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

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.

Throwing my phone on top of a discarded pile of garments, I headed for the snug space that was my living room. Grabbing my laptop from the round ecru coffee table I had picked up from a flea market a few weeks ago, I placed the device on my lap and let my body fall onto the sofa.

Once settled in the padded cushions, I logged in to my corporate email account.

It was my last resort. With a little bit of luck, his workaholic ass would be sitting in front of his laptop on a Saturday. And wasn’t this … deal we had made a little like a business transaction? It had to be. We weren’t friends—or friendly—so that didn’t leave room for more than a purely I scratch your back, you scratch mine kind of deal. A favor between colleagues.

With no more time to waste, I opened a new email and started typing.

From: cmartin@InTech.com

To: ablackford@InTech.com

Subject: Urgent Info Needed!

Mr. Blackford,

I was irritated—at myself yes, but also at him—and I wasn’t in a first name basis kind of mood.

As per our last conversation, I’m still waiting for you to disclose the details of our upcoming meeting. I find myself without all sources of information, which will consequently lead to an unsuccessful completion of the contract discussed.

I had watched all seasons of Gossip Girl, and I knew the terrible consequences of wearing the wrong thing to a “social commitment” in New York freaking City.

As no doubt you are aware of, it is of utmost importance that you share all info needed at your earliest convenience.

Please get back to me ASAP.

Warm regards,

Lina Martín

Smirking at myself, I hit Send and watched my email leave my outbox. Then, I stared at my screen for a long minute, waiting for his answer to pop up in my inbox. By the third time I unsuccessfully refreshed my email, the smirk was long gone. By the fifth, little drops of sweat—which were partly due to the fact that I was clad in a winter robe—started forming in the back of my neck.

What if he didn’t answer?

Or even worse, what if all this wasn’t more than a prank? A mean way to mess with my head and make me believe he’d help me. What if he’d Carrie’d me?

No, Aaron wouldn’t do that, a voice in my head said.

But why wouldn’t he though? I had more than enough evidence compiled to prove that Aaron was very much capable of something like that.

Did I even know him at all? He attended “social commitments” that had to do with “good causes”, for crying out loud. I did not know him.

Fuck. I needed those cookies. I’d indulge.

When I returned to my laptop, cookie package in hand and mouthful of sugary and buttery comfort, Aaron’s answer was waiting for me. A tiny sigh of relief left my lips.

Biting on a new cookie, I clicked on Aaron’s email.

From: ablackford@InTech.com

To: cmartin@InTech.com

Subject: Re: Urgent Info Needed!

I’ll be there in an hour.

Best,

Aaron

“What in the f—”

A fit of coughs prevented me from finishing that, the mouthful I had been chewing on getting stuck in my throat and not moving anywhere.

Aaron was coming. To my apartment. In one hour. Which was an