Читать книгу Hot Latin Docs Collection - Tina Beckett, Amalie Berlin - Страница 14

CHAPTER FOUR

“LOOK, THERE SHE IS.” Santi pointed toward the end of the block where a woman was running down the lawn with a swaddled child in her arms.

Saoirse pulled the vehicle alongside the frantic mother seconds later.

“You do immediate attending, I’ll get the gear ready,” she commanded, before flying out of the cab to open up the back.

“I thought you were the one in training. All experience is good experience.”

“Not today I’m not.” There was an edge to her voice, different from the professional terseness he’d seen the day before. There was definitely a story there. He yanked his stethoscope from around his neck and jumped out of the vehicle. Another time, another place.

“My baby’s not breathing! Please help my little boy!” The mother held the child in her outstretched arms toward Santi. While very pale, the baby boy had streaks of color in his cheeks, so he was clearly getting some oxygen, but even with Saoirse’s high-octane slamming of doors and the growing chatter of onlookers he could hear a rattle in the child’s quick, painful-sounding breaths.

“What’s his name?”

“Carlos—same as his papi. I’m Maria-Rose.”

“That’s a good, strong name for a boy.” Santiago took the child in his arms. Calming the parent was often half the trick in cases like this. “Has Carlos produced any phlegm, Maria-Rose?” he asked, steering the mother toward the ambulance and unwrapping the blanket. Children weren’t his forte, though he’d tended to his fair share of locals on his tours. The humanitarian side of being in the military had always appealed to him far more than treating victims of actual combat. He stopped the memories in midflow, quickly pulling back the child’s blanket and sleep suit. He hoped when he got the child fully unclothed he wouldn’t see a rash. The little boy’s cheek was hot to the touch and he wasn’t crying at all.

She shook her head. “He has been very lethargic, whining more than crying through the night. And then there’s that blue tinge to his tongue. Can you see it?”

He gently opened the boy’s mouth with his fingers and saw there was a blue tinge not only to his tongue but on the inside of his lips as well.

“We’d better get your son some oxygen.” He quickly ran through the child’s medical history with Maria-Rose, immunizations, no problems with the birth to speak of, and onset of symptoms.

“Just the past day or so that I’ve noticed.” She wrung her hands nervously, as if she’d given the wrong answer. Timing was critical with small children. She’d been wise to call for emergency services.

“Only twenty-four hours? Okay. Any trips since he’s been born?” he asked, pressing his stethoscope to the child’s chest only to hear the thick rattle that said one thing: pneumonia.

The mother shook her head.

“Good. What about you? Did you travel at all while you were pregnant?” From what he’d heard, there were lots of problems with women unknowingly affected by the Zika virus. He ran his hand across the child’s scalp—it felt normal size—so nothing to obviously suggest he, too, was a victim of the mosquito-borne affliction.

“Are you kidding?” She threw up her hands. “We’ve been saving all our money to go to Carlos and his education.”

The same as his parents had done. Sacrificed everything so their children could have it all. The closest they’d come to “returning” to their homeland of Heliconia had been Vizcaya on Biscayne Bay. The tropical gardens had always sent his mother into raptures of homesickness.

The weight of the child in his arms realigned his focus.

“Good. Any problems feeding?”

“In here, Santi.” Saoirse waved him to the back of the ambo, climbing up the steps as he approached.

“What do you need?”

Santi’s brain shot from information gathering to action mode. “High-flow oxygen, amoxicillin—”

“Did you check for allergies?” Saoirse’s tone was sharp but not accusatory. Safety first and all that.

“Yes. No allergies that the mother is aware of.” He took the oxygen tube she offered and gently taped it in place on the little boy’s face. “Can you inject the antibiotics into the saline solution please? Until we get cultures at the hospital we won’t know exactly what we’re dealing with but I’m pretty sure it’s pneumonia.”

“Do you see that?” Saoirse’s voice was low.

Santi narrowed his eyes and nodded after a moment. A rash. “Do you have any slides? It could be nothing, but it could just as easily be invasive pneumococcal.”

“Septicemia?” She handed him a slide, nodding at his diagnosis.

“Maybe, or Zika—but I don’t think the Zika rash manifests like this. Have you seen any cases?” Santi pressed the clear slide against the boy’s skin, nodding as Saoirse said she’d heard about it but had never seen a case. “It blanches. That’s a good thing.”

“Doesn’t mean there isn’t septicemia,” she whispered, aware the boy’s mother was straining to hear everything they said.

“True.” He nodded. “Let’s get an IV into this little guy and hit the road.”

“Yup. I’d just like to test his fontanelle before we head off.”

Santi slipped in the IV, aware of how crucial fluids were for a sick child, all the while ratcheting up a few more respect points for Saoirse. Her experience as a NICU nurse clearly put her miles ahead of your average trainee paramedic. Most wouldn’t know their way around pediatric lingo with the comfort level she was displaying. Or exhibit unerring competency in the crucial tests as she was.

Someone, he thought as he watched her finish the examination of the baby’s head while he secured the IV line, has a bit of a history.

* * *

“What do you feel?” Santi asked after a moment’s silence.

“It’s not tense. No swelling. Hopefully, it’s not meningitis.” Saoirse pressed herself up from the bench, hoping her face bore nothing more than a picture of professional efficiency. “Right, Maria-Rose. Do you want to jump in and we’ll get your little man to Seaside Hospital for some tests, okay?”

As she slammed the doors shut, she saw Santi as the rest of the world might see him. Gorgeous, yes. But there was something deeper than that. A skilled paramedic, body taut with focus, driven to do the best he could for the small child laid out on the gurney.

He cared.

Santi was in this all the way, no showboating. And that was something she could relate to. What you saw was what you got. For the most part, anyway.

She pulled open the driver’s door and flicked on the sirens with a grin. Maybe her new partner wouldn’t be so bad after all.

* * *

“Here you are, Murph. One I-survived-a-week-with-Santi Café Cubano.”

Saoirse eyed the small cup warily. “This isn’t going to keep me up all night, is it?”

Santi’s lips shifted into a mischievous grin with a quick lift of his dark eyebrows. “Por qué? Does Mamacita Murphy have a hot date tonight?”

“Quit doing that!”

“What?”

“That whole...” she opened her hand and “washed” it around his face “...Latin Lothario thingy.”

“You don’t like my sexy, sexy talk?” He cranked it up another few notches.

Yes.

“Doesn’t work on me.”

Liar, liar pants on fire.

She avoided catching his eye just to be safe.

“But it has on someone else...” Santi poked her in the arm. “Who’s the lucky guy tonight, Murph?”

Why was he so interested in who she was dating anyhow? Wasn’t quizzing her all day on her emergency medicine knowledge enough Q & A?

She smirked in lieu of swooning, then pursed her lips together and blew a raspberry. “That’s me. A regular ol’ dating machine.”

She continued to give her tiny cup of coffee the evil eye. There had been so much change in her life over the last year. Becoming single. Realizing she was never going to have children. Hopping on a plane with a student visa instead of the fiancée visa, which had expired...about six months ago now. Urgh!

The switch from hot, milky tea to coffee had been hard enough. She’d have to call her mum and have her send some proper tea bags over.

A chill of realization hit her. Even if the tea arrived in a week, she would be gone in a couple of months. April Fools’ Day. The irony! Deported back to Ireland unless, by some divine intervention, she found a man bonkers enough to marry her.

“It’s not going to bite you.”

“What is it again?” She held the small cup up at eye level then gave it a dubious sniff.

“A Café Cubano. It’s the closest thing to heaven after a hard day and, orale—you were on it today, mija!” Santi did that whizzy snap thing with his fingers again and crowed. She nodded, feigning accepting a loud roar of applause from a stadium full of fans. As if.

“Teamwork, Valentino. It all boils down to teamwork.”

And she meant it. They’d only had a week together in the ambulance but already they had a partner shorthand going on that made working together a genuine pleasure. Even if she sometimes had to squint at him and turn his gorgeousness into a blur of caramel features. Santiago Valentino would be far too easy to fall for. And love? That little nugget of complications was well and truly off the table.

“Here.” He handed her an open bottle of water. “Take a swig of this to cleanse your palate and then drink the cafecito.”

“My, my,” Saoirse play-crooned, happy to yank her thoughts away from the thunderstorm brewing in her head. “Isn’t someone Mr. Exotico?”

“That’s rich, coming from the leprechaunette of Miami Beach.”

“Whatever.” Saorise leaned back against the slatted bench and narrowed her eyes. Santi’s good looks screamed exotic, but his accent, when he spoke English, was as American as they came. When he spoke Spanish with non-English-speaking patients and turned on the Latino thing? Mmm-hmm... Hard to shake off just how sexy he was. That beautifully sensual mouth, inky-black hair and a body that would’ve been more than worth watching if he was dancing la vida loca.

Good thing they were just colleagues.

She looked at him again then looked away.

Pah-ha-ha! Try telling that to the judge.

Tentatively, she stepped back into the muddy waters of family history, “Your parents were from...?”

“Heliconia. It’s a little island nation out...” He pointed away from the hospital toward the sea, his sentence tapering off as his hand fell back into his lap.

“And they brought you over with them when you were little?” Saoirse pressed gently.

“Before we were born,” he answered, the life all but draining from his eyes.

“You and your brothers?” She stated the obvious, already preparing her “Oops, I shouldn’t have said that” face, only to receive a quick no-eye-contact nod in return before he downed his coffee in one swift go. He hadn’t said a word about them the entire week and it looked like that would be the status quo.

“Right!” He flicked the paper cup into the garbage can with an ease that told her this wasn’t his first Café Cubana rodeo. “I think we’ve heard enough about me to last a lifetime. Why don’t we go into the hospital, see if we can rustle up a transfer or something? Maybe over to Buena Vista. The private hospitals always have much better cantinas.”

“Sounds good to me.” Saoirse knew when to stop digging. She had her own full-to-bursting cupboard of secrets so there was no point in poking around someone else’s. She slurped down her coffee in the same quick style as Santi, only to have her body reel from the effects. “For the love of Peter, Paul and Mary!”

Santi wasn’t the only strong, dark thing in town.

“What are you trying to do to me?” She glared at him while stuffing the paper cup into the garbage can. “Put hairs on my chest or something?”

Santi threw back his head and laughed. A rich, warm laugh that never failed to make her smile. Unexpectedly he reached out and ran a finger along her jawline, tipping her chin up to meet his gaze.

“Dulzera, believe me...” Despite the bright midday sunshine, Santi’s voice went all tropical-nights sultry on her, sending little shivers down her spine as their eyes connected. “There isn’t a single thing I would change about you.”

His words set her insides jigging about as if she’d just won the lottery. The last thing she’d felt since her fiancé had left her at the altar had been feminine, but the surge of I-am-woman Santi’s touch unleashed? Far too easy to let rip and roar.

And then he winked, the warm light burning bright in his eyes, giving Saoirse another unexpected shot of pleasure. Unwitting or not, she liked being the one who’d turned that frown of his into a smile. It was one worth waiting for. If she didn’t watch it... She pulled back and broke eye contact, tugging her fingers through the short pixie cut she was still getting used to as she did...

She’d just have to watch it.

“C’mon, slowpoke. Let’s go get that transfer.”

* * *

“High five!”

“What for?” Saoirse asked, pulling a fresh sheet onto the gurney for the next crew.

“One amazing nightclubber save—” Santi counted them off on his fingers “—even though you had to go down into the drain ditch and you stink to high heaven.” He pinched his nose then returned to his counting. “Two beach rescues, a broken arm splinted expertly by myself, of course, three hospital transfers and a head wound from a machete beautifully sutured by your good self. That’s what I call a good day with ALSA!”

Santi gave the inside of the ambulance door a final squirt of disinfectant and swipe of a blue paper towel before standing back to admire their handiwork.

“Who’s Alsa?” Saoirse climbed out of the back of the cab, having finished her restock, and joined him in the ambulance appreciation stance. Crossed arms, legs slightly apart, hips pushed slightly forward to allow for a bit of backward-leaning and head-nodding.

“Number 23, ding-a-ling! Haven’t you learned anything from your wise mentor? Advanced Life Support Ambulance.” He gave her a joshing elbow in the ribs. “That’s what they’re called, Little Miss Shamrock.”

“Ah, stick a four-leaf clover in it, would you? Joe was old school—he used all his big-boy words. No ALSA this or EMT that,” she gibed, obviously covering for the fact she’d been driving Ambulance 23 for two and a half months now and didn’t know the acronym. She quickly pointed a wagging index finger at him. “And the four-leaf clover thing, by the way, is not something all Irish people say. It’s a special saying for the likes of lippy Latinos who look a lot like you.”

* * *

Saoirse swatted his arm kid-sister-style, her hand bouncing off a biceps Santi managed to flex just in the nick of time.

He grinned as she feigned breaking her hand. So she made him want to show off a little. So what? Saoirse had never shown a flicker of interest in him and it kept things...workable.

“There are so many acronyms to learn in this fair nation of yours. I’ll never get my head round them. Not that—” She cut herself short, the quick flick of her eyes making it clear Santi was the last person she was going to use as a confessor.

“Not that you call them the same thing in Ireland?” He dodged the conversational bullet for her.

“Beats me.” She widened her bright blue eyes. “I just called them ambulances. I wasn’t on them at ho—in Ireland,” she corrected herself.

Interesting. Times two.

“I’m guessing you didn’t learn to be such a hotshot paramedic overnight.” A compliment never hurt when extracting information. “Did you say it was Pediatrics you were in?”

He knew damn well it wasn’t, but she’d heard his story...time for a bit of quid pro quo and all that.

“NICU,” she bit out, grabbing the roll of paper towel from him, before executing a brisk about-face and marching off to the supplies room.

Santi watched her trim, jumpsuit-clad figure stomp off, heard a couple of locker doors slam once she’d disappeared around the corner and, if he wasn’t mistaken, some grouchy muttering.

It appeared he wasn’t the only one with sore spots. Then again, who didn’t hit their thirties without a bit of baggage? He’d wrestled her age out of her earlier in the day when she’d complained about having to show ID every time she wanted a drink. A baby-faced thirty to his more “seasoned” thirty-three.

He huffed out a sigh. The last few years had most definitely added to the steamer trunks of issues he’d been filing away since the ripe age of thirteen. Not as early as some, but losing your parents and nearly losing one of your brothers when all the kids around you were worried about acne and homework was tough.

Working extensively in war zones gave stark reminders that bad things happened everywhere. He understood now that his family hadn’t been singled out. They hadn’t been targeted for having too much, being too happy or living the American dream. They had just been the hapless victims of a gang initiation meant to be carried out in a different bodega. So-called “friendly fire.” It had been sheer devastation at the time. Still was on some days. But it could have happened to anyone.

Even so, he didn’t like seeing Saoirse the sad side of heated up. She suited firecracker to a T...but he felt certain something in her was more bereaved than belligerent.

“Hey,” he called out when she reappeared. “You up for a margarita at Ron’s?”

She considered him for a moment, visibly trying to detect if there was an agenda attached to the invitation, her lips curling in and out of her mouth in a move he was fairly certain wasn’t designed to turn him on, but did. He shifted. Maybe the whole work buddies just having a drink thing was a bit precipitous.

“Yeah. Why not?” she answered, just as he was about to withdraw the invitation. “I just need to pop in and see Amanda for a minute.” She tipped her head toward the main hospital building, hands gingerly holding her backpack as if it were made of glass.

“Sure.” He easily matched the quick pace she was setting, having the advantage of longer legs. “I’ll come with you and we can shoot off from there. You cool with riding on the back of a bike? I have a spare helmet.”

“The old-fashioned number?” A glint of delight lit up her features. “Only if you promise to take the long way round.”

He nodded with a happy smile. A lot of Miami girls wouldn’t dare jump on for fear of messing up their hair.

“For you, mija? That is an easy enough promise to make.” He held the palm of his hand out for a down-low high-five and when she met it his fingers folded around hers. And for just a few seconds—if someone had been looking—they would have seemed like an ordinary couple holding hands. What he wouldn’t give for a slice of ordinary right now. Or normal, whatever that was. Something that didn’t feel like suffocating in the place he should’ve felt most at home.

He glanced to his right.

Maybe this was just what he’d needed when he’d decided to leave the military and face his past. Even if just for a few micromoments, when he was holding hands with Saoirse, he felt...free. Unencumbered by the past that made coming home so painful. An Everest of issues. That was what he was facing. And if Saoirse’s presence in his life was that all-important oxygen tank? He could start to breathe just that little bit more easily.

* * *

Saoirse tugged her hand out of Santi’s as nonchalantly as a girl who was having a panic attack could.

As long as conversations were about medicine, motorbikes or her upcoming track sessions she was cool. But being touched by Santiago and feeling amazing when it happened? She couldn’t go there.

Pals, buddies, workmates? Good.

Tingly, giggly, girlie feelings? Bad.

Muy bad, as Santi would say. Not that she’d started stealing his go-to phrases or anything.

Maybe just accepting the fact her visa was going to run out soon would be the best option. It might not be pretty, but she didn’t have to live a double life back in Ireland. Everyone knew she wasn’t marrying Tom or going to have children—so no awkward conversations there. Virtually the entire village she’d grown up in had borne witness to her standing on her lonesome at the altar...just a few minutes after they’d all gasped with pleasure when she’d appeared at the doorway of the church in all her bridal glory. So...if she buckled and went back, she could comfortably look forward to a lifetime of people talking behind their hands and a wealth of pitying looks being shot her way as she pootled toward an eternity of spinsterhood.

Gah!

Alternatively...

There were nunneries liberally dappled across Ireland, all of them as keen as anything for nurses to show up and care for their aging populations... She scrunched her eyes shut for a second, trying to picture herself in a wimple.

Not too bad.

“What was that?” Santi was looking at her curiously.

Uh-oh. Out-loud voice strikes again.

“I was just agreeing. Belatedly. About the day. Not bad.”

Excellent cover, you ol’ smooth operator, you! She shot through the sliding glass doors of the ER, grateful for the blast of air-con on her flushed skin. “You can just stay here while I go find—”

“Ah! There you are.” Amanda was by her side and reaching for her backpack before Saoirse had a chance to register the fact her friend was all sun-dressed up, bikini strings snaking around from the back of her neck. “It’s hot out. Want to come for a swim before James has a look at this?”

“Ah, well...”

Amanda was quicker than Saoirse at picking up the situation. “Sorry, my bad. James said he wanted a swim à deux today. The joys of married life!” She wriggled her wedding band hand in front of the pair of them then tipped her index finger down toward Saoirse’s backpack. “This got everything in it?”

“Yes.” Saoirse nodded, suddenly very aware her entire life was in the green backpack and that Santiago was bearing witness to the handover. Her fingers tightened around the top of it as if all of her lacy panties were going to come flying out if her grip wasn’t secure enough.

Santi laughed. “Good grief, Murphy. You look like you’re about to hand over state secrets.”

Saoirse tried to wipe the panic-stricken expression off her face as Amanda jumped in, her face wreathed in smiles. “Close enough, Santiago! The truth is, we need someone to marry our little Irish Rose here or else she’s going to get shipped back outta Dodge in a few short months. As you’ve probably figured out, she’s here on a student trainee visa and once the course is up...?”

She made a get-outta-Dodge signal with her thumb. “Back to Ireland. My husband is an immigration lawyer. He’s going to check over all of her paperwork to make sure there isn’t something else we can do, maybe extend the student thing, but our girl’s a bit too bright for her own good and the clock is ticking. Since the last thing in the world she can do is go back to Ireland, we’ve got to find her a path to a green card. And fast. Like...” she paused for effect “...a quickie marriage, for example.”

“Are you out of your mind?” Saoirse’s jaw hung open in disbelief. A puff of air-con could’ve knocked her over.

“This Murphy?” Santi asked, finger pointing at Saoirse, eyes trained on Amanda, who had mysteriously become the source of all wisdom. “What’s she done that she can’t go home? Committed a felony or something?”

“No. But her ex-fiancé near enough did.”

Saoirse’s eyes swung from one face to the other, each chatting about the darkest moment in her life as if it were a daytime soap.

“What did he do?” He gave Saoirse’s shoulder a little pat, the kindly sort a person would give to a toddler whose ice cream had just plopped onto a hot sidewalk after they’d had their first satisfying lick of salted caramel. Or something like that.

She gave him a hooded look and muttered, “I don’t really think that’s any of your business.” Not that she was being offered even the slightest bit of participation in this conversation.

“He abandoned our beautiful, blushing bride here. At the altar,” Amanda added with award-winning dramatics.

“Oh, for the love of—”

“Uh-uh, honey. Not done yet.” Amanda gave her the conciliatory pat on the shoulder this time. “In my book? What he did to Murph is totally a jail-able offense, but...” She made a little lock-up-and-throw-away-the-key gesture in front of her smiling lips. “That’s not my business to tell.”

“I repeat, have you gone absolutely stark raving mad?” Saoirse’s cheeks were flaming hot. This was feeling every bit as mortifying as the moment her ex had looked at her when given his “I do” cue, looked at the congregation, the priest, back to her...and had then legged it straight out of the church as if she’d been on the verge of giving him the plague.

It wasn’t as if she’d turned green and sprouted a beard. She simply couldn’t give him children.

He’d said it wasn’t a deal breaker when they’d both been blindsided by the news a month earlier. A big enough deal to throw her to the gossip wolves of Kincarney village was more like it.

She swallowed. Hard. She was not—no way, no how—not going to cry in front of Santi.

“How long have you got?” Santiago asked, his attention now fully on her.

“Why? What’s it got to do with you?” Saoirse only just stopped herself from physically recoiling at his let’s-get-serious expression.

“Well, I was going to offer...” He shrugged then turned to Amanda. “But seeing as the idea seems utterly repugnant to Murphy here—”

What?

“I guess I won’t bother.”

Wait a minute! Her mind fuzzed with too much to process.

What?

A little no-no-no whimper came out of her before she could stop it. Sure, she wanted to stay in Miami more than anything, but not with...with...Mr. Perfect!

“Oh, don’t listen to Murphy. We accept!” Amanda jumped in, charming as a stewardess getting everyone to buckle up on a bumpy flight. “She’s a bit...” Amanda turned, crooking her arms through Santi’s and her own as she steered them all out into the early evening warmth and chose her words carefully. “Murphy’s a bit...shy...of relationships right now.”

“Suits me,” Santi riposted, seemingly unaffected by the scowl growing on Saoirse’s face. “I have no plans to get married myself so I might as well earn some brownie points with the best partner I’ve ever had on an ambulance.”

“I’m the only partner you’ve ever had on an ambulance,” Saoirse shot back, wondering how he could be so...cavalier about all of this.

Santiago Valentino was a still-waters-running-deep kind of guy. That was easy enough to divine amid his wisecracking, lighthearted approach to things. Something didn’t feel right about this. And she wasn’t going to be hoodwinked into agreeing to it. Not for one second.

Blanking her completely, Amanda continued, “And for the record, because I don’t want to see my dear friend Sohr-shuh—”

“It’s Murphy!”

“As I was saying before I was so rudely interrupted, I won’t have my dear friend Sear-shuh hurt again. This has to be strictly business. So, Santiago...why exactly do you think a quickie marriage with no emotional ties whatsoever is for you?” Amanda was clearly relishing the role of Chief Marital Prospects Interviewer.

Saoirse was almost relieved to see the smile disappear from Santi’s lips. Finally! A bit of reality was sinking in. Sure, she needed a visa, but not with someone so...so fall-in-love-with-able. If she’d thought her first almost marriage had been doomed, this one had lightning strikes and heavy clouds gathering around it from the get-go.

“Let’s just say...” Santi began carefully, then abruptly turned his considered expression back to nonchalant. “Like I said, it’s always good to earn some brownie points with the boss lady.”

She’d seen that shift in Santiago before. The one where he was all frowny and serious one minute and then transformed into Santi the Fun-Loving Clown the next.

It was the fake-it-till-you-believe-it-yourself sort of mask she’d worn often enough to spot another’s a mile off.

Agreeing to this harebrained scheme was big. Of the megatropolis variety of big.

“Right.” Saoirse jabbed a finger in his chest. “You. Me. Mad Ron’s. Now.”

“The little lady has spoken!” Amanda trilled, waving them off as if they were heading to their honeymoon.

“Where’s your motorcycle?” Saoirse glowered.

“Just over there, across from the ambulance bay.”

“Good. Can there just...?” She waved her hand between them, doing her best to swallow down the swell of nausea threatening to bloom. “Just no talking on the way there.”

* * *

“Here, put this on.” Santi shrugged off his leather jacket and held it out for Saoirse to put on. He couldn’t tell how much responsibility he bore for the murderous expression working its way malevolently across her features.

“Uh-uh. You keep it. I don’t need your help. Leather or otherwise.”

A fair bit, then.

“You’ve got goose bumps all over your arms.”

“They’re goose pimples where I come from,” she retorted.

“Well, unless you want to go back to where you come from, I suggest you put this on and we go talk about your friend’s proposal. Or—more accurately—my proposal.”

Okay. That was a sentence he’d never thought he’d hear himself say.

He gave the coat a pointed shake directly in Saoirse’s eye line, lifting a finger from the black leather to make the spinning-around gesture so he could slip it on her. Something a husband would do.

Dios.

He was sliding into the fictional husband slippers a bit too easily. Cinderella, on the other hand, wasn’t interested in increasing her shoe count.

The lines between real and fake were going to be blurry. In the eyes of the world? He’d be a real husband for a real woman. A woman glaring at him for acting chivalrous.

Mars and Venus popped into mind. Saoirse on a half shell...

“I’m not helpless, you know.” His unbetrothed yanked the coat out of his hands and stuffed her arms into the sleeves.

“So you keep saying.”

Saoirse’s temper at the prospect of marrying him was rapidly unearthing something deep inside him. Something organically at odds with what he knew to be true.

He wasn’t reliable.

He wasn’t someone who was there when it counted.

And yet with each passing moment he wanted to do this.

A chance to prove he had staying power that wasn’t entirely selfish? Hell, yeah!

He felt his shoulders sink...just a fraction.

Force himself to prove he had staying power was more like it.

The veneer of elation he’d felt at volunteering suffered a fault line.

Making a commitment like this would be...a commitment. One he couldn’t break.

He watched as Saoirse shrugged into the oversize leather jacket, becoming aware, as he did, how good it made him feel to—in just this little gesture of keeping her safe and warm—be looking after her.

¡Dale! It would feel good to be believed in again.

Field medics were under such pressure to do the best they could by the men they fought alongside, and the more he’d lost... It was tough to keep the whole thing at arm’s length. There were only so many jokes a man could pull when he’s living in hell every day.

Basta.

It was why he was here. Why he’d come back after the stream of coffins he’d been forced to send home had become too much.

He’d learned early on how quickly a life could just...disappear.

Not more than a few feet away from him, his own mother’s life had been snuffed out right in front of his thirteen-year-old eyes. Life was short and he’d be damned if he was going to his own grave without his brothers knowing the millstone of remorse he’d dragged around the globe. He’d become good at pretending it wasn’t eating him alive. Too good.

Marrying Saoirse would cement him to the ground long enough to make good with his brothers and—Lord willing—give his bride a bit more sunshine in those glowering eyes of hers.

He reached out to tug up the zip on the jacket, only to have his hands slapped away.

“I’ve got it!”

“Fine.” He unhooked the spare helmet from his bike seat. “Here.” He put the helmet on her head, elbowing away her hands when she tried to attach the straps herself. “I always check the straps.” He snapped the clasps together, eyes glued to hers, before giving the straps a quick tug to make sure they were secure. The more she scowled, the more he could feel his lips peeling into a broad grin. This marriage arrangement didn’t have to be all work and no play.

“Are we ready yet?” Saoirse tapped her foot impatiently.

“Not just yet.” He considered her for a moment.

Leisurely.

Tropical blue eyes crackling with frustration. Body taut with tension, appearing almost fragile in the oversize bulk of his leather jacket. Little wisps of blonde hair softening the edges of the black half helmet. Instinct overrode intellect as he cupped her chin in his hand and dropped a soft peck on her lips.

Just as he’d thought. Salty and sweet.

“Now you’re ready,” he told her, lips brushing against hers as he spoke.

Without waiting to gauge her response, he swung a leg over his bike and revved it up, certain the beefy roar of the engine was drowning out a colorful response.

* * *

There might have been no talking, but Saoirse’s body language was speaking louder than any voice could have as Santi casually wove along the seafront on the way to Mad Ron’s Cantina. He grinned when he felt Saoirse’s fingers hook onto his belt buckle in an attempt not to wrap her arms around his waist. The first corner he hit, he took the bike at a low angle, hoping instinct would take over and she’d wrap her arms around his waist.

Nope.

She threw her hands behind her and was holding onto the rack he strapped his gear to.

Pity.

This was, hands down, the strangest wooing he’d ever done.

Not that he’d had a lot of active duty in the Romeo department. A life in the military made hooking up relatively easy and shipping out even easier. No promises. No hard feelings.

He resisted reaching back to give Saoirse’s leg a reassuring rub, revving the bike up a gear instead. She’d said she liked fast things.

Or was it that she liked things fast? This...whatever it was with Saoirse was invading his barred-to-all-visitors emotional zone at high speed. Not that he was planning on giving the woman a life of wedded bliss, it was just a good deed thing, but...

He swore under his breath. It was a chance, wasn’t it? A chance to prove to someone he could be there when it counted.

Santi took the long route as per Saoirse’s earlier request, fairly certain, given the change of events, she would’ve preferred the express train to a margarita.

With the wind on his face, the remains of the sun on his arms and a smile on his lips, the idea of marrying Saoirse continued to grow on him. Big time. It was win-win all around. Particularly if they could get back to the playful banter they shared at work.

And no more lonely nights. It would be nice to have someone to joke with over fish tacos at dinner... Big brother, little sister with—okay—a bit of frisson thrown in. But he could check his libido at the altar.

She wanted to stay and couldn’t. He needed to stay and prove to himself he could do right by someone. Preferably his brothers, but he might as well start on more neutral territory. Neutral-ish, anyhow.

Saoirse’s chin rammed into Santi’s back when he hit the brakes a bit too quickly at a stop sign...accidentally on purpose. She jabbed him in the ribs in retaliation.

He smiled.

At least they had the bickering couple thing down to a fine art.