The Spanish Love Deception by Elena Armas (the mitten read aloud TXT) 📗

Before I could fully straighten and resume my way under the rain, I noticed a car pulling up a short distance in front of me.

I knew someone who owned a vehicle in the same midnight blue.

Keep walking, Catalina, I told myself as I restarted my graceless hopping.

Out of the corner of my eye, I watched the passenger window roll down.

Without moving any closer to the vehicle I strongly suspected belonged to someone I was in no mood to interact with, I turned my body and zeroed in on the driver’s outline as I still held the stupid and wet piece of garment above me.

God-freaking-dammit.

Aaron was sitting inside. His body was leaning toward the copilot’s door, and while I could see his lips moving, I couldn’t make out what he was saying with the noise of the traffic, the wind, and the rain hitting the pavement with the characteristic force of a storm.

“What?” I shouted in his direction, not moving an inch.

Aaron waved his hand, probably indicating that I come closer. I stood there, squinting my eyes at him, wet as a drowned rat. He aggressively waved his pointer at me.

Oh, hell no.

I watched his scowl take over his expression as he mouthed a couple of words that looked a lot like impossible and stubborn.

“I can’t hear you!” I howled over the rain, still rooted to the spot.

His lips moved around what I assumed was something like for fuck’s sake. Unless he was telling me how much he wanted a milkshake. Which, judging by his scowl, I would not put any money on.

Rolling my eyes, I stepped closer. Very slowly. Almost ridiculously so, just so I wouldn’t slip and slide across the sidewalk again. Not in front of him of all people in New York City.

“Get in the car, Catalina.” I heard Aaron’s exasperation clinging to his voice, even over the furious and relentless rain.

Just like I had suspected, he hadn’t wanted a milkshake.

“Catalina,” he said as that blue gaze fell back on me, “get in.”

“It’s Lina.” After close to two years of him exclusively using my full name, I knew correcting him was of no use. But I was frustrated. Irritated. Tired. Soaked too. And I hated my full name. Papá—being the history nerd he was—had named both his daughters after two distinguished Spanish monarchs, Isabel and Catalina. My name being the one that never came back in trend in my country. “And what for?”

His lips parted in disbelief.

“What for?” he repeated my words. Then, he shook his head as he exhaled through his nose. “For an improvised trip to Disneyland. What would it be otherwise?”

For a long moment, I looked inside Aaron Blackford’s car with what I knew was an expression of genuine confusion.

“Catalina”—I watched his face go from exasperation to something that bordered resignation—“I am driving you home”—he stretched his arm and opened the door closest to me, as if it were a done deal—“before you catch pneumonia or almost break your neck. Again.”

Again.

That last part he had added very slowly.

Blood rushed to my cheeks. “Oh, thank you,” I gritted through my teeth. I tried to push down how embarrassed I was and plastered a fake smile on my face. “But there’s no need.” I stood in front of the open door, my wet hair sticking to my face again. I finally dropped the stupid cardigan and started squeezing water off it. “I can manage myself. This is just rain. If I’ve survived this long without breaking my neck, I think I can get home on my own today too. Plus, I’m not in a rush.”

Also, I have been avoiding you since you walked out of my office earlier today.

As I uselessly twisted some more water off my cardigan, I watched his eyebrows knit, regaining his earlier expression as he processed my words.

“What about the cat?”

“What cat?”

His head tilted. “Mr. Cat.”

The water must have been seeping through my skull because it took me an extra second to pin down what he was talking about.

“Your neighbor’s furless cat that you are not allergic to,” he said slowly as my eyes widened. “Ryan’s.”

I averted my eyes. “Bryan. My neighbor’s name is Bryan.”

“Not important.”

Ignoring that last remark, I couldn’t help but notice a line of cars forming behind Aaron’s.

“Get in the car. Come on.”

“No need, really.” One more car piled up. “Mr. Cat will survive a little longer without me.”

Aaron’s mouth opened, but before he could say anything, the blaring sound of a horn startled me, making me give a little jump and almost collide against the car’s open door.

“Por el amor de Dios!” I squealed.

Turning my head with my heart in my throat, I discovered it was one of New York City’s infamous yellow taxis. After a few years of living and working in the city, I had learned my lesson when it came to angry drivers. Or pissed New Yorkers in general. They’d let you know how they felt exactly when they felt it.

Proving my point, a trail of ugly-sounding words was thrown in our direction.

I turned back just in time to watch Aaron curse under his breath. He looked just as furious as the taxi driver.

Another nerve-racking honking noise—this time much, much, much longer—blared in my ears, making me jump again.

“Catalina, now.” Aaron’s tone was severe.

I blinked at him for a second too long, a little dazed by everything going on around me.

“Please.”

And before I could even process that word that had slipped out of him, a yellow blur was driving past us, gifting us with a ragey, “Assholes!” and blaring his horn with something close to devotion.

Those two words—Aaron’s please and that assholes—propelled my legs into the safety of Aaron’s car. With impressive speed, I found myself letting my body fall onto the leather seat with a wet thud and smacking the door shut.

Silence instantly engulfed us, the only sounds the muffled rattle of the rain against the shell of Aaron’s car and the dull roar of the engine moving us forward and into the chaos