LITMIR.BIZ

       CHAPTER EIGHT

      “I’M SURPRISED YOU don’t have shares in this place, Santi.”

      “We probably do.”

      “We?” Saoirse kept her tone light, but Santi could tell she knew the answer before she asked it. Even he noticed he was mentioning his brothers more frequently. His tone was less defensive each time, as though Saoirse was his safe harbor for all the complicated issues he was trying to unravel. He stole a piece of fried plantain and confirmed what she already knew. “Me and my brothers. We practically used to live here.”

      “And why not? There’s everything a growing boy needs. Helibanas and endless refills of iced tea.” Saoirse snickered, all the while squeezing lime juice onto her ever-diminishing pile of fried plantains. “You won’t have worried about scurvy anyhow.”

      “Yes.” Santi nodded gravely. “That’s why we came here. To ward off scurvy.”

      “Stop it!” Saoirse giggled, slapping away Santi’s hand as he tried, for the umpteenth time, to tug the pickles out of her toasted sandwich.

      “They’re the best part!” he protested, as if it was his earthly right to possess all her dill pickles.

      “Precisely,” she retorted, extracting a sliver of pickle from amid the melty goo of cheese, pork and onion and popping it into her mouth. “Which is why I want to eat it.”

      “You’d think you were pregnant the way you’re relishing that thing.”

      The instant he’d said it he wished the moment away.

      Up until he’d opened his big mouth, Saoirse had actually been glowing with something better than happiness—contentment. And the fact that he’d had even the tiniest bit to do with that had put a satisfied smile on his lips, too.

      “Don’t. Just...” He tried to wave away his words. “Don’t listen to a thing that comes out of my mouth. Unless, of course, it’s wise and quotable.”

      She gave him a dubious sidelong glance then took another big munch of pickle. “And what was it that made you think I ever bothered listening to a word you said, sensible or otherwise?”

      And there it was—the smile that lit up his world—back on show in his favorite corner of his favorite cantina in the best city in the world. If only...

      The hole in his life that had yet to be filled yawned wider.

      It was time.

      He needed to set things straight with his brothers. He’d spent weeks dithering, if he was being really honest, and waiting for the best moment if he wasn’t. With so much that was coming good in his life, he needed to stop stalling.

      He waved a hand at the waitress, signaling their need for another round. Maybe just a bit more stalling...fortifying himself would be essential.

      “Not for me,” Saoirse protested, plopping her hands on her belly as if to prove her point. “Two was more than enough. Anymore and everyone will think I look preg—”

      She stopped in midflow, a film of tears clouding her tropical blue eyes before she could look away and scrub them clean. She pulled her fists away from her eyes and glared. “See what you’ve done? Now I’ve got pregnancy on my mind.” It was impossible not to notice the quiver in her normally steady voice.

      “Hey,” he said softly, pressing a hand atop hers and stroking the back of his other hand along her cheek. “Believe me, Murph. Your belly is just perfect.” And it was. Everything about her was exactly right. Beautiful. “And just think!” He scrambled for a bright side. “No stretch marks. Ever!”

      If you couldn’t dig deep enough to heal the wound, crack a joke. It was how he’d survived. Saoirse deserved more, but it was what he had on offer. A fake marriage. Bad jokes. Unzipping his heart and showing her what he really felt? Not there yet. Not by a long shot.

      She pursed her lips at him and grabbed her iced tea, giving the oversize glass a sharp jiggle before she put her beautifully pouty lips around the straw.

      Mio Dios, she could rule an army of thousands if she dared.

      He wove his fingers together, inverted and stretched them, his bare ring finger standing out among the weave of digits. He’d promised to make an honest woman of Saoirse. As if she needed validating. Or more honesty.

      She was more painfully honest than most. Painful only in that she confronted the truth head on. Boldly. Courageously. Life had treated her cruelly and she had come back fighting. She was an inspiration to him. And endlessly cheeky, he realized when he caught her loading her straw with ice water and flicking it at him.

      “What’s that for?”

      “The false optimism! Besides, if you had it your way and I kept eating these sandwiches by the bushel load?” She blew out her cheeks then deflated them with a pop. “You’d have a lot more on your hands than you ever bargained for.”

      “Chamaquita, in my culture a few more pounds on that skinny little frame of yours would be nothing to worry about. If I took you home to my mother...”

      Now it was his turn to look away. What a pair they were!

      Yes, it had been a long day. Even longer for Saoirse, who’d risen at dawn to do her rounds on the racetrack, but what was all this getting-misty-eyed business? He’d long ago committed his tear ducts to an unbreakable pact. They didn’t work. Ever. And in exchange? He would do little to nothing to fight it. So why were they playing up now? Little doubt it had something to do with the woman slipping her hand onto his thigh and giving his leg a gentle squeeze.

      “Why don’t you go?” The compassion in Saoirse’s voice almost tipped the balance.

      “Qué?”

      “To your brothers. It’s written all over your face. And they’re the closest link you have to your mother, so...short of us hunting down someone who can do a séance...”

      His eyes widened.

      “One Helibana with extra sauce.” He barely heard the waitress as she slipped the sandwich onto the table, his hunger vanishing simultaneously.

      “We’ll have that to go, please.” Saoirse smiled gently up at the waitress then stopped her with a quick “Ah!” before she left. “Would it be all right to make that about eight sandwiches to go?”

      “Eight?” The waitress’s disbelief was nearly as deep-seated as Santi’s.

      “No. You’re right. Make that a dozen.” Saoirse pointed generically toward the door then leaned in conspiratorially, “Valentino stocktaking night.”

      The waitress nodded, smiling with a hit of recognition, then swished away.

      “Well, look who’s all proud of herself for hitting the nail on the head,” Santi said to cover the surge of emotion filling up his chest like a lead balloon.

      “Santi? Do you think I was born yesterday or something?”

      “No, but I—”

      “I saw your face when you were talking to that copper before.”

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