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.
“I REPEAT, YOU are an angel.”
“Sí, mija,” the forty-something bartender replied drily. “That’s my name.”
“But you actually do nice things, too,” Saoirse added, before ducking underneath the bar’s closable in-and-out flap to get to Ángel’s side. “Like letting innocent young ladies such as myself hide behind the bar until they can sneak out the back.” She tacked on an eyelashes flutter for good measure.
“Who’s sneaking where?” Santi sidled up to the bar, visibly enjoying the fact he’d caught his “fiancée” in midescape. He put on his caveman voice. “C’mon over here, woman. We’ve got a wedding to plan!”
Was it wrong that Saoirse found the combo of a commanding voice and an überfit Marine body demanding her presence sexy?
Yes! And a thousand times yes, on so many levels, yes, yes, yes.
Even though... She pursed her lips as she eyed Santi from the safety of the other side of the bar. How easy would it be to order a cave-girl outfit?
“You’re getting married?” Ángel’s eyes were wide with disbelief. And not the good kind. He was looking at Santi as if he’d just made the worst decision in the universe.
“Hey!” Saoirse demanded. “What’s so revolting about someone wanting to marry me?”
“Ah! So you do want to marry me now.” Santi gave her a satisfied smirk.
“Both of you are crazy.” Ángel shook his head and started muttering in Spanish. “Muy loco. Here.” He quickly poured out two shots of tequila and pushed them across the counter. “You take these. Go have a talk in the garden about babies and mortgages and diapers and phone calls right when you’re in the middle of dominoes with the guys and the divorce you never saw coming and visiting your kids when, and only when, their mami deems you worthy, and then you tell me if you’re still on.” He fixed both of them with a disappointed smile before shooing Saoirse out from behind the bar while twirling his index finger by his head. “Loco. Totalmente!”
The pair of them walked toward the patio in silence, Santi holding their shots and Saoirse using both hands to transport her supersize margarita, wondering, just for a moment, how gauche it would be if she were to take a sweet and sour slug of it right now. Her mind was whirling with its own cocktail of horror, panic and, surprisingly, sadness at Ángel’s words. Santi hadn’t even begun the ridiculous fake-marriage adventure and already it was being kiboshed with
