The Spanish Love Deception novel Chapter 19

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I watched my hands move to the snack of their own accord. Once unwrapped, I inspected it closely. Homemade. It had to be, judging by the way roasted oats, dried fruits, and nuts were assembled together.

I heard Aaron’s long sigh. “If you ask me if it’s poisoned, I swear—”

“No,” I murmured.

Then, I shook my head, feeling that weird pressure in my chest again. So, I took the snack to my mouth, bit into it, and—holy granola bars. I moaned in delight.

“For Christ’s sake,” the man to my right muttered under his breath.

Gobbling all the nutty and sugary amazingness down, I shrugged. “Sorry, it was a moan-worthy bite.”

I watched his head shake as he was focused on the document on his screen. As I studied his profile, an odd and unfamiliar feeling settled in. And it had nothing to do with my appreciation for Aaron’s unexpected baking skills. It was something else, something warm and fuzzy that I had gotten a whiff of a few minutes earlier, but now, I wanted to bend my lips into a smile.

I was grateful.

Aaron Blackford, scowling Clark Kent look-alike, was in my office. Helping me and feeding me homemade snacks, and I was glad. Thankful even.

“Thank you.” The fugitive words escaped my lips.

He turned to face me, and I saw him relax for an instant. Then, his eyes jumped to my screen. He scoffed, “You still haven’t opened a blank template?”

“Oye.” The Spanish word slipped out. “You don’t have to be so bossy. Not everyone has super speed like you, Mr. Kent.”

His eyebrows rose, and he looked unimpressed. “Quite the contrary. Some even have the opposite superpower.”

“Ha.” I rolled my eyes. “Funny.”

His gaze shifted back to his screen. “Blank template. And make it today, if that’s not too much to ask.”

This was going to be a long night.

Chapter Four

“Mamá,” I said for the hundredth time. “Mamá, escúchame, por favor.”

It wouldn’t really matter if I asked her to please listen to me a thousand more times. That wasn’t something my mother excelled at, much less ever practiced. Listening was reserved for those whose vocal cords took breaks.

A long and loud sigh left my lips as my mother’s voice traveled from my phone to my ear in heavy spurts of Spanish.

“Madre,” I repeated.

“… so if you decide to go with that other dress—you know which one I’m talking about?” my mother asked in Spanish, not really giving me a window to answer. “The one that is all flimsy an

d silky and falls to your ankles. Well, as your mother, I need to tell you that it’s not flattering. I’m sorry, Lina, but you are short, and the cut of the dress makes you look even shorter. And green is not your color either. I don’t think that’s a color the madrina of the wedding should wear.”