The Spanish Love Deception

We gazed at each other in silence as my lips played with the answer, moving wordlessly until they didn’t. “Okay.” There was a big chance we had really lost our minds, yes. “Deal.”

Something flickered across Aaron’s face. “Deal,” he repeated.

Yep, we have definitely lost them.

This deal between us was uncharted territory. And the air was suddenly thick with something that made it hard for me to take in a full breath.

“All right. Okay. Good.” I brushed a finger over the surface of the impeccable dashboard. “So, we have a deal.” I inspected an imaginary dust particle, feeling my anxiety rise with every extra second I spent inside. “There’s a mountain of details we need to discuss.” Namely the fact that he’d need to pretend to be the man I was supposedly dating and not just my wedding date. Or the fact that he’d have to pretend he was in love with me. “But we can focus on you first. When is this social commitment I’m helping you with?”

“Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven p.m.”

My whole body came to a halt. “Tomorrow?”

Aaron shifted in his seat, facing away from me. “Yes. Be ready at seven. Sharp,” he remarked. I was so … out of it that I didn’t even roll my eyes at him when he continued shooting

orders, “Evening gown ideally.” His right hand went to the car’s ignition. “Now, go home and rest, Catalina. It’s late, and you look like you could use some sleep.” His left hand fell heavily on the steering wheel. “I’ll tell you everything else tomorrow.”

Somehow, Aaron’s words registered only after I closed the front door to my building behind me. And it was only a few seconds later, right after Aaron’s car roared to life and faded away, that I allowed myself to really process what it meant.

I’d be going on a date tomorrow. A fake date. With Aaron Blackford. And I needed an evening gown.

Chapter Six

I was not panicking. Nope.

My apartment was a war zone, but I was chill. The clothing explosion? Under control.

I looked at myself in the generous mirror placed against one of the walls in my studio apartment with what I promised would be the last outfit I tried on. It was not that I didn’t have anything to wear; my problem was far simpler. The root of my predicament—and as of now, the biggest headache of the month, and all things considered, that was saying something—was that I didn’t know what I was dressing for.

“Be ready at seven. Sharp. Evening gown ideally.”

Why I hadn’t pressed for more details, I did not have the slightest idea.

Except for the fact that it was a mistake I was unfortunately familiar with. This was how I approached things. I rushed into them. Reason why I’d somehow managed to weave my existence into knots I didn’t know how to untangle.

Evidence number one: the lie.

Evidence number two: what the lie had led to.

In other words, the deal I had struck with someone I would never, not even in my wildest dreams—no, nightmares—have imagined needing. Or being needed by. Aaron Blackford.

“Loca,” I muttered to myself as I unzipped another garment. Was it even an evening gown? “Me he vuelto loca. He perdido la maldita cabeza.”

Slipping out of it and throwing it onto the bed with the rest of the discarded dresses, I reached for my robe. The fluffy pink one because I needed all the comfort I could get and I couldn’t think of any other way to get it. It was either this or stuffing my mouth with cookies.

Taking in the state of my apartment, I massaged my temples. Not having walls separating the living room from the bedroom and kitchen areas was something I usually loved. Something I liked to see as an advantage of living in an open studio space—even if limitedly small since this was still Brooklyn. But inspecting the mess I had made of the entire apartment, I sort of hated not living somewhere roomier. Somewhere with walls that would stop me from wrecking the whole place.

There were clothes, shoes, and bags scattered everywhere—on the bed, sofa, chairs, floor, coffee table. Nothing had been spared. The usually tidy apartment that I had so carefully decorated in whites and creams with some boho details here and there—like the beautiful woven rug that had cost me more than I’d ever admit—closer resembled a fashion battlefield than a home.

I wanted to scream.

Tying the belt of my robe tighter, I grabbed my phone from the top of my dresser.

Two hours until seven sharp, and I was helpless. Outfit-less. Because I didn’t have any dress that resembled a gown. Because I was dumb. Because I didn’t know what I was dressing for and I hadn’t asked.

I didn’t even have Aaron’s phone number to text him an SOS and a few hostile emojis to make myself clear. It wasn’t like I had ever found pleasure in fraternizing with the enemy, so I had never needed his number.

Not until now, apparently.