Page 19 of The Biker and the Curvy Widow

"And the restaurant? You said you're not selling."

"I'm not." She traces patterns on my chest with her fingertip. "I think I'm going to rename it, though. Make it mine instead of a memorial to what I lost."

"Marco would like that."

"Yeah." Her voice goes soft. "I think he would."

We fall asleep tangled together, her body pressed against mine, her breath warm on my skin. And for the first time in seven years, the weight on my chest is gone.

Not because the guilt has vanished—some of it will always be there, a scar that never fully heals. But it's different now. Transformed into something that doesn't crush me.

We're not betraying Marco by loving each other.

We're honoring his last wish.

And finally—finally—I let myself have something good.

CHAPTER 6

MARA

Irenamed the restaurant. Not because I wanted to erase Marco—but because I finally understood what he would have wanted.

Trattoria DeLuca.

My name. My family's name. The name I was born with, before I became a wife, before I became a widow, before I lost myself in grief and guilt and a business I'd been running like a memorial instead of a living thing.

The new sign went up three days ago. Fresh paint, clean lines, my grandmother's recipe for marinara still simmering in the kitchen the same way it always has. I kept Marco's photos on the wall—not as a shrine, but as a reminder. He was part of this story. He'll always be part of this story.

But he's not the ending anymore.

The restaurant is packed tonight. Every table full, a waitlist at the door, the hum of conversation and clinking glasses filling the space like music. One week since I decided not to sell. One week since everything changed.

One week since I finally let myself live.

"Mara!" Maddie waves at me from a corner booth, baby Emma balanced on her hip. "Get over here!"

I weave through the tables, stopping to greet regulars, to accept compliments on the new name, to feel—for the first time in two years—like this place is actually mine. When I reach the booth, Maddie pulls me into a one-armed hug while Emma grabs a fistful of my hair.

"She's got good taste," Jax says, gently untangling his daughter's fingers. "Already knows who the important people are."

"Please. She just likes shiny things, as she makes a fresh grab for my long necklace.” But I'm smiling as I say it, tickling Emma's chin until she giggles.

The booth is crowded with familiar faces. Rev and Eden sit across from Jax and Maddie, Eden's phone out as she shows off pictures of their rescue dog Rocky—a dog who apparently takes up their entire bed. Doc and Rory are squeezed in at the end, and little Luna is somewhere under the table, probably causing trouble.

"Luna, sweetheart, we don't hide under tables," Rory says, reaching down to extract her daughter. Luna emerges with a breadstick clutched in each hand and an expression of pure innocence.

"I was exploring."

"You were stealing bread."

"Exploring bread."

Doc catches my eye and grins—that rare, genuine smile that transforms his whole face. "She gets it from her mother."

"Excuse me, I have never stolen bread in my life."

"The great garlic focaccia incident we are not supposed to talk about would like a word."