The Spanish Love Deception

Chapter 23

“Okay,” she said oddly softly. “So, you are still together?”

“Yes,” I lied again.

“And he’ll come to the wedding with you? To Spain?”

“Correct.”

A pause, making me realize my hands were sweating so much that the phone would have slipped if I hadn’t been

gripping it as tightly as I was.

“He’s in New York too, you said?”

“Yep.”

She hummed and then added, “American?”

“Raised and born.”

“What’s his name again?”

My breath got stuck somewhere along my throat. Shit. I hadn’t given them a name, had I? I didn’t think I had, but …

My mind raced through my options very quickly. Desperately. I needed a name. What an easy, manageable thing. A

name.

A simple name.

A name of a man who didn’t exist or I still had to find.

“Lina … are you there?” my mother chimed. She laughed, somehow sounding nervous. “Have you forgotten your

boyfriend’s name?”

“Don’t be silly,” I told her, hearing my distress in my voice. “I …”

A shadow caught my eye, distracting me. My gaze shot to my office door, and exactly how he had wedged himself Còntens bel0ngs to Nô(v)elDr/a/ma.Org

into my life one year and eight months ago—with horrifyingly bad timing—Aaron Blackford walked through the

threshold and placed himself in the eye of the storm.

“Lina?” I thought I heard my mother say.

In two strides, he was in front of me, across my desk, letting a stack of papers drop on its surface.

What is he doing?

We didn’t visit each other’s offices. We never needed, wanted, or bothered to.

That icy-blue gaze of his fell on me. It was followed by a frown, as if he were wondering why I looked like a woman

currently dealing with a life-threatening crisis. Which was exactly what I was doing. Getting caught in a lie was far

worse than lying. After only a couple of seconds, his expression morphed into an appalled one. I could see the

judgment in his eyes.

Out of every single person who could have walked into my office right now, it’d had to be him.

Why, Lord? Why?

“Aaron,” I heard myself say in a pained voice.

I was vaguely aware when my mother somehow repeated his name, “Aaron?”

“Sí,” I murmured, my gaze locked with his. What in the world does he want?

“Okay,” Mamá said.

Okay?

My eyes widened. “¿Qué?”

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