“Why me?” I asked him, being drawn to the light like a stupid fly. “Why not anyone else?”
His gaze didn’t waver when he answered, “Because if all these months we have worked together have taught me anything, it’s that you are the only woman I know crazy enough to do something like this. You might be my only option too.”
I wouldn’t take that as a compliment because it hadn’t been one. He had just called me crazy. But shit. Something about it—about the way he had said it, about this bizarre day and this unexpected turn of events in which I had found out he also needed someone, just like I did—seemed to wear me down.
“You do know that you’ll have to fly to Spain with me for a whole weekend, right?”
A simple nod. “Yes.”
“And in exchange, you want just one night? One single night of me pretending to be your date?”
He nodded again, and this time, something solidified in his stare. In the way his jaw was clamped and his lips formed a flat line. Determination. I knew that look. I had argued against that look on many occasions.
Then, he spoke, “Do we have a deal?”
Have we really lost our minds?
We gazed at each other in silence as my lips played with the answer, moving wordlessly until they didn’t. “Okay.” There was a big chance we had really lost our minds, yes. “Deal.”
Something flickered across Aaron’s face. “Deal,” he repeated.
Yep, we have definitely lost them.
This deal between us was uncharted territory. And the air was suddenly thick with something that made it hard for me to take in a full breath.
“All right. Okay. Good.” I brushed a finger over the surface of the impeccable dashboard. “So, we have a deal.” I inspected an imaginary dust particle, feeling my anxiety rise with every extra second I spent inside. “There’s a mountain of details we need to discuss.” Namely the fact that he’d need to pretend to be the man I was supposedly dating and not just my wedding date. Or the fact that he’d have to pretend he was in love with me. “But we can focus on you first. When is this social commitment I’m helping you with?”
“Tomorrow. I’ll pick you up at seven p.m.”
My whole body came to a halt. “Tomorrow?”
Aaron shifted in his seat, facing away from me. “Yes. Be ready at seven. Sharp,” he remarked. I was so … out of it that I didn’t even roll my eyes at him when he continued shooting orders, “Evening gown ideally.” His right hand went to the car’s ignition. “Now, go home and rest, Catalina. It’s late, and you look like you could use some sleep.” His left hand fell heavily on the steering wheel. “I’ll tell you everything else tomorrow.”
Somehow, Aaron’s words registered only after I closed the front door to my building behind me. And it was only a few seconds later, right after Aaron’s car roared to life and faded away, that I allowed myself to really process what it meant.
I’d be going on a date tomorrow. A fake date. With Aaron Blackford. And I needed an evening gown.
Chapter Six
Iwas 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 it. It was either this or stuffing my mouth with cookies.
Taking in the state of my apartment, I massaged my temples. Not having walls separating the living room from the bedroom and kitchen areas was something I usually loved. Something I liked to see as an advantage of living in an open studio space—even if limitedly small since this was still Brooklyn. But inspecting the mess I had made of the entire apartment, I sort of hated not living somewhere roomier. Somewhere with walls that would stop me from wrecking the whole place.
There were clothes, shoes, and bags scattered everywhere—on the bed, sofa, chairs, floor, coffee table. Nothing had been spared. The usually tidy apartment that I had so carefully decorated in whites and creams with some boho details here and there—like the beautiful woven rug that had cost me more than I’d ever admit—closer resembled a fashion battlefield than a home.
I wanted to scream.
Tying the belt of my robe tighter, I grabbed my phone from the top of my dresser.
Two hours until seven sharp, and I was helpless. Outfit-less. Because I didn’t have any dress that resembled a gown. Because I was dumb. Because I didn’t know what I was dressing for and I hadn’t asked.
I didn’t even have Aaron’s phone number to text him an SOS and a few hostile emojis to make myself clear. It wasn’t like I had ever found pleasure in fraternizing with the enemy, so I had never needed his number.
Not until now, apparently.
Throwing my phone on top of a discarded pile of garments, I headed for the snug space that was my living room. Grabbing my laptop from the round ecru coffee table I had picked up from a flea market a few weeks ago, I placed the device on my lap and let my body fall onto the sofa.
Once settled in the padded cushions, I logged in to my corporate email account.
It was my last resort. With a little bit of luck, his workaholic ass would be sitting in front of his laptop on a Saturday. And wasn’t this … deal we had made a little like a business transaction? It had to be. We weren’t friends—or friendly—so that didn’t leave room for more than a purely I scratch your back, you scratch mine kind of deal. A favor between colleagues.
With no more time to waste, I opened a new email and started typing.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Urgent Info Needed!
Mr. Blackford,
I was irritated—at myself yes, but also at him—and I wasn’t in a first name basis kind of mood.
As per our last conversation, I’m still waiting for you to disclose the details of our upcoming meeting. I find myself without all sources of information, which will consequently lead to an unsuccessful completion of the contract discussed.
I had watched all seasons of Gossip Girl, and I knew the terrible consequences of wearing the wrong thing to a “social commitment” in New York freaking City.
As no doubt you are aware of, it is of utmost importance that you share all info needed at your earliest convenience.
Please get back to me ASAP.
Warm regards,
Lina Martín
Smirking at myself, I hit Send and watched my email leave my outbox. Then, I stared at my screen for a long minute, waiting for his answer to pop up in my inbox. By the third time I unsuccessfully refreshed my email, the smirk was long gone. By the fifth, little drops of sweat—which were partly due to the fact that I was clad in a winter robe—started forming in the back of my neck.
What if he didn’t answer?
Or even worse, what if all this wasn’t more than a prank? A mean way to mess with my head and make me believe he’d help me. What if he’d Carrie’d me?
No, Aaron wouldn’t do that, a voice in my head said.
But why wouldn’t he though? I had more than enough evidence compiled to prove that Aaron was very much capable of something like that.
Did I even know him at all? He attended “social commitments” that had to do with “good causes”, for crying out loud. I did not know him.
Fuck. I needed those cookies. I’d indulge.
When I returned to my laptop, cookie package in hand and mouthful of sugary and buttery comfort, Aaron’s answer was waiting for me. A tiny sigh of relief left my lips.
Biting on a new cookie, I clicked on Aaron’s email.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Re: Urgent Info Needed!
I’ll be there in an hour.
Best,
Aaron