Patrick laughed as he started the engine. “Bribery is a time-honored tradition. I’m not above using it.”
As we pulled away from the house, I looked back to see Michael standing in the doorway, Paris beside him. They both waved.
I lifted a hand to wave back, but my throat closed. A sudden wave of grief and guilt washed over me, so potent it stole my breath. This was real. This was a step I couldn’t take back.
Tears pricked my eyes, blurring the image of my family in the rearview mirror until they were just indistinct shapes. I blinked fiercely, turning to stare out my window at the passing houses, willing the tears not to fall. My thumb found the cool, familiar metal of my wedding ring, twisting it on my finger. The gesture, usually a comfort, now felt like a confession.
“You all right?” Patrick asked quietly, his eyes on the road.
I couldn’t trust myself to speak right away. I took a slow, shaky breath, fighting for composure. “Ask me after dinner,” I managed.
He didn’t reach for my hand or offer a platitude. He simply gave a small, quiet nod of understanding and focused on driving, leaving the space for me to find my footing. And in that respectful silence, I felt more seen than I had in months.
Chapter
Eleven
THERESA
The restaurant was exactlythe sort of place Marco would have picked—elegant without being stuffy, intimate without feeling cramped. Low lighting warmed the exposed brick, and the tables stood far enough apart for private conversations. Through the tall windows, downtown San Jose glittered against the deepening twilight.
A hostess in a sleek black dress led us to a corner table with a view of the city. Patrick pulled out my chair, his hand resting briefly on my shoulder as I sat.
“This is lovely,” I said, grateful for something neutral to say.
“My real estate agent swore it was the best Italian in the South Bay. Though I suspect she tells all her clients that.” Patrick settled across from me, and in the dim light, those pale blue eyes were impossible to ignore.
A waiter appeared with menus and a wine list. Patrick glanced at me. “Wine? Or are you one of those people who needs to always keep a clear head?”
I caught the teasing note in his voice and relaxed slightly. “I think I can manage one glass without losing my faculties.”
“Just one? And here I thought you were the risk-taking type.”
We ordered wine—a Chianti that Patrick promised was excellent—and the waiter left us alone.
“So,” Patrick said, leaning back. “Tell me about CarideoTech. How did you and Marco get started?”
“We met in college. I was studying computer science; he was in biomedical engineering. We started dating, and somewhere between study sessions and too much coffee, we realized we both wanted to build something that mattered.”
“The glucose monitoring system?”
“Marco’s younger cousin had Type 1 diabetes. He watched her prick her finger eight, ten times a day to check her blood sugar. It seemed barbaric to him—all this technology in the world, and we couldn’t do better than that?” I sipped the wine the waiter had just poured. It was as good as Patrick had promised. “So we decided to do better.”
Patrick leaned forward. “That’s quite an ambition for two college students.”
“We were young and naive. We thought we could change the world.” The memory still made me smile. “Maxed out credit cards, lived on ramen noodles, drove our neighbors crazy with failed experiments.”
“But you succeeded.”
“Eventually. It took years longer than we expected, cost more than we planned, and nearly bankrupted us twice.” I paused as the waiter brought our appetizers—roasted beet salad for me, seared scallops for Patrick. “But we got there. And now the company is on the verge of something that could actually help millions of people.” I speared a piece of beet, suddenly self-conscious. “But you didn’t ask me to dinner to talk about work, did you?”
“I wanted to know you. The work’s part of that, isn’t it? You can’t separate the woman from what she builds.” He said it simply, as if it was obvious. “I’m interested in all of it.”
He meant it. I could tell. “What about you? How did MIRI get started?”
“Family money, if I’m being honest.” He didn’t look embarrassed. “The McCrae’s have been in Scotland since the 1500s—old money, old name, old expectations. I was supposed to go into law or politics, something appropriately dignified.”
“But you chose research instead?”
