Hot Latin Docs Collection. Tina Beckett

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       CHAPTER SEVEN

      “HIGH FIVE!” SANTI held up his hand as she beamed at his obvious pride over his bride-to-be’s panache at the wheel. She’d seriously messed it up today. The good-way kind of messing things up. Not her usual actual messing things up.

      “C’mon!” He prodded when she didn’t meet his hand. “High five!”

      “Nah.” She pulled off her helmet, shaking her pixie cut back into place. “We need a secret handshake. High fives are old-school.”

      “I like your style, Murph.” He nodded appreciatively before raising a finger of objection. “I get to pick it, though. Seeing as you shanghaied our wedding date.”

      “That was a week ago. Aren’t you over it yet?” Saoirse teased, then gave a resigned shrug. “Amanda’s a force of nature. I was powerless to resist. And I’m afraid the date is within the timeline we need to follow if the goal is to keep me in the country.” She tugged her fingers through her hair and tossed her helmet into the seat of her old beater. Signing up for race car driving was one of the best things she’d done since moving here. Amazing the amount of stress you could release by careening around a chicane without touching the brake pedal.

      “Don’t worry, mija. The timeline is fine. The goal is still the same.” Santi came around to her side of the car and without so much as a how-do-you-do tugged down the zip on her race jumpsuit in one fluid move.

      He may as well have slipped his hands inside the suit and caressed her bare skin for the impact it had. Her skin soared directly into hypersensitivity mode, little tingly shots of electricity bringing parts of her back to life she’d thought were long dormant. Her heart was skipping beats like it was going out of style. As she looked up into those gold-flecked eyes of his, she realized he was probably watching her pupils dilate, betraying her body’s response to his proximity. From a distance he was difficult enough to block out. Here? Not more than a few inches apart? Oh, for the love of a cashmere sweater... His stubble looked...soft.

      So much for all that hard-won concentration.

      “You’re not going to try to dye the champagne green or anything, are you?” Santi’s eyes twinkled as he looked down at her.

      “Obviously! It’s an Irish tradition.” She took a couple of steps back from him, feeling a serious need to regain a semblance of control.

      Champagne? How seriously was he taking this thing? “If you’re planning on inviting family, we can always have it on Cinco de Mayo or something. It’d be pushing things a bit from the paperwork end of things for me, but if we applied for a fiancée visa or I got an extension on—”

      “No, no. St. Patrick’s Day is fine.”

      Today would be fine.

      “And it’ll be just you and me,” he added. No family. Not yet anyway.

      “Against the world?” she added, her brow crinkling in a mirror image of his own, he suspected.

      Family.

      How could such a small word be so...loaded?

      Santi took a couple of steps back himself. He wasn’t the only one feeling the perfection of proximity. Or the danger.

      He’d realized it an hour ago, watching her driving around the track, face lit up like it was Christmas morning as she’d deftly swerved and veered her way around the course, him in the passenger seat wondering who had made this woman so courageous and real. He was not a passenger-seat kind of guy—and yet? Here he was, happy to go along for the ride.

      They clicked. On so many levels they clicked and day by day it was growing harder to pretend he was just a nice guy doing a nice girl a favor. Never mind the fact that sleeping in the spare room was just an exercise in torture. Even more so now that he was finally accepting that everything he was feeling for Saoirse was adding up to one thing: love. And there was nothing brotherly about it.

      Fast? Hell, yeah. But with a woman like this? Suffice it to say, if he’d been born in his father’s day, he would’ve asked her to marry him by the end of the first dance.

      Not that he had a clue what Saoirse was feeling. She didn’t do anything slow and steady—or halfway, from what he could gather. Not after what she had been through. It was now-or-never time. For everything.

      Was it the same for falling in love?

      His initial offer might’ve been all nonchalant and devil-may-care but now? Now he’d marry her to keep her in the country and give himself a fighting chance to see if she felt the same way he did.

      He looked away and up to the sky, where some cloud cover was threatening to mask the morning sun.

      Who knew? Maybe this was what genuine arranged marriages were like. Someone saw they were a good potential match, made it, and then it was up to the couple to make good on the potential. Or maybe he was just thinking too damn much about everything because Saoirse made him horny and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it. Love wasn’t only patient and kind. Love was a pain in the butt.

      “At the risk of doing the nagging-wife thing a bit early...” Saoirse СКАЧАТЬ