Читать книгу Hot Latin Docs Collection - Tina Beckett, Amalie Berlin - Страница 16

CHAPTER SIX

“SO,” AMANDA STARTED, all casual like, as if the tension in the air wasn’t already almost palpable, “have you cleared out a couple of drawers?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?” She jumped up from the sofa. “Santiago’s moving in. Today.”

“It’s all a bit fast, don’t you think?” Turned out having a few nights on her own to think about things had been long enough to reopen the worrywart drawer Saoirse had thought she’d nailed shut. Tense didn’t even begin to cover how she was feeling.

“Cutting things to the wire is more like it.” Amanda pressed her lips together as if it would help make her point. Saoirse was between a rock and a hard place and needed to quit trying to find an escape route.

“I know but don’t you think...?” It’s a bit too real. “Do you think he’ll have his own furniture?”

“Oh, come on! The guy’s a nomad. It’ll be the contents of his motorcycle panniers and nothing else.” Amanda held up her hand as a visual tick list. “He lives in a serviced apartment. He’s been overseas for, like, a decade or something with the Marines. He probably didn’t even have a tent he’s so hard-core. I bet he wove himself a fresh duvet out of swamp reeds every night, taking shelter in the crook of a solitary oak tree.” Her eyes took on a faraway look that didn’t look altogether faithful to her own husband.

“I hope you’re not daydreaming about my future husband,” Saoirse half joked. “And I don’t think there’s an abundance of oak trees in Afghanistan.” Amanda’s eyes widened with amusement.

“I’m just messing with you, Saoirse. No need to get testy.”

“I’m not getting testy,” Saoirse replied...testily. “It’s just—it’s going to be a busy day.”

“Yes, honey. You keep on telling yourself that, but I think someone’s got a crush on her arranged-marriage husband!” Amanda’s grin was so self-satisfied there’d be no wiping that thing off her face. Saoirse glared. It was all she had left in her armory of rebuttals.

“Point being, Murph, he doesn’t have squat. He needs you as much as you need him.”

“I think I’m going to have to disagree with you there, Amanda.” Saoirse tried to put on her own comedy voice, but felt the truth of her statement weight her feet to the floor. Santi didn’t need to marry her. At all. She was the only beggar in this scenario.

“Oh, come on! Look at all of the pluses. You two meet on the job, then at Mad Ron’s where I bet you any amount of money he was hoping to find you. The two of you hit it off right away and now—ta-da! We’ve got a groom! We’ve got a plan! I just need to book a date down at the courthouse as soon as you fill out the paperwork, which...” she pushed a piece of paper across the coffee table “...I have generously printed out for you here. And I think I’ll put in an order for those coconut cupcakes you like so much. Want to have a bridal shower?”

Saoirse scowled.

“Okay—maybe not. But c’mon, Murph,” her friend lovingly wheedled. “Planning your Big Fat Fake Wedding is going to be wicked awesome!” Amanda could barely contain her excitement.

“Who says that sort of thing? ‘Wicked awesome’?” Saoirse grinned, despite herself. The antiwedding wedding. It could work.

She put the paper on the breakfast bar and started hacking at some avocados to make her version of guacamole. Even though the situation was all a bit mad, Santi’s rescue mission had relieved a massive load of tension.

“People from Boston,” Amanda riposted, then immediately tried to stuff the words back into her mouth. “Sorry, sorry. I know I shouldn’t mention Boston.” She handed Saoirse a lime. “Here, squeeze some of that in. Keeps it from going brown.”

“Thanks. And don’t worry about the Boston thing. You can’t help where you’re from.” Saoirse mashed the avocados a bit more aggressively than was strictly necessary. “I probably shouldn’t hate a city forever just because it has one devious ex lurking around its thoroughfares.”

“And you know for sure he’s there?” Amanda started fastidiously folding paper napkins as if they were preparing to host the First Lady and not just four people for an alfresco lunch.

“I know he finished at the academy so I guess he’s busy laying down the law in Boston by now.”

Amanda arced a curious eyebrow.

“My parents. They keep me up to date with the news in jolly little emails designed, I am quite sure, to have life go back to normal, i.e., the good ol’ days of Saoirse and Tom.”

“They’re still rooting for him after what he did?”

“They...” Saoirse pushed the bowl of smashed avocado away and began chopping tomatoes into itsy-bitsy cubes. “They want their little girl back.”

“But I thought you and Tom were going to live in America.”

“Yeah, sure, but—I don’t know. I suppose they played along but were convinced once we had children we’d come back. And now they’re not so sure anymore.” She gave Amanda a quick glance before returning to work. “I’m not the Saoirse I was nine months ago, am I? I mean, if you’d told me then I was going to have short, sun-bleached hair, would be driving an ambulance and going to racing school, not to mention marrying a superhot doctor I’ll have to pretend I haven’t pictured naked just to stay in Miami, I would have told you that you were stark raving—”

“You’ve pictured me naked?”

Santi appeared in the open French doors that led to her tiny backyard, holding a barbecue in his hands. It made his biceps stand out that perfect amount of sexy.

It was far too easy to picture Santi naked. Or wrapped only in a towel, little droplets of shower water still clinging to his—

She clenched the edge of the counter to disguise her knee-wobble.

“Yeah, right, hombre! In your dreams.”

Even blind people would have the hots for Santi. His scent was every bit as scrumptious as his aesthetics.

“Where do you want this thing?” Santi’s satisfied grin proved he knew she was telling porky-pies.

“Wherever there’s space. It’s not as if I’ve got acres of land to choose from.”

“Better than the two-by-four balcony off my sad excuse of an apartment.”

“The place you’re giving up, right?” Amanda chimed in, reminding them both they had agreed to live in Saoirse’s not-very-large bungalow by the sea.

“Yes, ma’am.” Santi returned to the French doors, gave Amanda a salute then leaned against the door frame, the sun outlining him as if he was heaven sent. His eyes scanned Saoirse’s sparsely decorated bungalow. She hadn’t really bothered nesting in the few months she’d lived here. Too much of a risk given the circumstances. She chose to call the minimalist look beach chic.

“Nice zebra rug.” The look he threw her was a bit more Tarzan than she could bear. It was far too easy to imagine whipping up a dress out of the faux hide and swinging through the jungle to some treetop love nest.

“It’s fake.” Saoirse looked away. Just like their marriage would be.

“As discussed,” Santi continued, oblivious to her all-too-real ogling, “I’m happy to move in tonight if you like.”

“Sounds good.” Amanda answered for her, then noticed her friend’s fastidious muteness. “Right, Murph?”

“Yes, fine. Sure. Whatever’s convenient.” Chop, chop, chop.

“Wow!” Santi said drily, slipping one of her breakfast bar stools between his legs without so much as a toe-rise. “Don’t get excited or anything, mi amor.”

Saoirse tore her eyes away from him and reduced the tomato pieces to pulp.

Tall, sexy, straddled motorcycles and bar stools like a seasoned cowboy... The man was ticking so many boxes it was unreal! Not for the first time she wished she could meet his parents. See who had crafted this living statue of perfection. But, she reminded herself as she accidentally sliced into her finger with a yelp, if she could meet his parents Santi most likely wouldn’t be all messed up and willing to marry her. Only a man with issues up the wazoo would be playing along with this nutty plan.

“Hey.” Santi reached across and pulled her finger out of her mouth. “Let me have a look at that.”

“Aw...” Amanda sighed. “Look at the two of you, all lovey-dovey.”

“Hardly.” Saoirse tugged her hand out of Santi’s. “It’s a microscopic cut. I think I’ll survive.”

“You tink so, do ya?”

“Don’t mock my accent, I won’t mock yours.”

“I am not the one with the accent, missy. Just remember who’s got the US passport in this scenario.”

Santi received a glowering look in return.

“Thanks for the reminder.”

“Make sure you wash that finger thoroughly,” Santi cautioned, completely unrepentant. “And put a bandage on it. Plaster. Whatever you call them.”

“For heaven’s sake, you’d think I was lyin’ on the floor, bleedin’ to death, the way you’re carrying on.”

“What? I’m not allowed to care if my beloved fiancée has been injured?”

“Not with a Cheshire-cat grin the size of the Atlantic Ocean on your face, no!”

“I think I’ll just run out to the store and grab some more lemonade before James arrives,” Amanda said none too subtly, not that Saoirse or Santi showed any signs of breaking away from their standoff to bid her a fond farewell.

When the door clicked shut, Santi relaxed his pose, patting the stool beside him. “C’mere. I want to talk to you.”

“Can’t. I’m busy.” Saoirse made a quick show of chopping things.

“Murph!” Santi growled. “Take a pew! Now.”

Saoirse let the knife clatter to the counter, grabbed a paper towel to wrap around her bleeding finger and stomped over to the breakfast bar stool. It was suddenly annoying that she had to clamber onto the thing, unlike Santi’s smooth move. Her height was not to her advantage.

“Right, then. What’s got the hornets’ nest all stirred up today? I thought we’d agreed to do this thing.”

Saoirse bridled. Was the man bereft of human emotions? Who just agreed willy-nilly to marry a virtual stranger? No strings. No nooky. No running a finger along the outline of the mouth she could hardly stop staring at.

“We did agree,” she finally conceded. “And I’m grateful to you and everything, but...” What if I fall in love with you? I can’t do unrequited love. I can’t do love.

“Are you worried about me staying here with you? Cramping your style?”

“No,” she answered, too quickly.

“From what I understand, it’s important we make a show of having built a life together before we tie the knot, and what did you say we have—about two or three months?”

She nodded, her insides all but shriveling up with mortification.

“So...couples fall in love at first sight all the time. Right?”

Saoirse squirmed. She wasn’t in love with Santi—she hardly knew the guy—but there was a connection. A chemistry that was getting harder to squelch. And chasing up a disaster of a nonwedding with an unrequited marriage of con-visa-enience? No, thank you! She’d rather get deported.

Santi took her hand in his and gave it a little rub with his thumb before inspecting her finger as he spoke. It felt nice. Too nice. She feigned indifference as she listened.

“It’s a question of practicalities, right?”

“Of course,” she agreed in her fake happy voice.

Indifference wasn’t working.

She pulled her finger out of his hand and wrapped it in a fresh paper towel. Whenever he touched her she felt all zingy, and zingy was not practical.

“Point A—” Santi tried a new tack, his voice the height of military efficiency. “I live in a place that’s easy enough to give up. You have a lease for the next three months, if I’m not mistaken. It makes sense for me to come here and I promise I won’t take up much shelf space in the bathroom, all right?”

Saoirse nodded, rather unsuccessfully fighting the arrival of a sting of tears. She closed her eyes and tipped her chin up. Why was this so hard?

She felt Santi’s crooked index finger swipe at another tear, hardly a challenge now that they were freely tumbling down her cheeks.

“Amor, don’t.” He gently pulled her off her stool and tugged her into his arms. “Don’t cry.”

In his arms, she felt safer than she could have imagined. Free to cry, free to feel the push and shove of conflicting emotions. If this—this connection she felt—was real, she could imagine wanting to marry him in a heartbeat. And that was a problem.

Saoirse trembled when she felt his hands cup her face. Don’t mess this up now... This is your chance to make at least one of your dreams come true.

She forced herself to open her eyes to meet his. The gold flecks amid the chicory darkness of his irises made him appear more leonine than ever before. A proud Latino man, earthily aware of his physical prowess. There was heat in his gaze. A muscle twitched in his jaw. The cut of his cheekbones all but drew pointy arrows to his full, sensual mouth. She flushed when she realized she’d been licking her lips.

She searched for answers to the parade of questions goose-stepping through her mind. Nothing useful presented itself. Just a single sentence repeating itself over and over... I want to kiss you.

“Is it your ex?” Santi asked. Her eyes were still firmly planted on his lips. “Do you want to patch things up with him? Is that it?”

She squinted up at him as if it would change the words that had just come out of his mouth. Talk about a mood killer! Or maybe there had been no mood at all. Just a Saoirse-Santi romance mirage.

Then again...she chanced a glance at his eyes. No. It wasn’t his eyes. The man was a trained Marine. It was his tone that had caught her attention. It sounded almost... Wait a minute. Was he jealous that she might want the lying, faithless no-goodnik back in her life? Or relieved? Either way she knew the answer.

“No,” she answered solidly, not quite ready to step away from the warmth of Santi’s embrace. One of his hands was resting loosely on her waist, the other on her shoulder, occasionally moving up to her cheek to wipe away some tears. Just the size of his hands, the softness of his touch made her feel so feminine. She’d never admit it, but it felt good. Powerful, almost. The closest she’d ever get to feeling like an Amazon queen.

Leaning in to kiss him would be so easy.

Pressing her cheek into his hand to absorb some of the comfort it gave, she became aware her eyes were still unable to resist the magnetic lure of his lips. She bit down on her own lower lip, fighting the desire to go up on tippy-toe, just a little bit, and taste...

“Don’t do that,” Santi said, abruptly pulling back.

“What?”

“That...lip thing you do.”

“What lip thing?”

“There.” He pointed at her mouth. “You’re doing it right now.”

“No, I’m not!” She did a few moves to try and figure out what she’d been doing, highly aware that Santi’s hands were still touching her, almost territorially. Nerves won out over a limitless supply of sultry choices she could have made. “You mean my buck teeth overbite thing?”

“Mija. You do not have buck teeth or an overbite.” Santi’s voice was gravelly, intense. Which made her stare at his lips even more. Sensual, full lips he was dragging a tooth along.

“Well,” she huffed. “You do a lip thing, too!”

“No, I don’t!” Santi looked at her as if she had just gone directly around the bend.

“Yes.” She nodded soberly. “You do. It’s all slow-motion and sexy and, for the record, extremely distracting.”

“Oh, yeah?” Santi’s mood and voice shifted again, slamming straight out of neutral into for-bedroom-only gear. Her tummy went all swoopy, melty, lava lamp on her. Oh, no, no, no... This was the so-bad-it-was-good sort of thing she’d heard about from friends of hers who’d settled down—or just plain old settled in her case.

Her eyes were magnetically drawn to his lips.

Beware! Beware the most perfect lips in the whole of Miami.

Her breath became jagged and uncontrollable. He did the lip thing. Saoirse had no choice.

She went up on tiptoe and kissed him.

From the moment her lips touched his she didn’t have a single lucid thought. Her brain all but exploded in a vain attempt to unravel the quick-fire sensations. Heat, passion, need, longing, sweet and tangy all jumbled together in one beautiful confirmation that his lips were every bit as kissable as she’d thought they might be.

Snippets of what was actually happening were hitting her in blips of delayed replay.

Her fingers tangled in his silky, soft hair. Santi’s wide hands tugged her in tight, right at the small of her back. There was no doubting his body’s response to her now. The heated pleasure she felt when one of his hands slipped under her T-shirt elicited an undiluted moan of pleasure. He matched her move for move as if they had been made for one another. Her body’s reaction to his felt akin to hitting all hundred watts her body was capable of for the very first time.

She wanted more.

No.

She wanted it all. The whole package. The feelings. The pitter-patter of her heart. Knowing it was reciprocated. Being part of a shared love. Not some sham wedding so she wouldn’t have to live in a country where her soul had all but shriveled up and died.

She felt Santi’s kisses deepen and her willpower to shore up some sort of resistance to what was happening plummeted. This felt so real. And a little too close to everything she’d hoped for wrapped up in a too-good-to-be-true package. This sort of thing didn’t happen to her. And it wasn’t. She’d started it, Santi was just responding. She heard herself moan and with its escape her resolve to resist abandoned her completely.

She caved in to her body’s desires. To caress and be caressed. Explore and discover new ways of giving pleasure. Time and space and heat and light all melded into one as she felt her body blossom with sensation after sensation. Each and every one of them pure pleasure.

The sharp jangle of her phone’s text alert shot through her body just as she was weaving one bare leg around Santi’s.

They both froze, eyes wide as if the neighborhood priest had just walked in on the pair of them, clothes asunder, tousled hair, hot, heated pants of desire slowing as they let reality settle around them.

Bzzt!

Saoirse batted her hand around the counter without changing her position and finally found purchase on the phone. She brought it up to her eyes, blocking out Santi’s amused expression.

Lovers’ quarrel over? Safe to come back now? We are ten minutes away, can delay if necessary. xx A

At least it was proof Amanda hadn’t installed a secret camera anywhere.

“Amanda?” Santi asked, tipping his head out from behind the screen of her smartphone.

“Amanda.” Saoirse’s thumb tapped away at the phone, telling her to hurry up, suddenly aware how close she’d come to giving herself, body and soul, to Santi.

“Tell her the barbecue’s off,” Santi murmured, his hands slipping around her waist, trying to close the space that had opened up between them.

“No. Sorry.” She pressed a hand against his chest, forcing herself to wriggle out of his embrace, swiping a hand over her kiss-bruised lips as she did. “I think that’s probably enough of that. We made a rule. Remember?”

Rich, coming from the number one rule breaker.

She pulled her glass of iced tea along the countertop, leaving a watery pool in its wake, and took several long slurps through her pink flamingo straw. It was one of the first purchases she’d made when she’d moved here, kitting her house out with dollar-store specials, and it never failed to make her smile. She hardly noticed it now. She needed the icy tea to tamp down the flames of desire licking away at her nerve endings in wicked little flicks and quivers.

“Want some?” She held the glass out to Santi. He shook his head, eyes clouded with something she couldn’t quite read. Irritation? Or ardor?

“James and Amanda are going to be back in a few minutes, yeah?”

Saoirse nodded. Where was this going?

“And James is going to talk us through the whole process—the legal process—of putting in the forms for you to stay here and what we’ll have to prove and show, et cetera, right?”

Gulp. He wasn’t going to back out, was he? Or maybe he should. Friends only was one thing, but friends with benefits? That had red, hot and dangerous written all over it.

“Yeah.” She nodded, fingers unable to resist touching her kiss-swollen lips again. Could lips pine for someone else’s?

“Amanda and James thought this barbecue was a good way to introduce the formal factor into the proceedings. Make the whole thing a bit more relaxed.”

“Are you relaxed?” Santi’s body tensed as he spoke, evoking a jangle of nerves in her own.

“Not exactly.”

It wasn’t exactly a declaration of love but at the very least he knew he was now officially under her skin.

* * *

Santi gave his shoulders a sharp shake, eyes closed tight as he tried to clear his head of all the behind-closed-doors things he wished he was doing to Saoirse right now. She’d felt good in his arms, pressed against his body, wanting him as much as he now knew he wanted her. There was a pool of sunshine on the wide-planked wooden floor he wouldn’t mind laying her out in. Slowly...luxuriously...stripping off her tomboy gear and making it incredibly clear just how desirable he thought she was.

Válgame Dios!

What was life throwing him now? A buoy or an anvil that would shunt him straight to the bottom of the sea?

He wasn’t doing a very good job of proving he could be steady, reliable. The whole point of this exercise.

He opened his eyes, forcing his features and voice into a neutral zone the rest of him wasn’t quite yet in.

“We should be. Relaxed and happy. This is a big decision. For both of us, eh, dulzera?” He ducked his head in a vain attempt to catch Saoirse’s blue eyes with his. In his gut—hell, in his heart—he really wanted to do this for her, but only if they could both leave unscathed at the end. “I’m afraid the ball’s in your court for this one, Murph. It’s your call. If I’m not the guy for you, there’s no point in me moving in here and going through this whole charade.”

She shifted uncomfortably, eyes skidding everywhere around the room but on him.

“I guess it’s the part about it being a charade that I’m not really comfortable with, you know? That it’s fake.”

“I don’t know about you, but what just happened didn’t feel so fake to me.”

“I know! That’s exactly my point!”

“I don’t follow.”

“It’s just that...” Saoirse only just stopped herself from tracing a heart shape onto his chest.

It’d be too easy to fall in love.

“Maybe it’s so close to the other wedding—you know, the Irish one—that I’ve got some guilt or...”

Saoirse trailed off, not sounding convinced by her own argument. Santi had little doubt she was over her ex and from the kisses she’d just been giving him? No, it wasn’t guilt.

“I just feel a bit duplicitous. It’s a shame it’s not—you know...”

“The real thing?” He finished for her.

“Yes.” She nodded glumly. “It would have been nice if our—the marriage was for real.”

He nodded. He knew what she meant. But setting things right with his brothers was his priority. And so far coming back to Miami was the only step he’d taken in that direction. Getting married for real before he was square with his brothers simply wasn’t going to happen.

“It would have been nice, but unless a messed-up ex-Marine is your thing...” He ignored the sharp glance she gave him. One filled with questions. Questions he wasn’t ready to answer.

There was no point in going into details. The fact he couldn’t, with any sort of clean conscience, give his heart to her was the main thing they had going for them. She’d see soon enough. Friends was great. More than that? Not worth the trouble. There’d be another guy, another day... He just needed to see that smile of hers again. It lit him up, more than he liked, but that would be his cross to bear, not hers.

“Murph, c’mere. Sit down.” He patted her stool in a show of It’s-okay,-I won’t-bite and waited for her to climb back up, arms crossed, a leery expression playing across her features.

“We’re friends, aren’t we?”

She tilted her head to the side, pretending to size him up. “As much as a girl can be with a man who insists on scrunching saline bags between his shoulder and chin can be.”

“It’s how we always did it out in the field. And it’s not like I have a hook on my head.”

“We could install one,” She hiccup-laughed, then smiled, visibly pleased he was playing along. As full of bravado as she was, he’d already learned Saoirse needed a bit of silly in her day to soften the edges of a life that hadn’t been altogether kind to her, and he was more than happy to oblige.

“We could install a clip on your work cap. I’ll call you Mr. Saline Head,” she said, almost shyly.

“And you thought I was the mad one.” Santi laughed, pleased to hear her giggling along with him. How quickly it had come to pass, he thought, that a smiling Saoirse was all the sunshine he needed.

“C’mon.” He clapped his hands together and gave them a quick rub. “I meant what I said. I am completely happy to do this for you. The marriage thing. I know there’ll be times where it will be tough. Days where we probably want to see the backside of each other—but that lends the whole thing a bit more authenticity, right?”

“I happen to have a very nice backside, thank you very much.”

“I know.”

Her cheeks colored as she realized just how recently his hands had been cupping said backside. Just as quickly she feigned a shocked gasp. “You won’t be letting the cat out of the bag, will you? About the blubbing and the feelings and everything? I’ve got a tough-girl image to keep up at work.”

“No, ma’am.” He stood, clicked his heels together and gave a quick salute. “As long as you keep it close to your chest I’ve got a weak spot for...” You.

“Carnitas and zebra hides?” Saoirse suggested.

“Got it in one.” He winked.

Emergency averted. Time to get back on course. Business only. Doing the right thing by someone. Soon. Soon, he’d do the same for his brothers. But that was going to take some staring-into-the-eyes-of-the-firing-squad courage. He didn’t deserve their forgiveness. He didn’t deserve their love. You had to earn that sort of thing and his bank balance in that department was more than likely running on empty.

“Right, Murph.” He stood and gave her a brotherly shoulder hug with a play growl. “Let’s see about getting this barbecue up and running before your pals come back, otherwise it’s raw burgers and E. coli all around.”

“On it.” Saoirse hopped off her stool and headed toward the refrigerator, abruptly screeching to a halt. “Valentino?”

“Yes, Murphy?” he replied formally.

“You are a good friend.”

Friend. He saw the invisible partition being placed between them and instantly wished it gone. Friend. Didn’t seem to sit right somehow.

Well, too bad for him. He’d made his bed and now it was time to lie in it. In the spare room.

“Not everyone would make this big a commitment for nothing. Especially given...you know.” She made a kissy face and a yucky face in quick succession, gave a little decisive nod and started humming as she yanked open the fridge door and started noodling around inside for the hamburger fixings.

He was glad she couldn’t see the sad smile he knew was hitting his face about now. He wanted, more than anything, to be a good friend to Saoirse. He could just as easily see himself wanting a whole lot more. She was a singular woman who deserved to be loved. Love he couldn’t give right now. Until he started tackling the promises he’d made to himself on the blood-soaked battlefields, he was no good to anyone. No one at all.

* * *

“Right.” James eyed them as he would a jury. First Santi, from whom he received a curt nod. Then Saoirse, who had to stop herself from giggling.

“Are the waters muddy or clear on how this whole thing works?”

“Clear!” they said in unison, hands raising as if they had a body between them and were about to deliver an AED shock. Their eyes hooked at the “jinx” and they both dissolved into uncontrolled laughter.

“You’re right, babe.” James leaned over and gave his wife a kiss on the cheek. “They are a cute couple. You two won’t have any problems. I see setups come through all the time and I can tell you’re the genuine article.”

Saoirse blinked a minute, trying to register his words. Santi seemed entirely unaffected by them and started peppering James with the best way to clean a barbecue grill.

The genuine article?

Saoirse looked across at Amanda, a veritable halo glowing around her she looked so happy. “You didn’t tell him?” Saoirse mouthed.

Amanda shook her head, her grin widening as she did, then tipped her head in the direction of the kitchen.

“Why didn’t you tell him this was fake?” Saoirse whispered when they reached the cool of the kitchen.

“No-brainer! I’m not getting my husband involved in something I think is shady.” Amanda looked appalled. “Besides...” she smirked “...James sees exactly what I see.”

“And what would that be? Exactly?” Saoirse’s tone was filled with a bit more attitude than she’d intended.

“A spark. Lots of them,” Amanda replied, giving the counter a swipe with a sponge as she did. “I’ve been watching you two ever since you met and, frankly, I’m surprised he hadn’t already moved in.”

“What? Are you crazy?”

“No,” Amanda answered plainly. “There’s a whole lotta me thinks the lady doth protest too much going on here. C’mon, Murph. You totally have the hots for that guy and, if I’m not mistaken, he wouldn’t mind a little slice of Murphy pie either.”

Saoirse glared at her friend. It was her only line of defense. Then blushed.

“Sare-shae! You naughty little so-and-so!”

“It’s Murphy,” Saoirse hiss-whispered, making a keep-your-voice-down hand gesture.

Amanda leaned against the kitchen counter and crossed her arms. “When are you going to stop this?”

“What?” She knew what Amanda was talking about, but decided rubbing at a nonexistent stain in the deep ceramic sink was more fruitful than playing along.

“Acting like you don’t care. I’ve been trying to set you up for months and this is the first time you’ve bitten. Hook, line and sinker. And all of this pally-buddy stuff?”

“What pally-buddy stuff?” she snapped back defensively.

“Duh!” Amanda began raising a finger per point. “The spats. The arm punches. The high fives. The pretending you totally don’t secretly love it every time he gives you knuckle-rubs because it gives you a chance to take a deep, lovely inhalation of his gorgeous cinnamon man scent. I could go on but I’m running out of fingers. Suffice it to say, Murph, you’re fooling no one.”

Saoirse opened her mouth to protest but nothing came out.

“Murph...the way you behave with Santi is the equivalent of shoving a boy in the playground because what you really want to do is kiss him. Admit it.”

Saoirse squirmed under her friend’s penetrating gaze.

“Okay, fine.” She caved. “I kissed him.”

“I knew I was right!” Amanda shouted, before remembering she was meant to be speaking under a cloak of secrecy, then stage-whispered, “I’m always right,” as if it erased the jubilant cry heard half the way to Brazil.

“What did you know, hon?” James called from the patio.

Saoirse pressed her hands together in prayer position and shook her head. No-no-no. Please don’t tell.

“That Murph and Santi were hoping to get married on St. Patrick’s Day.” She hooked her arm through Saoirse’s and steered her back out into the tiny garden, beaming as if she were announcing her own nuptials. “Isn’t that cute? With Murphy being Irish and all?”

* * *

“Adorable,” Santi replied, eyes more narrow than wide with Amanda’s unexpected news flash.

There was a date?

If he’d thought moving into Saoirse’s had been a reality check, a bona fide wedding date really punched it home.

He was going to have to make good with his brothers before then. Introducing them to his green-card bride without a bit of rift-fixing? Wasn’t going to happen.

He did a mental scan through the year’s calendar... St. Patrick’s Day was about ten weeks away, by his calculations. Not a long engagement. Then again, his parents had met at a dance and had been engaged by the end of it, so by their terms?

Ten weeks had been a lifetime. A lifetime the two of them hadn’t been able to share.

He cleared his throat. It was time to get the ball rolling.

Ten weeks was his new deadline to get things right with his brothers. He was sure they already thought he was nuts and adding this to his catalog of ill-advised life choices wasn’t going to change the portrait.

“Well, then!” He watched as Saoirse put on her best hostess face. “Now that we’re all caught up on each other’s news, who’s up for going along to the track with me for a bit of pony car racing?”

He, it appeared, wasn’t the only one feeling the heat.