“Baby, stop.” I lean my head back against the headrest and stare out at the back of the restaurant. “It’s funny, given my history. I never thought I’d be the one pushing for labels when I’ve deliberately stayed away from them my entire adult life.”
Marcella laughs. “Yeah, well…you’re full of surprises.”
“Not really.” I reach over and thread my fingers through hers. “I’m glad you decided not to shut me out, okay? Say what’s on your mind. We don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to have it all figured out. If we’re going to do this for real, we need to be real with each other.”
“I’m trying, which is why I had to let you know how I was feeling,” she assures me.
I believe her even though it took nearly an hour for her to open up. Still, I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss the back of it. “Boyfriend, by the way.”
“Good.” She bites her lip. “Although, you calling me your ‘girlfriend’ seems a little twisted. Maybe ‘cougar mama’ or ‘seasoned cradle-robbing vixen.’”
I adore sarcastic Marcella. I’m grinning like an idiot as we step out of the car into the cool, wet air.
The moment we walk into the restaurant, I’m hit with warmth. Not only from the heat—though the place is cozy and smells like heaven—it’s the laughter. Wine corks popping. The low hum of voices. The Spanish guitar playing faintly in the background. Soul is baked into the walls.
Marcella’s mom greets us near the hostess stand with sharp eyes and a radiant smile. She pulls Marcella into a hug bordering on a squeeze.
“Chellie.” She kisses both of Marcella’s cheeks then turns to me with an appraising look. “Doctor. You’ve been dominating my daughter’s time, I hear?”
I offer a sheepish smile. “Hi, Mrs. Delgado. Yes, I can’t lie.”
“Hmmm.” She tilts her head. “Well, because you’re so handsome, we’ll let it pass. Come. Sit. Lucas’s already at the table.”
We follow her to a corner booth where Marcella’s brother, Lucas, is nursing a beer and scrolling through something on his phone. He looks up as we approach and offers me a nod before standing to give Marcella a one-armed hug. “You brought the baby doctor,” he says to her. Then to me, “Nice to meet you.”
Ah, we’re starting by busting my chops. As the youngest of six brothers, I’ve learned reacting negatively to a harmless dig will make a guy double and triple down, so I pretend not to understand.. “You too. And, I’m actually a neurosurgeon.”
Lucas opens his mouth to correct me just as Marcella’s dad materializes, kissing her forehead and shaking my hand like we’re old friends. Immediately, the meal unfolds in a blur of sizzling platters and overlapping voices. Eventually, Marcella’s mom and brother ease into questions about the hospital—subtle. Not aimless. Mainly, wondering if the dust is finally starting to settle after the lawsuit.
“More or less,” I lie. Tonight isn’t the time to get into hospital dynamics.
Her mom tilts her head, thoughtful. “Does it help to know your family’s been through these kind of storms before?”
She’s not being judgmental, just curious—like someone who’s either heard some things from Marcella or read all the headlines and knows better than to ask outright. I don’t blame her. Between the band scandals, corporate fires, defamation lawsuits and deep-fake identity challenges, navigating public messes has become practically a McGloughlin family tradition.
I nod, keeping it light. “They’ve taught me a few things.”
Marcella doesn’t say anything. Her fingers brush mine under the table. A quiet gesture. Grounding. Protective, even. This is her world—and she’s making space for me in it. Her family is protective of her, though. I can feel every pair of eyes at the table trying to figure out whether or not I’m worthy of her.
“I must tell you.” I change the subject and address her father who’s setting another platter of some delicious meat dish in front of us. “The food you’re serving should be illegal.”
“Thank you,” he raises a glass of Rioja as a toast, “Rosa’s reinvented the whole damn menu. You’ll never eat better Spanish food in this country.”
“I believe you.” I try not to moan as I take a bite of braised short ribs over saffron risotto.
Halfway through the meal, Marcella excuses herself to the bathroom. The minute she disappears, her mother wastes no time. “She looks happy.”
“I hope so, I want to keep a smile on her face,” I reply honestly.
Lucas raises an eyebrow. “How old are you again?”
“Twenty-nine.” I meet his eyes.
There’s a beat. He’s a year older than me, I already know this.
“You’re young,” he says, like an accusation.
He’s not going to scare me off. “I am young-er.”
