The-Spanish-Love-Deception-www.indianpdf

C H A P T E R S I X
I
was not panicking. Nope.
My apartment was a war zone, but I was chill. The clothing
explosion? Under control.
I looked at myself in the generous mirror placed against one of the walls
in my studio apartment with what I promised would 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