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