Page 65 of Sinful Bride

The diner is small and crowded. Almost every booth is full, and there's a line of people at the counter. The walls are covered in old photographs and sports memorabilia of Chicago teams, mostly. The floor is checkered linoleum that’s scuffed and worn. A jukebox sits in the corner, playing something bluesy.

Everyone turns to look at us. I brace myself for the judgment, for the sneers and the whispers, for someone to tell me I don't belong here. Exactly, it occurs to me how Declan feels every time he walks into a gala or a dinner with the mafia families. And it feels fucking awful.

Suddenly, I feel an unwelcome sense of empathy for him. It’s no wonder he wants nothing to do with the people in my world or me, if this is the way he always feels. It’s miserable. I want it to stop, and the only reason I don’t leave now is because I can’t back down after this was my idea.

But instead of judgment or sneers, a woman behind the counter who looks to be in her fifties, gray hair pulled back in a bun and wearing a stained apron, breaks into a huge smile.

"Declan Murphy!" She comes around the counter, wiping her hands on her apron. "I haven't seen you in at least a month! Where the hell have you been?"

"Busy, Rosie." Declan's smile is genuine and warm, nothing like the careful mask he wears around me or my family, or the people we associate with. "Too busy."

"You're always too busy." Rosie swats his arm, then turns to me. Her eyes widen slightly at my dress, but there's no judgment in her expression. Just curiosity. "And who's this?"

"This is Elena." Declan's hand finds the small of my back. "My wife."

"Your wife?" Rosie's eyebrows shoot up. "Well, I'll be damned." She extends a hand to me. "Rosie O'Brien. This fella came to get dinner here not long after he moved into town, and was here just about every night for months.”

I shake her hand, surprised by the strength of her grip. "It's nice to meet you."

"Come on, I'll get you a booth." Rosie leads us through the crowded diner, past tables full of people who nod at Declan or call out greetings. No one stares at my dress. No one whispers behind their hands. They just... go on with their night.

The booth she leads us to is in the back corner, upholstered in red vinyl patched with duct tape in places. Rosie hands us laminated menus that are sticky with age. "What can I get you to drink?"

“I’ll have a beer,” Declan says. “Whatever’s good that’s on tap.”

"Make it two," I hear myself say. I immediately regret it, but it’s too late now. I’ve never had beer in my life.

Rosie grins. "I like her already." She disappears toward the bar.

I slide into the booth, the vinyl squeaking under me. Declan sits across from me, and for the first time tonight, he looks comfortable and at ease. Like he can finally breathe.

"You come here a lot?" I ask.

“Yeah, like Rosie said, I came here when I first moved into town, and the food was so good I kept coming back. I was stressed out and eating a lot of comfort food.” He chuckles. “Had to really hit the weights twice as hard.”

I swallow, forcing myself not to look at his midsection. Nothing about the way he fills out his suit—or anything else, for that matter—makes me think he’s anything but pure muscle. But I don’t say that. God, I could never.

I look around the diner again, seeing it through different eyes. This is his world, what he likes. Not the marble estates and crystal chandeliers, but this small, worn diner with its cracked vinyl and faded photographs. “It’s nice,” I manage, and Declan chuckles again.

“You don’t have to lie,” he says with a laugh.

“I mean…” I look around again, taking it all in. “It’s not what I’m used to. But I can see the charm.”

Declan still looks like he doesn’t believe me, but I do. The place is shabby, sure, and no one I know would step a single foot in here. But the people all look like they’re genuinely having fun. No one looks like they’re secretly thinking something they won’t say out loud, or plotting against someone else, or imagining anyone else’s downfall. No one here looks like they’re pretending to be anything they’re not. And for once, I can suddenly see the appeal in how Declan lives his life. He might be an outcast in my world for it… but maybe he genuinely doesn’t want to be accepted by my people… or me.

That last thought oddly stings. And it makes me wonder why he’s here in the first place—not in the diner, but in the world of the mafia—if he doesn’t want to belong in it.

Rosie returns with the beers. "Food?"

"Burger and fries," Declan says without looking at the menu.

I scan the options. There are burgers, sandwiches, breakfast served all day. None of it is anything like the carefully plated cuisine I'm used to. I don’t think I’ve ever actually eaten a real cheeseburger. Not like what would be served here, anyway. The last burger I can recall eating was something deconstructed with truffle sauce.

"I'll get the same thing," I say finally, setting the menu down.

"You got it." Rosie winks at me. "And welcome to the family, sweetheart."

She leaves, and I'm alone with Declan in this booth that smells like grease and coffee.