18. That’s flawless
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
that’s flawless
AIDEN
This was a fucking terrible idea. Going on an impulsive trip with my fake date who I have an unrequited crush on… Absolute misery.
But also the best time I’ve had in a while.
She’s across from me at Enoteca Verato, a three-Michelin-star restaurant I’ve had my eye on whenever I’ve considered flying down here. 150,000 wines in the cellar. The purest of Italian produce. Art on a plate.
“Do you have any allergies? Dislikes?”
“No, I’ll try anything once,” she says, perusing the menu, but I’m just holding mine, eyes on her instead.
I don’t want to miss a second of her in that dress, and I enjoy watching the way she purses her lips while reading.
The menu is in Italian; does she understand any of it?
This could be her way of avoiding looking at me.
She definitely didn’t avoid it earlier. Her eyes were on me when we were at Casa Aurato, roaming over my bare torso.
A complete coincidence, of course. I didn’t realise there was a gap in the curtain.
But I didn’t mind it when I noticed her looking.
The sense of her enjoying what she saw… Now if only she would like the rest of me too.
When the sound of her zipper came from the other side of the curtain I had to bite my fist. My immature brain fought itself trying not to picture her in there, not imagining how her summer dress fell to the floor, leaving nothing but soft curves and smooth skin in its wake. So close, yet so far away.
But the nail in my composure-coffin was when she came out in that coral dress. Pure perfection. The flowing fabric licked her skin, hugging her curves so smoothly it took all my willpower not to reach out and run a hand over the indent of her waist, the shape of her hip.
Then her expression… That smile.
She seemed so pleased, and I know I was staring. Gaping, even.
While Linnea was picking out her shoes, I told the signora to charge me for the royal blue dress and other items she’d recommend for us both. My staff will sort it out with the shop to get it delivered home to my flat.
Drinks and nibbles, aperitivo, by the river with Linnea was relaxing, and it’s not something I say about many people.
As much as I enjoy company, hers is by far the most rewarding.
Hearing her talking, watching her notice and point at things, or how she wrinkles her nose or quirks her lips as she reacts to the world, it’s kept a stupid grin on my face all afternoon.
When we were strolling side by side, I was itching to hold her, to press a hand to her lower back, or to brush her arm. There’s been no reason to touch her, and she hasn’t showed she wants me to. She said it clearly: no mixing business and pleasure, and there’s no concern she’ll fall for me.
I’ll be here, though. I’ll be here for as long as it takes for her to see me properly, to see how good we could be together.
This feels right for me.
This feels like how my dad told me about Mum.
He’d seen her at a cafe. She’d been wearing bright colours that didn’t match—unheard of, apparently—and she’d stood out from the crowd.
He’d watched her with her friends, wondering how someone could appear so stylish while breaking such an important fashion rule.
When he had finally asked her why she’d chosen so boldly, she’d laughed out loud—a laugh that had hit him in his chest and he would cherish forever—and answered that she wears what pleases her mood.
She’d been feisty and funny, and he fell immediately.
For both of them, it was a life-altering kind of love. It transformed them and shaped their lives, their goals, and dreams.
He left all this for Mum. Sort of. He pretended to, and I wish I understood his thought process. How could he love her so much but still not fully commit? The worry that he had a foot out the door all that time, that he wasn’t entirely happy with just us, taints my memories of him.
“Aiden, are you okay?” Linnea asks and I glance up into those dark blue eyes.
“Yes, always, why?”
“You’ve got a worry crease,” she says, tilting her head, her eyes flitting between mine and my forehead. “I don’t see you concerned, normally.”
“Because I’m not concerned about anything,” I say and try to smile, but she knits her brow briefly before her face relaxes again. Back to her calm, open eyes.
“What were you thinking right there?” I ask, swirling my wine.
She folds her hands together on the edge of the table and leans in. “Honestly?” Her eyes search my face. “That you just lied to me, maybe even to yourself? I’m not sure. But I also decided to let it go. For now.”
I keep her gaze for a moment.
‘For now.’
I straighten, picking up the menu again. “Let’s just get a bit of everything, shall we?”
She’s quiet for a moment, and when I look back up at her, she nods. “Sure.”
The server takes our order and I sense Linnea’s eyes on the side of my face as I talk to him, but I’m not sure if she’s still dwelling on what I said or if she’s just enjoying the Italian conversation.
“So your dad is from here?” she asks when the server’s gone, leaning an elbow on the small table between us.
“Yes,” I say, but the tension that hits my chest makes me stop. “Excuse me, I need to hit the gents.”
It’s not like I’m lying to her. I just don’t want to talk about it here.
When I return around the corner, Linnea’s leaning sideways, halfway into her purse with her phone lighting up her face. She’s clearly trying to hide something. But what? We agreed not to pursue others for three months. The thought that she might be texting another man burns in my chest.
Stop being an idiot. Just ask.
Maybe it’s nothing.
I stride over, and she jumps as I approach her. So she is hiding something?
“Did I scare you? Doing something you shouldn’t?” I ask, intending to make it sound like a joke but it comes out gruffer than I wanted. I sit down across from her, but the smile I wanted to give her feels more like a grimace on my face.
Her brow furrows, and she shakes her head. “I’m reading a message from Jamie and Sophie,” she says quickly, sticking her phone into her purse.
“Oh.”
But there’s more… Her visible ear is blushing.
“What did you think it was?”
“I don’t know, I was being irrational, but you still look like I just caught you with your hand in the cookie jar and I’m curious what it is.” I hope it comes out lighter this time, and try a smile again.
She hums and grabs her glass of wine, taking a long sip.
Fuck, I’m not wrong?
I swallow hard, waiting, following her movements as she puts the glass back down on the white tablecloth, and folds her arms on the edge.
“I, umm… I snapped a photo of that plaque you were reading and tried to translate it.”
Adrenaline hits me at the same time as the relief. Okay, so I was being irrational about the ‘other man’ concern, but this is something else I’ve been worried about.
I’m going to have to tell her. Things I’ve never said out loud.
Something I’ve not addressed head-on since I was twenty-three, moving my mum to London.
When I found a bundle of letters wrapped tightly in a scarf among my dad’s old belongings.
Letters that gave me a different story about my family. About my dad.
“Okay, and what did you find out?” My voice comes out strained and I clear my throat.
“It said Casa Aurato had been in the family for five centuries until the latest heir renounced his inheritance before his wedding. It also said something about reconciliation and the family in mourning about Giorgio? But I’m not sure I read it right. I was skimming.”
I stare down into my wine.
“It’s the correct translation as far as I can tell.
” My voice is flat, talking into my glass before I take a sip.
Linnea shifts on her chair and I sense I’ve made her uncomfortable.
“What do you make of it?” I ask, lifting my gaze back up to hers and her knitted brow as she’s trying to figure me out.
Do I really want her to spell it out? It’s a topic I’ve avoided for years.
“Your father was meant to marry someone? But he met your mother on his holiday and ran away?”
While I contemplate what to say next, our server arrives with our first dishes. We nod politely as he explains what it all is.
He leaves, and our eyes meet across the table.
I exhale, trying to tidy up the chaos in my mind before I let the words out. “I was confronted with my dad’s past that didn’t match what I knew about him, and it’s been … hard. Hard to deal with. I’d rather we don’t delve into it over dinner, but I want to talk to you about it another time.”
Linnea opens her mouth, then closes it again.
“Of course,” she breathes after a beat. “Thank you for saying that much.”
I shrug, but it was more than I’ve said to anyone except Mark, and the knot in my gut is exactly what I’ve wanted to avoid.
“Ladies first,” I say gesturing to the dish in front of us.
It’s a delectable sharing platter of a Florentine speciality, Carpaccio di Vitello and Vitello Tonnato.
Raw, thinly sliced veal and poached veal with a creamy tuna sauce.
It’s artistically presented with tomatoes, parsley, and shavings of Parmigiano.
Linnea serves a piece of each type of meat onto her plate and I follow suit. She starts on the raw one, and her face morphs into the most satisfied expression.
“Oh, that’s flawless,” she says.
Our conversation is effectively shelved.
She hums as she swallows her mouthful, clearly enjoying it.
A small chuckle escapes me and when she looks up at me I can’t keep my smile from spreading, so I just let it break free. Her lips twitch and she presses them together, but her eyes shine and it’s as if she’s beaming at me.
It’s always her eyes that give her away.
I’m cataloguing this little suppressed smile. It’s a delightful expression.
She pops another piece of veal into her mouth and lets out a small moan and by now I’m smiling so much my cheeks start to hurt. Watching Linnea eat is already one of my favourite activities.