“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