9. It works
CHAPTER NINE
it works
LINNEA
Hours pass without any comment. Once I went into designer mode, I forgot about the entire situation, so if any questioning glances or smirks have been shared, I’ve not noticed.
It’s only now that it’s lunchtime and I’m about to leave with Aiden that Olga’s got that knowing expression on again.
I decide to lean into it. Play the part.
So I attempt something like a wink, probably more like a squint-blink, before I put my hand on Aiden’s arm. “Ready?”
Confusion flashes across his face, but then he breaks into a stunning smile and opens the door for me. “After you.”
His large hand brushes my lower back. Not a full touch, but enough that I can feel the heat of it through my high-waisted skirt. We’ve not even done a first fake date yet, and I’m already on high alert.
Ugh, I’ve seen pictures of Aiden with some of his dates. He’s quite tactile. I find touch highly personal, and he’s dishing out arm-pats and back-grazes like they mean nothing.
“Where are we going?” I ask as we descend onto Grafton Street.
“It’s best we head home to mine. I can make you something while we talk.”
“Home to yours?” I glance up at him. Why are my ears like chunks of lava stuck to my head?
“Yeah, I don’t want to risk being overheard around here. Mayfair is a small world.”
“Fair enough.”
He gestures for me to take a left, and we walk side by side. The street looks normal, the sky is still blue, but somehow everything feels different.
Tension crawls up my back, but if I keep reminding myself I’m helping him too, maybe I’ll make it through without freezing up entirely.
People often mistake my discomfort for coldness, and I let them—allowing a personal distance between me and them. But I will need to force that wall to break now. I’m not sure how I can pretend with Aiden and convince others about it without letting him in. And that’s terrifying.
Don’t think about it.
Not thinking about it.
“So you cook?” I ask, in need of a distraction, and I’m quite surprised by the fact as well.
Every wealthy person I know has someone cooking for them.
Hell, I’m not wealthy, but I work hard and I rarely have time to cook.
I can’t imagine Aiden having much time between work, exercise, and his extravagant social life.
“Quick, simple things. Omelette with a salad. Does that work for you?”
“Absolutely.”
“Here we are,” he says, stopping in front of one of the red-bricked apartment buildings I walk past regularly.
The ride up in the lift is tense. For me, at least. But when I glance up at Aiden, he seems perfectly calm.
A small smile plays on his lips, as usual.
I take a deep breath, and in this small space his cologne is more obvious than before.
It’s a warm scent, if that’s a thing. Spicy, almost. It’s familiar in a way.
Maybe I’ve smelled it around The Orion and never attributed it to him until now.
The lift stops on the fourth floor, and Aiden gestures to the right.
“I’m over here,” he says, his voice a low rumble in the quiet space. There’s a door at the end of the hall. How many women have walked down here? Did they experience the same tense ride up in the lift, or did they drape themselves all over him? Not that I care. Because I don’t.
We enter his flat and I’m struck by the sheer size of it. You could put all my floors combined in here.
The living room and kitchen are combined into one massive space with balconies on both sides. Sunlight reflects off an orange glass ornament by the south-facing windows, casting a fun, sparkling light across the white, abstract-art-covered wall on the side.
It’s all cohesive. Perfectly in harmony. More like a show flat than a home.
After hearing all his ideas and his appreciation for my maximalist design style, I’m surprised.
“I’m not here often, so I’ve not done much with it.”
“It works,” I say, taking it all in.
“I feel more at home at The Orion, actually.”
There’s a flash of something very unlike the Aiden I’m used to on his face right now. He’s staring at nothing in particular, his jaw tight, working hard.
“What’s your favourite room at The Orion?”
His eyes meet mine, and a smile forms, his eyes warming again. “The Diamond Lounge.”
One of my more personally styled rooms. Not too unlike my own living room, except mine has a brighter palette.
“I can make this look like that, if you want.”
“You’ll be busy with Lady Beauchamp soon enough,” he says. “Come, let’s eat. I’m famished.”
Aiden’s kitchen is also white, with touches of brass and black and a few well-placed lush herbs.
“So, fake date,” he says, opening a large cabinet that turns out to be an integrated fridge. “We’ll need to agree on the rules.”
He places the carton of eggs on the kitchen island and gestures for me to sit on one of the barstools.
“Rules?” I ask.
He moves deftly around the kitchen, finding the tools he needs.
“Yes. Like PDA, what’s allowed and not. Not seeing anyone else. Agreeing on how we met and so on.”
“You’ve done this before, have you?” I ask, tongue-in-cheek.
“Hah. No, my mum and I watch rom-coms together,” he says while cracking eggs into a bowl. “It’s been our thing since I was little.”
I raise my eyebrows at him, and he glances up at me through his thick eyelashes, flashing me a knowing grin that he quickly suppresses. He rolls his lips, dimple appearing, before he allows his face to relax again.
“Always that reaction,” he mutters, whisking the eggs now.
“Okay, I’ll put my stereotypes away. Do you have a favourite rom-com?”
“Not just one. I prefer the 90s ones. Pretty Woman, You’ve Got Mail, Sleepless in Seattle.”
“I’ve seen Pretty Woman.” There’s only one rule I remember from that, and my ears burn at the thought of broaching that subject.
Aiden pours the eggs into a pan. Who knew I’d see the day a man like him cooks for me. Even if it’s a simple meal. And a business arrangement.
“So, what are the rules? Not seeing anyone else, you mentioned. Will that be okay for you?” I ask.
“Yes, it’s really the whole point.”
His back is to me as he grates cheese on top of the omelette on the stove, so I can’t see his expression, but I swear I detect a hint of bitterness in his voice.
My stomach rumbles in response to the scent of the omelette cooking. Luckily, the extraction fan is loud enough to cover the sounds. Aiden puts a lid on the pan and turns his attention to the red pepper and tomatoes on the kitchen island.
“What about you?” he asks. “Will you be okay putting your dating life on hold?”
I inhale sharply and nearly choke on my own tongue. “Hah, yes, no problem,” I say once I find my voice again. “I’m not in dating mode.”
Understatement of the year. I haven’t even masturbated in months.
“You must have some opinions about Henry’s latest news.”
Letting out a long breath, I give myself a moment to decide how much to share. How far into personal territory do I allow this relationship to go?
Aiden slices a tomato as if it was a ball of butter and I’m almost hypnotised watching those large hands handle the delicate slices so gently.
It’s hard to explain to people that I’m not heartbroken in the classic sense of the word. I don’t miss Henry. I’m livid with him. Shaken to the core.
He fucking took my business when he broke our vows and made me look like a fool. It makes me so furious I could blow up.
But of course I won’t.
‘Too much. You’re too much. Just calm the fuck down, Linnea. You’re always making this so hard for me.’
“Sorry, I shouldn’t have said anything; it’s clear you’re bothered. I apologise.”
I meet his eyes. He noticed?
I brush a steady hand over my hair, making sure it’s not my ears showing again.
“Don’t worry,” I say finally. “It makes me angry, is all.”
“Well, maybe we can have some fun with him as part of this ruse.”
“I’d rather not have anything to do with him at all, please.”
Aiden places a plate with seeded bread, omelette, and salad in front of me and passes me a knife and fork before sitting down opposite me at the kitchen island.
“Noted,” he says. “No Henry.”
I wait for Aiden to start eating before I do, but my stomach rumbles again, earning me a pointed look from him, and I dig in. The fluffiness of the eggs melting in my mouth, the salty, tangy cheese rounding it off—this is more than an omelette. What is the magic he’s put into this?
A groan escapes me. “This is divine.”
“Glad you like it. It’s the only thing I can cook.”
We eat in silence for a minute, the sound of cutlery clacking on the plates reverberating off the tidy surfaces.
“Can you explain to me why it’s so important to lie to your mum?” I ask. “And what about your friends?”
His eyes snap away and he takes an inordinately large piece of bread and egg.
He chews for a long time, and I finish off my last pieces of tomato while I wait. Did I say something wrong?
“It’s not something I do lightly,” he says finally, putting his cutlery down.
“Mum…” He sighs. “She always sacrificed for me. Her career, for example. She could’ve done so much more than serving and cleaning for the Beckers and Beauchamps, but she chose it because it gave me a better life. It gave us more time together.
“She didn’t have a social life, but I had the best mum.
So much love, so much care. And now she’s finally found this man who lets her be the star of the show again.
When I saw how she lit up, how relieved she looked, when I said I was seeing someone…
I knew I’d fucked up, but it was also a revelation.
My emotional state affects her more than I like. ”
“You don’t want her to be sad.”
“I don’t want her to spend another minute worrying about me when she should focus on Will and her own happiness.”
“Okay, thank you for explaining that to me.” It’s actually quite sweet, albeit a huge burden for him to bear, which I’m certain his mum wouldn’t like if she was aware.