When a 24-year-old construction worker poses as the fiancé of a comatose Cuban supermodel, she must find a way to renege her lie after falling for his firefighter cousin.
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When 24-year-old cons...
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When we arrive at the hospital, Valentino is whisked away for a scan of his brain while I search his bag for clues regarding his next of kin.
There must be a family out there who'd want to know about the accident. But there's nothing, other than his cell phone—which I don't have access to—a beach towel, sunscreen, and a magazine with the glistening image of his half-naked body on the cover.
"Valentino's lucky you caught his attention. The impact of that car could have been worse if he hadn't stopped." It's the nurse who checked him in. "Any luck getting in touch with his family?"
When I shake my head, she gives me a funny look. "That's okay. Police will know how to find them. But I have a question," she says tentatively. "When the paramedics called him in, they said you were his fiancé. How long have you been engaged?"
The blood drains from my head. "It's sort of a ... new development."
She nods, her pink-dipped ponytail bouncing behind her. "You're a lucky woman. Valentino De la Mora is the number one fitness model in Southern Florida. Maybe even the world," she says with a tinge of longing. "Must be nice waking up to that gorgeous face every day."
The ER room suddenly feels like a sauna, and I pull at the neck of my high visibility T-shirt. "Yeah. It's, um, really something."
A barrage of voices erupt in the distance. They grow closer until the curtain separating this bay from the next swings to the side. A middle aged man, who bears a striking resemblance to Valentino, enters with a woman and two identical teenage girls. They survey the room with frantic expressions.
"Where is Valentino De la Mora? They said he'd be in here," the lady demands, her accented voice cracking with emotion.
The man brings her fingers to his lips. "Calm down, Marisol. Let's keep level heads until we know what's going on."
She yanks her hand from his. "Alejandro, how am I supposed to keep calm when our first born is in the hospital?"
"You must be Mr. and Mrs. De la Mora," the nurse says. "My name is Samantha. I'm one of the ER nurses."
"How's our son? Can we see him? Where is he?" the woman rattles off without taking a breath. "And can someone please explain how Valentino got hit by a car? He was staring at his phone, wasn't he? I always say that thing will be the death of him, but does he listen? Of course not—I'm only his mother. Thirty-two excruciating hours of labor and this is the thanks I get!"
Samantha holds up her hands in polite surrender. "He's in the middle of a test that will show the extent of damage to his brain. It'll be just a few more minutes, but you're welcome to wait here if you'd like."
"Brain damage. Did you hear that, Alejandro? Our baby has brain damage!"
"We don't know that yet." Mr. De la Mora wraps his wife in a hug. "Yes, we'll wait here." As an afterthought, he turns to me just as I'm attempting to creep from the room. "Who are you?"
