The Spanish Love Deception

My face blanched. My hand somehow jerked, dropping a fork. I dipped after it, too briskly, and almost knocked over a glass. Cursing under my breath, I picked up the fork from under the table, resurfacing just in time to see the camera moving along.

Close. That was so close.

Reaching for my wine, I actually considered sneaking out and putting an end to this. But that would be running. Being a coward. Again. Something I’d kept doing a lot of lately.

If the camera stops on you, you will kiss Aaron, I told myself as I downed the rest of my wine. A peck on the lips. It doesn’t need to be a movie kiss. Just a kiss.

But my pep talk didn’t help. It only made my chest tighter and my belly flutter.

Peeking at the man that I’d probably have to kiss in a handful of seconds, I was surprised to see a muscle in his jaw jumping. Studying him more closely, I realized Aaron looked … like New York Aaron again. Not like the relaxed and playful version I had shared these past days with. His gaze was set on the screen, and while his face gave nothing away—at least not to those who hadn’t mastered the art of reading Aaron like I had—there was something about him that told me he wasn’t as fine as he looked.

Once more, the camera glided over us, putting our faces on the screen for a tense second, and moved on.

My heart resumed.

Before I could feel any kind of relief, it came right back, as if it were performing a dance especially choreographed for me, teasing my heartbeat until sending it into cardiac arrest. Little droplets of sweat formed on the nape of my neck. Aaron remained quiet by my side, steadfast, his eyes drilled into the screen. So much that concern started seeping in.

“Whoo!” the crowd hooted as the camera cruised across our table again, the speed decreasing gradually.

Looking at Aaron, it was hard to notice much else besides him. I was barely aware of how the integrants of our table had come alive, clapping and whistling to the tune of the goddamn kiss cam. My eyes zeroed on Aaron’s lips, pressed in a flat line. Anxiety and anticipation—yes, powerful and silky anticipation—built in the pit of my belly. My gaze took in his whole body, stoically sitting by my side. Amid the chaos around us, I still managed to catch the movement of his knee. It was bouncing. The motion barely lasted more than a couple of seconds. But I had seen it.

My gaze leaped back to his profile.

Is Aaron … nervous? About kissing me?

It can’t be.

Not after the way he had almost done that right after teasing and plummeting me to a point where I would have begged for his lips.

Unaware of my eyes on him, his knee resumed the bounce, the muscle on his jaw twitching again in sync.

Oh my God, he is.

Aaron was nervous. He was all jittery and high-strung, and it was because of me. Because chances were, he’d have to kiss me. Me.

Something took flight right between my ribs. I couldn’t believe how a man so confident, so composed—one who had made my body come alive and sing with nothing more than the softest of touches—could be fussing over having to kiss me. The flutter in my chest stirred, making me itch to reach—

A loud cheer exploded around us, taking my attention off Aaron.

People chanted, “Que se besen! Que se besen!” Kiss! Kiss!

My eyes leaped around desperately, my heart rising to my mouth. Everybody was looking in our direction.

I’ll do it. I’ll kiss him.

As I zeroed in on the screen, something lurched to the pit of my stomach in response to what I saw.

My dad reached for my mom’s face and planted a kiss on her lips.

It wasn’t relief. What had pierced my body was disappointment. Baffling, inexplicable disappointment at me not being the one framed by the silly string of hearts. Because my parents had been targeted by the kiss cam. Not us.

I felt Aaron move beside me. Turning in his direction, my gaze hopelessly fastened to his lips again. His mouth. That speck of disappointment grew, obliterating everything else and turning into something thick and heavy that promised a rich taste on my tongue. One that made my heart speed up.

Want, I realized. What I felt was need. I wanted him, needed him to gather me in his arms and kiss me like he had promised.

“Because when I finally take those lips in mine, it will be the furthest thing from pretending.”

That was what he had said. And wasn’t what I was feeling inside—what threatened to spill out and turn my life around—the furthest thing from a lie? From pretending?