17. Aurellan?
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.
Aiden’s voice sounds from behind the curtain next to me, “Signora?”
“Si?” she answers from a safe distance as if seeing Aiden in the changing room would make her burst into flames.
“Per favore, posso avere questa camicia in nero?”
I instinctively turn towards the sound of his delicious Italian words, and catch the view of his naked torso through a gap in the curtain. Heat spreads from my lower back, tingling up my spine, my neck, and across my scalp.
Maybe the shop lady was right to stand far away. I might just burst into flames.
She returns with a black shirt, handing it to Aiden through the gap and when he grabs it, thanking her, the curtain moves a bit more.
She’s clearly a professional, giving Aiden his privacy, but I’m stuck here, staring at a shirtless man as if I was a teenager who’d never seen one in her life.
His broad muscular back is to me, and everything else is visible in the mirror.
My eyes roam across his abs, the smattering of dark hair across his wide chest, his golden tan skin taut over solid shoulders.
He puts the black shirt on in a fluid movement, and I watch him in the mirror—transfixed—as he buttons it up.
“You okay there?” His deep voice startles me and I meet his gaze in the mirror. He’s doing a poor job of concealing his smirk.
Fuck.
I flick my eyes up and around, pretending the top of the curtain is super interesting.
“Yeah, just, umm, really … hungry.” I do my utmost to keep my regular calm exterior, but my ears are on fire. Fuck, I’m going to start sweating. Yep, definitely self-combusting, and I can practically hear Aiden bursting into that wide smile of his next to me.
Don’t look. Don’t look.
“Let’s get an aperitivo after this,” he says, kindly pretending I’m not the most awkward person to go shopping with. What the hell is wrong with me? He’s just a man.
The signora appears next to me, saying something I don’t understand as she opens the dressing booth next to Aiden’s and I’m grateful for the distraction. She hangs up two long, flowing dresses. One coral and one royal blue.
Wow.
I walk over and run a hand over the closest one.
This is gorgeous fabric. So soft, I can barely feel it.
There’s no price tag. I suppose people who shop here don’t need to care about the prices. I used to do well for myself, but I’m currently spending my disposable income on my other employees. This is not on my list of emergency purchases.
“Aiden,” I whisper past the wall, and he opens the curtain fully and I’m somewhat disappointed his shirt is buttoned up. “Are you sure I can’t just wear my own dress to the restaurant?”
“You can, of course. You don’t want one of those dresses? Or both, if you wish.”
“I can’t spend this much right now.” Preferring not to beat around the bush (or to walk around the porridge, as my grandfather would say), I add, “And I’m not saying that to make you pay. I’m just telling you so I don’t act all weird and you’re wondering why.”
“Thanks for being clear, and let me be equally clear,” he says while correcting his cufflinks. “You’re not paying for anything today. This was my idea and I insist, end of story.” He’s smiling, but I get it. I won’t fight his generosity.
“Okay, but only if it makes me look like a goddess,” I answer, inserting a hint of stubbornness—just because.
I close the curtain and let my sundress fall to the floor before I step out of it and hang it up. God, I hope this dress works without a bra because the one I’m wearing will not work with this low-cut back.
As I let the new dress slide down over my body, it falls heavier than expected. It moves like water—it’s almost otherworldly.
Studying myself in the mirror, I’ve never felt more beautiful than right now, in this coral dress. The classy cowl neck hangs just low enough to give my breasts the cover of fabric without a serious nipple situation, but not so low that it reveals too much cleavage.
“Let me see,” Aiden says from the other side of the curtain. I open it, and when his jaw drops, it gives me a serious tickle in my stomach. His eyes rake over me, and I’m enjoying that reaction far too much. No one has ever looked at me like that.
“You… You’re sensational.”
There’s no one to perform for here. He doesn’t have to pretend.
He means it.
It’s a thought that makes me forget how to breathe for a moment, and I just stand there, letting him take me in.
“Thank you,” I say after way too long. “And thank you for this,” I say, pulling lightly on the skirt of the dress as I swivel my hips, showing how the fabric moves around my knees and calves. “It’s truly the most magnificent dress I’ve worn.”
“Truly magnificent,” Aiden repeats, his voice close to a whisper.
Ready to go, in our new clothes and shoes (mine are golden sandals and already my favourites), Aiden pulls out his card to pay while the woman talks. She stops mid-sentence and stares at the card.
“Aurellan?” she asks, lifting her gaze to him again.
“Sì, è il cognome di mio padre. Era di qui.”
I study the side of his face as he talks. His jaw flexes. Did he say padre? His father something?
“Era un nome di copertura degli Aurato, no?” She gesticulates wildly and I worry she’ll pull a muscle. Why is she asking about Aurato, isn’t that this place?
He hesitates, or he’s thinking? I’m not sure how to interpret the change in him, but it’s like I can feel his muscles tensing. The air around him shifts.
“Non credo.” Aiden gives a little shrug.
I don’t know what she asked, but I’m quite sure he’s not telling her the truth.
“Dovrebbe visitare il museo, è qui vicino.”
Museum? What the hell is going on here?
“Lo farò, grazie.”
We leave the shop and I have to ask.
“What was it about your name? And something about a museum?”
Aiden traces his thumb across his lower lip.
“I heard something about padre, is your father from here?” I ask tentatively. I have a vague recollection of him saying his father took his mother back to his hometown, but was it Florence?
I’m not one to press people unless it’s important. We’re not close enough yet, but I do want to understand him better. It’s getting clearer that I’ve not interpreted his charm-side correctly, and I’d like to get to know this man who’s turning into a real friend.
Aiden drops his hand, sighing. “Yes, this is where he’s from.”
“Can we take a look?” I point to the museum next door. “It’s right here.”
“Sure.”
The museum is a history of the Casa Aurato brand, from the early 1900s through to modern high fashion.
There are dresses and suits, different types of fabrics, and stages of design showcased.
It’s a vast space with sections dedicated to shoes and dresses of the different decades, as well as production innovations and methods.
It’s bright and spacious and my mind is working hard to take it all in.
To decide where to start. Aiden starts at the right by the white wall of shoes and their designs through the ages.
He puts his hands in his pockets and his gaze sweeps across the display.
“Wow,” I breathe, but in my periphery Aiden’s already moving on, so I follow him. What did the woman at the shop say about this place? Is his family related to this family somehow?
I want to see Aiden’s face, but he keeps walking, glancing around before moving on to the next section. I take a minute to appreciate the corner dedicated to the 1950s and the gorgeous shapes and colours of the dresses of that era. The wide skirts, the Bardot necklines. Bold prints and colours.
I rush past the next decades to find Aiden, and there he is.
He’s standing in front of a blue wall with a large painting of a sturdy, black-haired man with a solid, dented chin. Black and white photographs surround the artwork.
I step closer to see what Aiden’s focusing on. The painting has a small plaque that reads Aldo Aurato, 1952.
“Is he the founder?” I ask and Aiden hums. I take that as a ‘yes’. The man in the painting has blue eyes. I always pegged it as an Aiden thing, that dark hair versus light eyes.
Aiden leans in, seemingly entranced by the photos.
They show the man from the painting, much older, with a grey-haired woman, and a younger couple; laughing, holding a baby.
It doesn’t have names on but is dated 1965.
The person I’m guessing is the father of the baby also has that dented chin. Like father like son.
Huh.
I glance up at Aiden.
“Is this family … umm … related to yours somehow?” I ask, scanning his face for a reaction.
There’s a subtle flex of his jaw, but he continues staring at the photos and the plaque below. When did he blink last?
“Is this why the woman at the shop asked about your name?”
“Hm.”
A grunt. Okay.
He turns and starts walking away without comment.
“Are you okay?” I ask to his broad back and he stops. He inhales and tilts his head up towards the ceiling. Then he turns back towards me, wearing an blank expression I don’t recognise.
“Hey, I’m famished,” he says, checking his watch. “Still a couple of hours before Italian dinner time, shall we explore the riverside bars for something to nibble on?”
He’s standing there in his fresh black shirt and suit pants, his hair in that effortless, tousled style.
His face relaxes back into his classic Aiden smirk.
Hmm. Not a care in the world except a light hunger, apparently.
Why can’t I shake the feeling he’s performing for me now? He’s hiding something about his family.
He gives me that easy smile, just lifting the sides of his mouth. It’s the well-rehearsed smile he has. Or am I overthinking it?
Ugh, I need to stop assuming everyone has something to hide. I’m too cynical after Henry and his massive lies. So Aiden doesn’t want to talk about his dad or whatever he was thinking about these photos. I’m sure it’s for good reason.
“Okay,” I say and he walks out in front of me.
I stop by the plaque that made him pause.
There’s something about the Aurato family on here, and I spot the name Giorgio.
Was that his dad’s name? I can’t decipher enough to make sense of it.
I take a quick photo so I can translate it later, curiosity winning over blind trust.