The Spanish Love Deception

The physical relief was so immediate that I had to stop myself from moaning in response.

“Jesus, Catalina,” he huffed, looking back at me, horrified. “What are you carrying in here? A dead body?”

“Hey, this is not a regular weekend visit to the fam, okay? Stop luggage-shaming me,” I said to the scowling man walking beside me. “I had to fit loads of stuff. Makeup, accessories, hair dryer, hair straightener, my good conditioner, lotion, all the dresses I’m taking, six pairs of shoes—”

“Six pairs of shoes?” Aaron croaked, scowling even harder.

“Yes,” I answered quickly, my gaze hunting for the right check-in counter. “One for each of the three different outfits I need, plus the pertinent three backups.” I paused, thinking of something. “Please tell me you packed at least one backup.”

Aaron rearranged my bag on his shoulder, shaking his head at the same time. “No, I didn’t. But I’ll be fine. You, on the other hand …” Another shake of his head. “You are—”

“Brilliant?” I finished for him. “Astute? Gifted in the art of packing? I know. And I hope you have enough clothes in that tiny suitcase you are carrying.”

“Ridiculous,” he murmured. “You are a ridiculous woman.”

“We’ll see who’s the ridiculous one when something accidentally happens to your shirt, tie, or suit, and you have to wear one of my dresses to the wedding.”

A grunt reached my ears. “Six pairs of shoes,” the scowling man in casual wear muttered. “Ridiculous woman packing her own weight in clothes.” He went on, almost too low for me to make out.

“If it’s too heavy for you, you can give it back. I was doing fine myself.”

His head shot in my direction, giving me a look that told me that wasn’t an option.

Sighing, I accepted the help. “Thank you, Blackford. That’s very kind of you.”

“And you were not doing fine,” he countered back, making me want to take back my thank-you. “You could have hurt yourself.”

Aaron veered for the left, and I finally tracked down the counters matching the airline we were flying with.

I followed him. “I appreciate the concern, Big A. But I’ve got my own set of muscles.”

He brushed over my use of his nickname. “Of course. You have to be stubborn on top of ridiculous,” he muttered under his breath.

I had to hide my smile. “Said the kettle to the pot.”

With a last sideways glance, Aaron sped out, letting his long legs carry him away with his small and reasonable suitcase and my ridiculously brimming bag off his shoulder.

From my position a couple of steps behind him, I had no choice but to let my gaze travel down his backside. A not-too-small and certainly not-very-quiet part of me was a little in awe by how his jeans hugged those muscled thighs, which had once propelled him across a football field. That same part got a little louder when my eyes trailed up, catching how his biceps, which I knew had carried a brown melonlike leather ball across that very same field, were bunched as his arm held the weight of my bag.

Ugh. It was terribly disturbing how distracting Aaron’s backside was now that I knew more of him. Now that I knew all these tiny little pieces of his life.

The ones I had found out about the night of the fundraiser, sure. But also those I had dug up when I Googled him.

Yes, I had fallen prey to my curiosity. But just once. I had allowed myself to do that one single time.

And that level of self-restraint hadn’t been easy to accomplish. At least not considering how everything out of my little Google rendezvous had been stuck in the back of my head ever since I indulged. Demanding to be acknowledged more often than I was ready to admit.

My mind seemed eager on not letting go of the pictures of a younger version of Aaron—just as stoic, his shoulders as wide, and his jaw just as hard—dressed in a purple-and-golden uniform that made my heart rate grow a little quicker, only thinking about it. Or the headlines proclaiming that he had been a known name back in that day. But what I’d had more trouble forgetting were the articles—and there had been more than a couple dozen—praising his performance and foreshadowing the player he would become. But hadn’t.

So, why hadn’t he? Why did the press coverage of his football career go for a few years and then stop altogether?

That was something I hadn’t managed to find.

And it only fueled my itch to know more. To learn more about this man

I had thought I had all pieced together but that I was learning I couldn’t have been any more wrong about.

As if on cue, Aaron looked back at me. His brows rose on his forehead. “Is something wrong?”