The-Spanish-Love-Deception-www.indianpdf

The man beside me didn’t hesitate when he spoke, “I can promise you
that much.” His voice reached my skin like a caress. Pushing my heart to
bang against my chest walls, wanting out as much as I didn’t want to hear
whatever was to come. “She’ll always have me.” His thumb caressed the
back of my hand. “She doesn’t know it yet, but she is stuck with me.”
I couldn’t not look over at him. After that, I couldn’t not want to search
his handsome face. At this point, it shouldn’t have surprised me all that
much. Aaron held that kind of power over me. So, I did exactly that. I
allowed myself to turn. His eyes had already been on me.
Does he feel that pull too? That urge to search my face for whatever
answers he thinks he’ll find?
Trying to get my heart under control, I peered into that ocean blue with
trepidation. With anticipation too. And I found something utterly terrifying.
Something that shouldn’t—couldn’t—have been there, considering that this
was supposed to be a farce so therefore his statement was not true. But I
struggled to deny what was in front of me, that those emotions were really
there, radiating off his gaze. Raw honesty. Conviction. Faith. Reliance. A
pledge. All of that looked at me from Aaron’s eyes. Demanding to be
acknowledged.
As if he was making me the promise and not my mother.
As if what he had just proclaimed wasn’t part of our game in deception.
But I couldn’t accept that. As much as my body shook with effort to
restrain myself from wrapping my arms around his neck and begging him for
answers or to tell me exactly where in the gray area we found ourselves, I
wouldn’t allow myself to play with the questions spinning in my head and
knotting together all my heartstrings.
Because perhaps I didn’t really want to hear any of the answers to
questions like: Had we gone from coworkers to deal associates to friends?
Were we friends who vowed to be there for each other now? Friends who
almost kissed and shared soft brushes of their lips? Was that promise really
true, like his eyes pleaded with me to believe? Or was that nothing more than
an ornament? And if it was, then why would he say something like that? Had
he no disregard for my poor heart? Didn’t he see that I was no longer able to
discern one thing from the other? But if it wasn’t a simple embellishment of
the truth—an act, a tool in this farce—then what in the world was he doing?
What were we doing?
Not able to remain under everything that looked at me from Aaron’s gaze