Italian-speaking guests for the conversation to flow predominantly in English.

But today I’ve been blown away by all of it. The jet chartering, the smooth process of private travel, and the place itself, but it was when we landed and Aiden started his Italian, proper Italian, that I started feeling a bit weird. I shake it off. It’s just the vibes of the day. This is a bit like a fairy tale, and I’m getting carried away.

We enter the shop and a flawless woman in a beige suit appears with an air of ‘who the fuck are you and how dare you think you can afford these clothes’.

However, she changes her tune after giving Aiden a once-over, and hearing his requests (in that Italian again… Rawr. Okay, what the shit is happening to me today?).

She’s quick to find a couple of shirts and trousers for Aiden, and while he disappears to try them on, she says something to me.

“Sorry, I don’t speak Italian.”

“Please wait over there. I will find you what he asked,” she says with a strong accent.

I nod. “Thank you.”

Standing outside Aiden’s changing booth, I take in the details of the place—the ornamental wallpaper, the velvet privacy curtains, even the carpet. All golden or hues of gold. It does the trick of assuring you that the clothes here are going to cost a fortune.

Fuck, am I meant to pay for the dress? Do I let Aiden?

He’s flown us all this way, and I’m not his date. I can’t take for granted he’s going to pay for it all.