2. Bedhead
CHAPTER TWO
bedhead
LINNEA
After a record-speed change of clothes and a face wash, I make it to Shepherd’s Bush tube station thoroughly out of breath.
Pair that with a Central Line train that’s hotter than Satan’s arsehole, and I’m sweating out of every pore by the time I get to Aiden’s new townhouse in Grafton Street.
I’m positively melting, and for the first time in my professional life, I’m late to meet a client.
Not just a little.
I’ve had a billionaire businessman wait for me for over an hour, at a time when I need him more than ever. And starting my only active project by wasting my client’s time is … bad. It’s fucking bad.
As I take a breath and make sure this is the right place—the white stucco townhouse with five floors of tall French windows and wrought-iron balconies—the black front door opens, and there’s Aiden.
This morning’s stress has left me flustered, and having this mountain of a man, in his black shirt and those questioning blue eyes, tower over me from the top of the steps makes my chest tighten. Fuck.
“I’m so sorry I’m late,” I breathe, walking up the steps towards him.
From under a knitted brow, that intense gaze drags up my face to my messy hair. Shit, shit, shit. I bite the inside of my cheek, my ears on fire.
“You’re here now. Come inside,” he says, straightening his sleeves as if my crumpled appearance made him want to check himself. “Are you okay?” he asks as I take the last step up and I pause. Avoiding his eyes, I let my line of sight land on his forehead instead.
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.”
Oh no, not the pity.
I shrug and grip the carpet corner hard before I peel it back far enough to expose what turns out to be a hidden treasure. It’s better than I hoped for. I stand back up, brushing dust off my hands.
“This floor has potential,” I say, pressing my lips together to fight the grin that wants to escape.
There’s absolute gold under here, and I want to squeal.
Instead, I keep my voice even. “There’s antique timber flooring under this dreadful carpet.
We’ll have to check the state of it, but that’ll work well for a front parlour. ”
Aiden answers with a wide, bright white smile, hands in his pockets.
“You’re delighted about that, aren’t you?” he asks, leaning back on his heels.
“Umm, yes? This is authentically time-worn timber flooring. Patina like this can’t be faked.” I press my lips together again, excitement threatening to bubble over, and I need to reel myself in.
“Doesn’t hurt to show you’re enthused, you know. Not everyone can read you as well as I can.”
He raises a perfect, thick eyebrow and continues the slow walk through the ground floor. I follow, but his comment sinks in. Are my ears visible? What’s my tell and why can he see it?
Fuck, this is why I’ve been avoiding him. He does this kind of thing, throwing you off your game. It’s part of his charm routine, isn’t it? Yes, that’s all it is. He can’t really read me at all. He’s just saying stuff.
Ever since he saw me at my lowest, he’s been like that: all charm and less business, and I don’t like it.
Don’t go there, Linnea. Don’t replay it.
There are more rooms than I could tell from the outside. This will be fun. And a great distraction for the team. We stroll through what could be the dining room. This recessed ceiling is impeccable.
Aiden slows and turns to me with a glint in his eye. “Aren’t you going to ask what I do to relax?”
“I think most people know what you do to relax.” I try to make it sound teasing, the way he does with me, but from the way his little smirk just fell, I may have just been rude.
“Sorry, I was trying to be funny.” I wrinkle my nose.
He shakes his head, turning from me, and I follow him through to the next room.
Noted. He’s the only one who gets to make jokes.
This room has old maroon wallpaper that’ll need to be scraped off. But the windows are massive for such a small room. This will be fantastic in shades of green.
“You follow that ridiculous blog forum, don’t you?” he asks, chuckling as he drifts towards the other side of the room, but it sounds forced. Like he’s pushing the sound out.
Yes, I read it. Religiously. But I’ve never admitted it to anyone.
“It’s hard to avoid the chatter when working in the midst of it,” I say instead.
It’s not entirely untrue. People—his employees, my designers—often talk about the blog posts covering him or his friends.
He turns back to me, his jaw working. Is there something on his mind?
But then he sends me a close-lipped smile.
Should I ask?
No. Leave it. He says what he wants to say.
“Is this place going to be the new centre of attention?” I ask instead.
“Yes. This place will be more open, which should help me keep The Orion members only. The upstairs might become a hotel if I get the approvals.”
“It will be interesting to see if the blogger will let you off the hook. They seem quite obsessed with you.”
Not that I’m keeping track, but Aiden’s often at The Orion with his dates.
If I don’t see him myself, I read about it in the blog.
He’s been in the limelight more than ever this past year, now that Mark has a girlfriend.
Maybe even more so after they stopped focusing so much on Sebastian for whatever reason.
Oh God, I know way too much about this. Why do I even keep reading it? I should be reading the books Jamie keeps recommending.
“Yeah, they seem to be,” Aiden answers, staring blankly into the room. “I’ll have to look to some of the other places in London for inspiration to keep the privacy of The Orion up to standard after all the attention we’ve been getting.”
“Like where?” I ask. “Where can millionaires and the famous go without the paps or the bloggers picking it up?”
Aiden turns into the hallway that leads back to the entrance, but stops a few steps down, in front of a large, ornamental green door.