Boyfriend From Hell (Falling Angels Saga) by E. Van Lowe Page B

open.
     
     

Chapter Thirteen
     
     
    “Oh, good,” I said. My heart was in my mouth. No, my heart had leapt out of my mouth and was racing around looking for someplace to hide. Unlike me, who was standing there like an idiot!
    How am I ever going to explain this?
    The door opened wide. Armando—our Armando—was standing in the doorway.
    I’m toast!
    “Um, uhh…”
    “Please, can I get a hand here?” His back was to us. He was balancing a large painting that teetered between him and the top step.
    “You’re a Girl Scout. You help. I must see to dinner.” And before I could respond, the old woman quickly ambled off to the kitchen.
    “But…”
    “Hello?” Armando’s voice rang out. He was standing, his back still to me, balancing the painting on the top step.
    What to do? What to do?
    I weighed my options:
    A) I could run out the door right past him.
    B) I could hide somewhere in the house until later.
    C) I could cry (which I was probably going to do anyway).
    Or D) I could help him with the picture.
    I tackled the problem like a fine mathematician. If I ran right past him, since I’m not yet invisible, there’s a good chance he’d see me. If I hid in the house, eventually I’d have to leave, and since I’m not yet invisible, there’s a good chance he’d see me. If I cried, he’d look up to see what was going on, and since I’m not yet invisible, he’d
definitely
see me.
    So, I decided to help. I know, there’s an even better chance he’d see me since I’d be standing right next to him. Yet despite the obvious reasons against it, I chose ‘D’.  What can I say? In math I’m a whiz, but at espionage, I’m an idiot.
    “Señora Marisol! Do you hear me?” Armando’s voice commanded.
    “Yes,” I said. Why I said it in a bad imitation of a computer voice, I have no idea.
    I stepped through the doorway and around him, moving to the far side of the super-sized picture, where I stooped. From here he couldn’t see my face.
But for how long?
    “Who are you? Where is Señora Marisol?”
    “Granddaughter,” I said, continuing with the computer voice.
    “Oh? Okay. Easy, granddaughter. This painting is most precious.”
    “No problem.”
    With outstretched arms, I grasped the frame. The large picture was between us as we began maneuvering it through the doorway.
    “You are from out of town?” He tried gazing over the painting to get a glimpse of me.  I lowered my head.
    “Si.”
Okay, so now I’m doing the computer voice in Spanish. I know five words of Spanish and I’d just used one up.
    “Where are you from?”
    Good question. But since I couldn’t come up with a reasonable answer, I replied: “Heavy.”
    “Oh, yes, of course. We can chat after we put this down.”
    I could imagine the conversation.
    “Megan, what are you doing here?”
    “Oh, I just happened to see this lady on the street and thought I’d follow her home. Who knew she worked for you?”
    But if she was working for Armando that meant he lived here. And while the place was nice enough, it wasn’t Armando, not the Armando we knew. A new thought occurred to me out of the blue.
Armando is leading a double life.
    We maneuvered the painting through the doorway. The dog was suddenly in a barking frenzy.
    “Quiet, Robin.” The dog immediately quieted.
    “Good dog,” I said.
    “Very.” We moved down the hall and into a tiny study. “I can take it from here. Thank you.”
    I eased myself from behind the large picture, my head lowered as he placed it against the wall. And while his back was still to me, I did the first sensible thing I’d done all afternoon. I ran.
    The dog was barking again.
    #
    “Where have you been, young lady?”
    My mother had gotten home from work early and was scowling at me when I walked in.
    The jig was up. Armando had known it was me all along and called to tell her. How was I ever going to explain it?
    “But, Mom, this old woman was staring at you at the art gallery, and I just had to