The Spanish Love Deception

Chapter 155

We had just crossed the Arrivals gate, so we found ourselves in the middle of the terminal. On New

York soil. Only a few feet from what awaited us outside the airport. Whatever that was.

“Lina,” he said softly.

Judging by the way he had uttered my name, the weight with which he had said it, I knew he was going

to tell me something important. But that simple word—my name, not Catalina, but Lina—from his lips

did things to me. To my chest, to my head.

“I love hearing that. My name.” My confession left my lips quietly, as if it were meant to be just a

thought. “You don’t call me Lina nearly enough.”

Aaron looked into my eyes for a long moment, not speaking. Not acknowledging my fleeting comment. This belongs to NôvelDrama.Org - ©.

It wasn’t until I thought he wasn’t going to say anything at all—that we would walk out of that airport in

silence and continue our merry separate ways—that he spoke, “Come home with me. To my place.”

Caught off guard, I blinked. In stunned silence, I thought about how I would love nothing more than to

spend more time with him. To get lost in him for a little longer before having to go back to real life.

Before we had to talk, have that conversation that would consolidate—or not—every single thing that

had changed between us.

A conversation I feared more and more with every passing minute.

I wanted to take the leap. Badly. But my experience told me otherwise, warning me of not making the

same mistake twice.

And I knew deep in my bones that recovering from that—from losing Aaron, or from possibly

dilapidating years of hard work under dirty and unfair accusations, if history was to repeat itself—would

not be easy. It would be the hardest thing I’d have to do in my life. I already knew.

As all that swirled in my head, I watched something that looked a lot like trepidation, fear, dance in

Aaron’s features.

“Come with me, Lina.”

My eyelids shut briefly.

“I’ll feed you, make sure we stay awake so the jet lag doesn’t last for the rest of the week. Tomorrow,

early in the morning, we’ll drive to your apartment, so you can grab whatever you need, and then we’ll

head to work.” He paused. “Together.”

It sounded like a dream.

Just like him. He had to be if he thought he had to convince me to go with him anywhere. I wanted to,

so badly. I’d follow him anywhere if he asked. But …

But … there was always a but, wasn’t there?

“Aaron,” I breathed, “I’m going to be very honest with you.” I owed him—and me and us—at least that.

“I’m … scared. Terrified. You are going to be promoted. To my division leader. And that’s going to

change things.”

I inhaled through my nose, averting my gaze to his chest. There was too much in his eyes. They

distracted me, stole away my sanity.

“We are not in Spain any longer. This is real life. And this”—I waved a hand between us—“is going to

complicate things.” Or perhaps it was the other way around—him being promoted to a position above

me would complicate whatever this could be.

He snatched my hand and brought it to his chest. So warm and firm, so full of all the things I wanted

but was terrified to reach for. “We’ll talk about it. Later, once we have cleaned up and I have you

comfortable and relaxed.” His other hand came to my chin, tilting my head back so he could peer into

my eyes. “And tomorrow, we’ll talk to HR. We will ask Sharon, if that gives you any peace of mind.”

Why? Why, world? Why did he have to be so thoughtful? So fucking perfect?

“But before doing that, you’ll have to give us a chance.” It was his turn for a shaky breath to leave his

lips. “Do you trust me?”

My hand, which still rested over his chest, right above his heart, fisted the fabric of his shirt. Unable to

do anything else but hold on to him. “Take me home, Aaron Blackford.”

Staring at the screen of my phone, I deliberated for the hundredth time if I should reply to the message

with the truth.

She’s gonna flip. She’s going to kick my ass so hard that she’ll send me right back to Spain.

Lifting my gaze off the screen and looking at my reflection in the mirror—Aaron’s bathroom mirror—I

didn’t like what I saw. It had nothing to do with the bags under my eyes or the messy knot that had

been promoted to chaotic probably somewhere across the Atlantic Ocean. What bothered me wasn’t

something I could point out with a finger or fix with a shower, a few hours of sleep, and a brush.

Turning away, I leaned on the edge of the impressive and enticing bathtub. Large enough to

accommodate two Aarons, just like everything else in his apartment. Spacious and luxurious in a very

sober and tasteful way. It suited him so perfectly.

I peered down at my phone again to reread her message.

Rosie: Are you back? How bad was it? Tell me everything in front of a coffee. Or two? Maybe three?

How much is there to tell?

Just as I finally worked up the courage to answer, three dots started dancing on the screen.

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