Page 113 of Sinful Bride

The restaurant is exactly my kind of place, elegant and luxurious. The maître d' greets us by name and leads us through the dining room to a corner table with a view of the street. The lighting is soft and golden, cast by small lamps on each table and the glow of candles in crystal holders. The walls are paneled in dark wood, and the ceiling is coffered, giving the space an intimate, almost library-like quality. Classical music plays quietly in the background, and the murmur of conversation from other diners creates a pleasant hum.

Declan holds my chair for me, and I settle into it, watching as he takes his own seat across from me. He's wearing a charcoal suit tonight, perfectly tailored. He looks every inch the powerful man he is, commanding and confident. But I notice the small tells that still show he’s not entirely comfortable here. His fingers drum once against the edge of the table before he stills them, the slight tension in his shoulders, the way his gaze flicks around the room as if he’s waiting for someone to tell him to leave, rather than simply enjoying the ambiance.

He's trying, though, and that's what matters. He's here with me, in my world, making the effort because he knows it's important to me.

The sommelier appears with the wine list, and Declan accepts it with a polite nod. I watch as he opens it, his eyes scanning the pages. I know he's not fond of wine—he's a whiskey man and always has been—but he's learned enough over the past six months to navigate a wine list without looking lost. When the sommelier asks if we'd like a recommendation, Declan glances at me, and I give him a small, encouraging smile.

"What do you think?" he asks me. "Red or white?"

"Red," I say. "Something bold. We're celebrating."

His mouth curves slightly. "We are?"

"Six months of partnership.” I smile. "Six months of making it work. That's worth celebrating."

The sommelier suggests a wine, and Declan nods his agreement. When the man leaves to retrieve the bottle, Declan leans back in his chair and looks at me with an expression I can't quite read. "You're happy," he says. It's not a question, but there's something tentative in his tone, like he's checking to make sure.

"I am," I tell him honestly. "Are you?"

"Yeah." He reaches across the table and takes my hand, his thumb brushing over my knuckles. "I am. It's been... different than I expected. Harder in some ways. Easier in others."

"The capos are coming around. Salvatore especially. He was the most resistant at first, but last week he actually asked for my advice on a shipment issue instead of going straight to you."

"I noticed." Declan's smile widens. "You handled it well. Better than I would have, honestly."

"You would have handled it fine," I say, squeezing his hand. "But thank you."

The sommelier returns with the wine, and we go through the ritual of tasting and approving it. It’s rich and complex, with notes of cherry and tobacco, and it pairs beautifully with the menu the waiter presents. Declan studies the menu with the same careful attention he gave the wine list, and I notice the way his brow furrows slightly as he reads. The dishes are described in elaborate detail—seared diver scallops with cauliflower purée and truffle oil, duck breast with cherry gastrique and roasted root vegetables, handmade pasta with wild mushroom ragù.

"What are you thinking?" I ask.

He chuckles. "I'm thinking I have no idea what half of these words mean."

I laugh softly. "Gastrique is just a fancy way of saying a sweet and sour sauce. And ragù is just sauce with more tomato and wine and vegetables. This one is mushroom instead of meat."

"Right." He sets the menu down and meets my gaze. "You know I'm never going to be completely comfortable in places like this."

"I know. But you're here. That's what matters to me."

"I want to be able to give you this," he says quietly. "The life you're used to. The things you grew up with."

"Declan." I lean forward, my voice firm. "I don't need you to give me the life I grew up with. I need you to give me the life we're building together. That includes places like this, yes. But it also includes dive bars and diners and everywhere in between. I don't want you to be someone you're not. I just want you."

He's quiet for a moment, his green eyes searching mine. Then he nods slowly. "Okay."

"Okay," I echo, and I smile at him.

When the waiter returns, Declan orders the duck, and I choose the scallops. We share a starter of burrata with heirloom tomatoes and basil, and we chat about business and the past week over wine and the creamy cheese. Declan tells me about a meeting he had with one of the other Irish families, and I tell him about a negotiation I handled with a supplier who was trying to raise prices without justification.

"You told him no?" Declan asks, his eyebrows rising.

"I told him if he wanted to renegotiate, he could do it with someone else," I say. "We have other options. He came back the next day with a better offer."

Declan laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "That's my girl."

The phrase sends a flutter through my chest. My girl. When we were first married, those words would have felt possessive and suffocating. Now they feel like an endearment, just as they’re supposed to.

Our entrées arrive, and the duck is perfectly cooked, the skin crispy and the meat tender, and the scallops are seared to golden perfection. We eat slowly, and I watch Declan relax incrementally as the meal progresses. His shoulders loosen. His fingers stop drumming. He even makes a joke with the waiter when the man comes to check on us, and the ease in his voice makes me smile. By the time we finish dessert—a dark chocolate tart with salted caramel and a scoop of vanilla bean gelato—the tension has completely left him. He's leaning back in his chair, his wineglass in hand, looking at me with a content expression. "Thank you," he says quietly.