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Marco clutches his chest theatrically. “Baby, this town remembers who failed third grade spelling bees in 1998.”

“I won mine.”

“Exactly. Terrifying child.”

Before I can respond, he disappears back toward the kitchen, yelling something pineapple being an insult to real Italian pizza.

I sit across from Briggs in the booth near the window, peeling off my damp coat with relief. A young waitress takes our drinks orders, coffee for me, Italian beer for Briggs.

As soon as she’s gone, the bone-deep exhaustion hits me all at once, and I let myself droop uncharacteristically.

Briggs watches me while I stare at the condensation running down my water glass. “You want to talk about it?”

“Tom and I argued.”

Briggs leans back slightly as if to look at me more clearly. “About?”

“You.”

One dark brow lifts before I quickly add, “And Ashby. Apparently, he doesn’t approve of me “hanging out” with Ben’s old biker gang.”

“We’re a wild bunch. And we do have club jackets.”

A smile creeps onto my lips. “I know.”

His almost-smile appears fleetingly again, then retreats.

I rub a weary hand over my forehead. “I went to the house planning to show him the note Maggie left behind.”

His eyes narrow immediately. “You were going to show him the note?”

“Just to see his reaction. But it didn’t happen.”

I can see he’s glad about it, but he only asks, “Why not?”

I stare out through the rain streaked window before looking back at him. “Because he yelled at me. And I suddenly didn’t want him knowing what I had.”

Briggs drums thick fingers against the table and nods. “Trust your gut.”

“I usually trust spreadsheets.”

“Spreadsheets never met Tom White.”

The drinks arrive, and a few minutes later Marco appears, carrying two pizzas like a man delivering sacred artifacts.

“One meat lovers,” he announces proudly, setting it down in front of Briggs. “And one garlic chicken for you, Bellissima, because you look exhausted.”

“Is that an actual menu category?” I ask.

“Sadly not, but it should be,” he replies. “Enjoy!” he adds before whisking away again.

I stare at the pizza, then at Briggs. “You ordered this for me?”

He nods unashamedly. “Yep.”

“But you didn’t even ask what I wanted.”

He shrugs. “You strike me as somebody who orders salads while secretly craving carbs, so I made an executive decision on your behalf.”