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“ S o what now?” Juliana asked as they stepped out of Omar’s and onto the narrow lane. Stone reached out and took her hand.

“Now we head home,” he said.

She snorted a laugh. “I don’t know how long it’s been since you’ve been to San Francisco, but it’s Monday at five in the afternoon.”

He paused, then groaned. “Fucking traffic,” he said. He had forgotten things like traffic. Mystery Lake didn’t have much except on a few holiday weekends. And the times he’d been in the city recently, he’d been in and out during the day when it wasn’t much of an issue.

“Okay, dinner, then head home?”

She nodded. “I’m not familiar with this area, but I’m very familiar with North Beach. How do you feel about Italian? We shouldn’t hit too much traffic heading into the city.”

“Deal,” he said, leading her back to his car. A few minutes later, they were poking along the surface streets, avoiding the major highways that ran through the city. Traffic was heavier than he’d anticipated on these less commuter-friendly routes, but he didn’t mind the time in the car. It gave him a chance to talk with Juliana about things other than corrupt politicians and dirty cops.

When they hit the Mission District, Juliana took his phone and plugged an address in. He assumed the directions would lead them to a restaurant but didn’t ask. He liked the idea of being surprised. As if where Juliana would take him—what she’d want to share with him—was a gift he’d get to open when they arrived.

Which they did nearly an hour after leaving Omar’s. Well, they arrived at a small car park Juliana directed him to. “There’s never any street parking,” she explained. He believed her. It was a residential neighborhood and by now, many of those residents were home for the evening, taking the few spaces available.

After setting the ticket on the dashboard as instructed, he took Juliana’s hand and followed her through the historically Italian neighborhood. They passed a few greengrocers closing for the night and a deli that had him slowing down and contemplating buying a truck full of cured meats.

His mind still on the bresaola, it took him a second to realize they’d reached their destination when she stopped in front of a glass door. Peeking in, he spied a small space—no more than ten tables, most of which were full. “Will we get a table?”

She nodded and pushed through the door. “I texted the owners when we got in the car. I went to college with their daughter and spent a few school breaks with them. They always have room for me,” she added with a mischievous grin.

On cue, a man emerged from the kitchen. With his chef’s hat and general proprietary air, he was clearly the owner. But for a chef, he was immaculately clean.

“Juliana!” he exclaimed, walking toward them with open arms. “How’s my favorite second daughter?”

“Papa,” she said with Italian inflections, making it sound like his name rather than a role in her life.

He wrapped her in a big hug, his meaty hands patting her back like he would a child. A beat later, a woman walked out, almost as tall, almost as large as the man, but with long black hair pulled into a bun at the top of her head and skin that glowed. Stone didn’t usually notice the nuances of a woman’s complexion, but hers was hard not to. Her Mediterranean-toned skin was smooth, even, and with nary a line or wrinkle (except a few laugh lines around her eyes). Like Juliana, she had a natural dusting of pink on her cheeks that he didn’t think came from the heat of the kitchen.

When Juliana stepped back from the couple, she beckoned him forward. Nerves suddenly swooped in. Her aunt and uncle had raised her, but he sensed these people were more parents to her than her blood relations.

“Simon, this is Emmanuela and Rocco Rivabianchi. Their daughter Chiara and I went to undergrad together. We were roommates our first year, then had our own place for the next three. I spent school breaks and two summers here. Mama and Papa, this is Simon McLean, a friend.”

Both Emmanuela and Rocco slid her a look at the word friend but neither said anything as they stepped over to greet him. He held out his hand, but Emmanuela ignored it and pulled him into a hug. He’d never been hugged by someone bigger than he—hadn’t been hugged much at all in his life—and an odd sort of comfort flowed through him. When she shifted away, Rocco took her place. “Welcome, Simon,” he said, patting his back the way he had Juliana’s, although a little harder. Hard enough that Stone got the message.

“Thank you, sir,” he said, stepping out of the embrace.

“Call us Rocco and Emma, or Mama and Papa the way Juliana does,” he said. Stone was flattered, but in no way comfortable calling them essentially mom and dad. Not because it carried with it an assumption that he and Juliana were serious—they were, even if new—but because his mother and father had been less than stellar people and even worse parents. He had no wish to address Emma and Rocco—two people Juliana obviously cared a great deal about—in any way that resembled that fucked-up relationship.

“Thank you, Rocco,” he said.

Rocco’s dark eyes studied him, then Emma half turned and gestured to a small table. “We have this for you, tesoro mio .”

Too small a space to walk side by side, he followed Juliana to the corner spot. Eyeing her chair, he debated the likelihood of managing to pull it out for her in the tight confines. She grinned at him, and his thwarted manners, before wiggling into her seat on her own. He’d never been a rude man—he opened doors for people, helped parents with strollers, stopped to let people cross the street. But this old-fashioned need to do things like pull Juliana’s chair out for her was new. Something he must have picked up from the movies, because he sure as hell hadn’t learned it from anyone in his life.

Even though he failed in his attempt, he saw Rocco and Emma share a look of approval. He flashed them a smile before taking his seat.

“Elio will be out with your food. Are you drinking wine tonight?” Emma asked.

“Elio is Chiara’s cousin, one of Rocco and Emma’s nephews. He wants to open his own restaurant back in Italy. He’s been working here for almost a year to learn the ropes,” she explained to him. After he nodded, she turned back to Emma. “Thank you, but no wine tonight as we’re driving home after we eat.”

Emma and Rocco nodded in unison. “You make good choices, daughter,” Rocco said. “Now, we will leave you to eat, but?—”

“We wouldn’t dream of leaving without saying goodbye first,” Juliana finished.

“Of course you wouldn’t,” Rocco said before he and his wife returned to the kitchen.

“They kind of like you, don’t they,” he said as a young man whisked over and poured them each a glass of water.

“The feeling is mutual. My parents were wonderful people, from what I can remember. But my aunt and uncle,” she hesitated. He wanted to hear it all. He didn’t want her to censor her words or hold anything back. He wouldn’t force her, though. “They…” She picked up her napkin and dropped it in her lap, then left her hands there. From the flex of muscles in her arms, he’d wager her fingers bunched and twisted the white cloth.

“I hope this goes without saying, but I’ll say it anyway. You can tell me anything. Trust is earned, I get it. But if you decide to give me yours, I won’t ever give you a reason to regret it.”

Her eyes searched his. “I just need to decide.”

He nodded. “But no matter what you share, how I treat that information is in my control. And again, I won’t give you a reason to regret trusting me.”

He could all but hear the arguments and counterarguments happening in her head. He appreciated that she wasn’t an open book with everyone. But he hated that she was so wary. And that something—or someone—had made her that way.

“Are you familiar with Senator Wesley Morgan?” she asked.

He quickly flipped through memories of news articles and newscasts. He frowned. “The senator from North Carolina? The one whose daughter just married the billionaire who owns that consulting firm accused of spreading misinformation a few years ago?”

She nodded, her eyes dropping to her lap.

“Can’t say I’m familiar with him. He’s not our senator and I don’t align with his politics, so I don’t pay much attention other than what comes across in the occasional headline. Why?”

Her chest rose and fell as she remained silent. Another young man, different than the first, stopped by and set two plates on the table. The first held a small loaf of sliced bread and a bowl of salted butter. On the second, bresaola fanned across the plate, sprinkled with arugula, shaved parmesan, and lemon juice.

“Do you think they read my mind?” he asked, staring at the cured meat.

She looked at him, lowered her eyes to the plate, then smiled. “It’s a possibility. Rocco and Emma are special that way.”

He let the subject drop and for a few minutes, they simply enjoyed the food. He was sopping up lemon juice with the bread when Juliana spoke again.

“Wesley Morgan is married to my mom’s sister. And yes, it’s weird that the sisters ended up with similar married names—Morgan and Morganstern—but…” She shrugged. “Anyway, my aunt and uncle weren’t, they aren’t…easy. When they first took me in, right after my parents died, I was grateful to be with family. I knew them, of course, though not well. Still, the familiarity was comforting.”

His stomach twisted at the hesitation he saw on her face. She forged on, though.

“It didn’t take long for me to learn the real reason they’d taken me in. My uncle was in a particularly challenging race that year. Their decision had nothing to do with familial feelings. My aunt thought it would go over well with voters.”

The bread in his mouth grew harder to chew. “How old were you?”

“When I found out the real reason they agreed to be my guardian?” He nodded. “I’d just turned eight. About six months after I moved in. I overheard them talking to his campaign manager about how best to use me without it being obvious what they were doing.”

“I knew I didn’t like that guy,” he muttered, hating Senator Morgan even more.

“I’m not making excuses for him, but honestly, my aunt is the worst of the two. I’d been a tomboy with my parents. We hiked and swam and camped and climbed trees. I had perpetually skinned knees from falling all the time, and my parents kept my hair short. I liked to be either outside or in my room reading. I didn’t like parties and wasn’t big on socializing. It didn’t help that I’m built…bigger. I wasn’t, I’m not, exactly the picture of traditional femininity.”

“Wait, hold up, right there,” he said, unable to let that last comment slide. “First,” he said, keeping his eyes locked on hers. “If we’re talking about the purely aesthetic, you are fucking gorgeous. All curves and lushness and, I may get slapped for this, and I’d deserve it, but your breasts are every man’s wet dream. You have an amazing rack.”

She arched a brow at his comment but fought back a snort. Not in disbelief, but at his delivery. The twinkle in her eyes warmed him in places he hadn’t even realized were cold.

“Second, what does ‘traditional femininity’ even mean?” he continued. “Not to sound too abstract, but people make that shit up. Believe me, I know. I’ve been called a ‘traditional man’s man,’ and what the fuck does that mean? Is it because I served in the military and, forgive my bluntness, killed people? Is it because I know how to use guns and survive in the wilderness? Is it because I survived an IED and assassination attempt? I have news for people who think that all equates to the epitome of masculinity: first, there are women who’ve done the same thing and are badass, so it’s not a ‘man’s domain,’ and second, it ignores everything else about me. It reduces me to only this thing that the US government built. It doesn’t acknowledge that I like to garden and cook and read. It doesn’t recognize that I believe in love and hope.

“I want to hear as much as you’ll tell me about what your aunt and uncle put you through. But whatever they said or did to you to make you feel less , they were wrong. You are the most you you can be. You’re smart, funny, caring, sexy as hell. And if you still like camping and hiking and climbing trees, you have a partner in crime in me.”

He’d said nothing but the truth but realized too late it might have been too much, too soon. He shifted in his seat, and his gaze darted around the room. Maybe the waiter would bring their next course? When Juliana remained silent, he forced himself to meet her eyes.

A beat passed, then she smiled and looked away. “For clarity, it’s a good thing you like my rack. It’s the only one I have, so if you don’t like it, you’re SOL.”