LITMIR.BIZ

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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

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