24. Seamus
twenty-four
Seamus
Later That Day
A gloom seems to cling to everything.
Winter in the Pacific Northwest never pretends to be anything else.
It’s late afternoon and the rain’s been coming down steady since morning. It’s more mist now than anything—a constant silver veil draped across the windshield of Marcella’s sleek black Audi as we wind down I-5 toward Tacoma.
As the city gives way to trees and highway blur, inside the car it’s quiet.
Not quite peaceful, though. Marcella grips the steering wheel like she’s bracing for brutal cross-examination.
Her stormy, hazel eyes are focused straight ahead and her face is frozen in deep concentration.
I doubt she even notices me watching her.
She hasn’t said much since we left her condo. A few offhand comments about traffic and weather. The silence wouldn’t bug me if we hadn’t spent so many days and nights talking and laughing nonstop in between fucking each other raw.
I mean—my cock has practically taken up residence inside her. I’ve watched her fall apart with my name on her lips more times than I can count. Every night I’ve fallen asleep with her magnificent tits pressed against my chest and her arm banded around my waist like she can’t bear not to touch me.
I’m not sure why she’s suddenly acting like we’re strangers carpooling to a dentist appointment. Then again, I’m not an expert at this boyfriend thing, so…
I’m half-waiting for the moment she tells me this has all been a mistake.
Fuck it. The vibe is driving me batshit. I shift in my seat, drumming my fingers on my thigh. “Are you okay?”
“Yep. Fine.” She glances over at me quickly before fixing her eyes on the road again.
Immediately I realize the trap I’ve fallen into. A classic one-syllable female landmine. I may not be relationship guy, but I’ve worked with many women colleagues. Walked down too many metaphorical hallways with warning signs painted on the walls.
I know better. Still. I clear my throat and try harder. “You’ve been unusually quiet.”
“I’m thinking about something I hadn’t considered.” Marcella exhales, long and slow.
Oh, holy hell. Talk about vague. “I have zero clue what you’re going to say next. I’ll bite. What haven’t you considered?”
“Um…” Another pause. Then, without looking at me, she asks, “You mentioned we don’t need to have labels, but things have…um, changed since the last time you saw my parents. You’ve not met my brother and sister before. So… how do you want me to introduce you?”
Nope. Wouldn’t have guessed. In fact, it’s pretty much the last thing I thought she’d say. “ What ?”
“When we go in.” She stares straight ahead. “How should I introduce you?”
I try not to laugh. “Um…Seamus McGloughlin, your boyfriend ?”
“I truly wasn’t fishing.” She glances over at me nervously, then back at the road. “I mean, no. God. I don’t know. I mean—I didn’t want to assume.”
Okay. There it is.
I stare at her profile—sharp cheekbones, soft lips, hair pulled back in a low twist, somehow both severe and sexy. She’s beautiful, brilliant, and utterly maddening. I fight the urge to say something flippant because she’s not mad…she’s worried.
“Why wouldn’t you fish? It’s worth talking about unless you’re worried about how your family will react.” I place my hand on her knee. “To the nine-years-younger boy-toy situation…”
“Eight,” she corrects automatically. “Well…yeah. Although, I’m getting the better end of the deal.”
“Okay, then what’s the problem?” It’s time to nip all of this in the bud.
We’re together. If people don’t like it, fuck ’em.
“I’m sorry if I made you feel like I wasn’t sure about labels.
Mainly I didn’t want to spook you with the intensity of where my head’s at.
I never thought we wouldn’t tell our families, Marcella.
We’re together. I don’t want us to be a secret. ”
She pulls into the lot behind the restaurant and parks. Her hands rest on the wheel, knuckles white.
“I don’t want to hide you either, Seamus,” she says quietly.
“I’m not bringing this topic up to diminish what we’re becoming to each other…
it’s fast. Complicated. The truth is, I’m older and people are going to gossip.
Also, you’re in the middle of your residency.
Caldwell’s still your boss. You’ve just been through hell with the case. I’m trying to be practical.”
“If practical doesn’t mean honest, it’s not worth it to me,” I counter. “I want you. I want this . I’ve never been more sure of anything.”
She finally turns to face me fully, her expression softening. “I know. I do too. I’m scared, though. We’ve been in our bubble. When we’re out in the world, I’m gonna worry what people think.”
“Baby, stop.” I lean my head back against the headrest and stare out at the back of the restaurant. “It’s funny, given my history. I never thought I’d be the one pushing for labels when I’ve deliberately stayed away from them my entire adult life.”
Marcella laughs. “Yeah, well…you’re full of surprises.”
“Not really.” I reach over and thread my fingers through hers. “I’m glad you decided not to shut me out, okay? Say what’s on your mind. We don’t have to be perfect. We don’t have to have it all figured out. If we’re going to do this for real, we need to be real with each other.”
“I’m trying, which is why I had to let you know how I was feeling,” she assures me.
I believe her even though it took nearly an hour for her to open up. Still, I lift her hand to my mouth and kiss the back of it. “Boyfriend, by the way.”
“Good.” She bites her lip. “Although, you calling me your ‘girlfriend’ seems a little twisted. Maybe ‘cougar mama’ or ‘seasoned cradle-robbing vixen.’”
I adore sarcastic Marcella. I’m grinning like an idiot as we step out of the car into the cool, wet air.
The moment we walk into the restaurant, I’m hit with warmth. Not only from the heat—though the place is cozy and smells like heaven—it’s the laughter. Wine corks popping. The low hum of voices. The Spanish guitar playing faintly in the background. Soul is baked into the walls.
Marcella’s mom greets us near the hostess stand with sharp eyes and a radiant smile. She pulls Marcella into a hug bordering on a squeeze.
“Chellie.” She kisses both of Marcella’s cheeks then turns to me with an appraising look. “Doctor. You’ve been dominating my daughter’s time, I hear?”
I offer a sheepish smile. “Hi, Mrs. Delgado. Yes, I can’t lie.”
“Hmmm.” She tilts her head. “Well, because you’re so handsome, we’ll let it pass. Come. Sit. Lucas’s already at the table.”
We follow her to a corner booth where Marcella’s brother, Lucas, is nursing a beer and scrolling through something on his phone.
He looks up as we approach and offers me a nod before standing to give Marcella a one-armed hug.
“You brought the baby doctor,” he says to her. Then to me, “Nice to meet you.”
Ah, we’re starting by busting my chops. As the youngest of six brothers, I’ve learned reacting negatively to a harmless dig will make a guy double and triple down, so I pretend not to understand.. “You too. And, I’m actually a neurosurgeon.”
Lucas opens his mouth to correct me just as Marcella’s dad materializes, kissing her forehead and shaking my hand like we’re old friends.
Immediately, the meal unfolds in a blur of sizzling platters and overlapping voices.
Eventually, Marcella’s mom and brother ease into questions about the hospital—subtle.
Not aimless. Mainly, wondering if the dust is finally starting to settle after the lawsuit.
“More or less,” I lie. Tonight isn’t the time to get into hospital dynamics.
Her mom tilts her head, thoughtful. “Does it help to know your family’s been through these kind of storms before?”
She’s not being judgmental, just curious—like someone who’s either heard some things from Marcella or read all the headlines and knows better than to ask outright.
I don’t blame her. Between the band scandals, corporate fires, defamation lawsuits and deep-fake identity challenges, navigating public messes has become practically a McGloughlin family tradition.
I nod, keeping it light. “They’ve taught me a few things.”
Marcella doesn’t say anything. Her fingers brush mine under the table.
A quiet gesture. Grounding. Protective, even.
This is her world—and she’s making space for me in it.
Her family is protective of her, though.
I can feel every pair of eyes at the table trying to figure out whether or not I’m worthy of her.
“I must tell you.” I change the subject and address her father who’s setting another platter of some delicious meat dish in front of us. “The food you’re serving should be illegal.”
“Thank you,” he raises a glass of Rioja as a toast, “Rosa’s reinvented the whole damn menu. You’ll never eat better Spanish food in this country.”
“I believe you.” I try not to moan as I take a bite of braised short ribs over saffron risotto.
Halfway through the meal, Marcella excuses herself to the bathroom. The minute she disappears, her mother wastes no time. “She looks happy.”
“I hope so, I want to keep a smile on her face,” I reply honestly.
Lucas raises an eyebrow. “How old are you again?”
“Twenty-nine.” I meet his eyes.
There’s a beat. He’s a year older than me, I already know this.
“You’re young,” he says, like an accusation.
He’s not going to scare me off. “I am young-er.”
“She can be tough. Stubborn.” Her mom squints.
“She’s strong,” I counter. “Knows what she wants.”
Rosa appears, hair tied up, apron smeared with some sort of sauce, and a look of surprise on her face when she sees me. She blinks, then turns to her mother. “This is him?”
“I am him.” I look up at her, not letting anyone answer for me.
Rosa steps over to me and sticks out her hand. “Nice to finally meet you. I’ve heard…things.”
“I’ve heard…things about you too.” I grin, taking her hand.
She leans closer. “She’s much older than you.”
“I’m aware.” I release her sister’s hand.
“She’s got a hard shell. And a soft heart.” Her eyebrow quirks.
“I know.”
“She’s been burned.”
I nod.
“Don’t be the guy who doesn’t measure up,” she warns.
I glance back toward the bathroom, where Marcella’s stepping back into view. Her eyes land on the table and widen slightly when she sees the four of us mid-interrogation.
“I won’t be,” I promise. “You’ve got my word.”
Marcella slides into the booth beside me and gives her sister a wary look. “Were you grilling him?”
“Of course.” Rosa shrugs like it’s a foregone conclusion.
I can’t resist saying, “And?”
“I approve.” Rosa turns with a little flair then disappears back into the kitchen.
Marcella exhales. “Sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I nudge her knee under the table and whisper into her ear, “I can handle it. Better to get it over with so we can move on.”
Dinner settles into something more relaxed after the stand-off—at least on the surface.
Marcella’s mom keeps the conversation moving, throwing in stories about when Marcella was little and refused to eat anything green.
Lucas talks about work. Her father talks about opening the restaurant and how far it’s come from a ten-seat dining room in the front of their house.
There’s something grounding about being here.
Her family and mine are similar. Loud. Boisterous.
Passionate. I’ve been invited into her inner world, allowing me to access a fuller picture of Marcella.
This isn’t the courtroom version or the woman I’ve been naked with for the past week. This is her with her people.
The real her.
When dessert arrives—a creamy, golden-brown Basque cheesecake with a drizzle of sherry reduction—Marcella hums softly in approval. “This is new.” She glances at her mom.
“Not my recipe.” Her mom beams. “Rosa’s been working on it for weeks. Which brings me to a bone I have to pick with you, my darling.” She clears her throat. “Having you—and Seamus—here makes me happy. Please. Can we keep our Friday dinners on the calendar?”
“I wish I could commit…” Marcella catches herself. “You know what? Yes. We can. I’m prioritizing our family time. The McGloughlins have a family dinner every Sunday. It’s an important tradition.”
Her mom’s face softens, and she reaches over to squeeze Marcella’s hand. “Thank you. I missed you when we went so long without seeing each other.”
“I missed you too.” Marcella’s eyes glisten.
The table goes quiet for a beat, the only sound the clink of forks against plates. I reach under the table and brush my fingers against hers. She doesn’t pull away.
We stay another hour, sipping coffee and helping clear plates when things slow down. On our way out, her mom gives me a to-go box “in case the doctor needs snacks later.”
When Marcella ducks into the back to say goodbye to Rosa, her mom pulls me aside for more insight. “She doesn’t bring boyfriends here,” she whispers, folding her arms. “Not since college.”
I nod. “She told me.”
“She works too hard. Holds everything too tight.” Her mom takes both of my hands in hers.
“I know.”
Her gaze softens, just slightly. “She’ll pretend like she doesn’t need you. That’s her way. But she does.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” I assure her.
She presses a warm hand to my cheek in a gesture so motherly and unexpected, I blink.
Then Marcella’s back, putting on her coat. “Ready?”
We drive in silence for the first few minutes, this time it’s comforting, not disquieting. It’s late and the rain is still coming down in a steady rhythm against the windshield. Marcella’s hand rests on the center console, and I cover it with mine.
“Thanks for bringing me to dinner.” I squeeze gently. “It was nothing short of amazing. Our families are so similar.”
The corner of her mouth tugs upward. “They liked you.”
“I liked them too,” I say honestly.
Marcella shoots me a look. “Even Rosa?”
“Especially Rosa. She has your back and wasn’t afraid to let me know.”
Marcella laughs. “Sorry…”
“Don’t be. If I had a sister like you, I’d be protective.” I lean over and kiss her temple. “My brothers are the same with me.”
She smiles and turns back toward the road. “It meant a lot you came.”
“Eventually you’ll get it through your thick head I’m going to follow you anywhere.” I stroke her cheek with my thumb.
She doesn’t answer. The way her hand slips over to rest on my thigh tells me all I need to know.
Half hour later as we near our exit, Marcella says quietly, without fanfare, “I’ll follow you anywhere too.”
No conditions. No defense.
Not a promise.
A true beginning.