Page 66 of Sinful Bride

Hesitantly, I take a sip of my beer. It kind of tastes like something spoiled, and when I wince, Declan chuckles.

“It’s an acquired taste. If you were going to get into beer, I’d probably start you on an IPA or some other fancy craft beer. Michelob Ultra isn’t usually a good starting point.”

“Well, when in Rome, right?” I take another sip. It’s not that bad. Definitely not what I would choose.

“It’ll be better with the burger.” He grins, and I feel a small smile curve my lips despite myself.

“I’m going to hold you to that.”

He takes a drink of his own beer, then sets it down and looks at me. "Thank you," Declan says quietly. "For getting me out of there."

I shrug. "You looked miserable."

"I was." He takes another drink. "I hate those things. All the posturing and the judgment and the—" He stops and shakes his head. "I don't know how you do it. How you navigate all that so easily."

"Practice." I trace the rim of my glass with one finger. "And necessity. When you're raised in that world, you learn the rules, or you don't survive."

"Is that what it feels like? Survival?"

The question catches me off guard. Because yes, that's exactly what it feels like. Every gala, every dinner, every carefully orchestrated conversation, it's all about survival. Maintaining position and reputation and power, so that the other sharks don’t eat you.

"Sometimes," I admit.

He studies me across the table. "You're good at it. Better than anyone I've ever seen."

"That doesn't mean I enjoy it."

"No." His voice is soft. "I suppose it doesn't."

Rosie brings our food a few minutes later. The burgers are thick and juicy, topped with melty cheese and lettuce, tomato, onion, and pickle, condiments oozing along with the grease. The fries are thick and crispy, and she sets down a bottle of ketchup along with the two plates. “Anything else?” she asks, hands on her hips, and Declan shakes his head.

“I think we’re good.”

“I’m good,” I echo, eyeing the burger. I’ve never eaten anything like this in my life. I can’t begin to calculate the calories or what this could do to my cholesterol. That much grease can’t be good for anyone’s skin or overall health. But my stomach growls, and I realize I haven't eaten since lunch. That was hours ago.

I pick up the burger. It's messy and completely inappropriate for someone in a designer gown. I take a bite anyway.

It's delicious. The meat is juicy and perfectly spiced, the toppings are fresh and crispy, and the ketchup and mustard and cheese all blend together to make it possibly one of the best things I think I’ve ever eaten. I immediately take another bite, then try a sip of the beer. Declan was right; they are better together.

Declan watches me with something like amusement in his eyes. "Good?"

"Very." I wipe my mouth with a paper napkin. "Better than anything at that gala."

"Everything's better than that gala,” he says with a snort.

We eat quietly for a few minutes, enjoying the food and the drinks. Around us, the diner hums with life, conversations and laughter, and the clink of silverware on plates.

Finally, halfway through my burger, I set it down and reach for a fry. “So did you grow up around places like this?”

Declan looks surprised. "Why are you asking?"

"Because I want to know." I give another small shrug. “I should know more about you, right? You’re my husband.”

He gives me a slightly wary look and reaches for his beer. “Yeah, this is definitely the kind of neighborhood I grew up in. My dad was president of the motorcycle club, and my mom stayed home. We had good money, since he ran jobs for the Italian mafia, but the key to not getting pinched for that kind of work is to not throw that money around. We lived comfortably enough, but nothing fancy. And I don’t think either of my parents liked or wanted fancy, anyway. A lot of that money got tucked away, although I was never going to college, so it just sort of sat there. Gave me a nice nest egg, eventually.”

“So you were always part of the motorcycle club, then?”

Declan nods. “I mean, I didn’t get a seat at the table or anything until I was older, but I was riding as soon as I was old enough to reach the handlebars. Definitely sooner than it was legal.” He chuckles again. “But I wouldn’t trade that life for this one for a second. In the world I used to live in, no one pretends to be something they aren’t.”