by Annie O'Neil
* * *
“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.
