It’s good to be them.
I enter the restaurant and head in the direction of the bathroom.
Everything at The Fifth is…recherché.
Ciara uses the word when she wants to describe something that’s exquisite. I always butcher the pronunciation, but that French word defines this venue.
I’m grateful the return of Ciara’s husband from a round of golf put an end to our conversation. I didn’t have to feed her too many lies today.
I enter the bathroom, take care of business in a flash, exit the stall and wash my hands. I head to where there’s a large mirror and a stone floating counter.
I check my makeup to make sure the mask hasn’t cracked. I applied more foundation than usual to hide the tell-tale signs of another night fighting my demons.
I can’t control my nightmares. How much longer before I say something that blows my cover out of the water?
Should I open up to Kaz and Ciara? Am I willing to risk being judged, or worse – ghosted, to no longer have to carry this burden––this twisted and tragic story that’s changed my life forever?
My chest constricts and I bring a hand to it.
“Are you okay?”
I stare up at the brunette I didn’t even realize was standing next to me.
I force a smile. “I had too much coffee. A bit of a heartburn.”
She smiles and nods. I’m not sure if she believes me or if she’s done caring. Either way, she snaps her clutch shut and sashays out of the bathroom. Another woman takes her spot.
I blow out a breath.
I hate having to lie to people. Twist facts. Omit important details about my life. I’m tired of the pretense. This secret is eating me alive and killing me from the inside.
Once Kaz secures this deal, I’ll share my ugly secret. I’ll also tell Ci. Until then, I don’t want to cause any unnecessary drama that might cause him not to get what he wants out of our temporary arrangement.
I nod at myself in the mirror before stepping out of the bathroom.
“If the plan was to make sure no man here ever forgets you, mission accomplished,” a man says from behind me.
I whirl around.
A man with graying temples and dark blue eyes, wearing a linen suit in the same shade as Kaz’s, flashes me a dazzling smile, which stands out against his tanned skin.
“Excuse me?”
As he approaches me, his smile transforms into a smirk. “You, goddess on legs”—his boozy breath reaches my nostrils—“are hanging from the wrong Lindström’s arm.”
I do a double take. “Oskar Lindström?”The man is unrecognizable. Whata difference a tan makes.
“Also known as the Lindström you’ll be leaving this event with.”
I shoot him my best resting bitch face.
What is it about arrogant men accosting me at posh events when I step out of the bathroom?
Chapter 29
The wrong Lindström
Kazimir
