“She can be tough. Stubborn.” Her mom squints.
“She’s strong,” I counter. “Knows what she wants.”
Rosa appears, hair tied up, apron smeared with some sort of sauce, and a look of surprise on her face when she sees me. She blinks, then turns to her mother. “This is him?”
“I am him.” I look up at her, not letting anyone answer for me.
Rosa steps over to me and sticks out her hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard…things.”
“I’ve heard…things about you too.” I grin, taking her hand.
She leans closer. “She’s much older than you.”
“I’m aware.” I release her sister’s hand.
“She’s got a hard shell. And a soft heart.” Her eyebrow quirks.
“I know.”
“She’s been burned.”
I nod.
“Don’t be the guy who doesn’t measure up,” she warns.
I glance back toward the bathroom, where Marcella’s stepping back into view. Her eyes land on the table and widen slightly when she sees the four of us mid-interrogation.
“I won’t be,” I promise. “You’ve got my word.”
Marcella slides into the booth beside me and gives her sister a wary look. “Were you grilling him?”
“Of course.” Rosa shrugs like it’s a foregone conclusion.
I can’t resist saying, “And?”
“I approve.” Rosa turns with a little flair then disappears back into the kitchen.
Marcella exhales. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I nudge her knee under the table and whisper into her ear, “I can handle it. Better to get it over with so we can move on.”
Dinner settles into something more relaxed after the stand-off—at least on the surface. Marcella’s mom keeps the conversation moving, throwing in stories about when Marcella was little and refused to eat anything green. Lucas talks about work. Her father talks about opening the restaurant and how far it’s come from a ten-seat dining room in the front of their house.
There’s something grounding about being here. Her family and mine are similar. Loud. Boisterous. Passionate. I’ve been invited into her inner world, allowing me to access a fuller picture of Marcella. This isn’t the courtroom version or the woman I’ve been naked with for the past week. This is her with her people.
The real her.
When dessert arrives—a creamy, golden-brown Basque cheesecake with a drizzle of sherry reduction—Marcella hums softly in approval. “This is new.” She glances at her mom.
“Not my recipe.” Her mom beams. “Rosa’s been working on it for weeks. Which brings me to a bone I have to pick with you, my darling.” She clears her throat. “Having you—and Seamus—here makes me happy. Please. Can we keep our Friday dinners on the calendar?”
“I wish I could commit…” Marcella catches herself. “You know what? Yes. We can. I’m prioritizing our family time. The McGloughlins have a family dinner every Sunday. It’s an important tradition.”
Her mom’s face softens, and she reaches over to squeeze Marcella’s hand. “Thank you. I missed you when we went so long without seeing each other.”
“I missed you too.” Marcella’s eyes glisten.
The table goes quiet for a beat, the only sound the clink of forks against plates. I reach under the table and brush my fingers against hers. She doesn’t pull away.
