The French House was a high-end restaurant that he was pretty sure no one in his family had ever been to, but he was willing to bet the place frowned on jeans. Shit. Moving below deck, he stripped and stalked to his closet where he upgraded to black pants and a slate-colored button-down, both of which at least matched his mood. At the last minute, he added a jacket because why get this far, only to get refused at the door.

He borrowed a motorcycle from an old friend and hit the road, still brooding. It’d been a long time since he and Rocco had been in the same room at the same time.

Even longer since they’d been in the same room at the same time without yelling at each other.

When Diego walked into the restaurant, a maître d’ with blue, spiked hair and a bowtie greeted him. “I’m here for the Stone wedding planning lunch,” he said.

The bowtied maître d’, who looked to be around twelve, shook his head. “I don’t see a wedding planning lunch… Oh, but I do see a Stone reservation. This way, sir.” And then he turned and started walking through the restaurant. The place had been built over the pier in such a way that, combined with all the glass walls, it felt like they were walking right on the waves.

For a guy who lived on the water, it was annoying as shit to feel off balance. Oh, wait, that wasn’t the water at all, but the fact that he could see a table nestled in a corner of glass walls just up ahead. A table for four. And three of the seats were occupied. Rocco, his fiancé Tyler, and…a blast from Diego’s past that he had thought to never see again.

Daisy Evans.

He staggered back a step as if he’d been shot. Pierced in the damn heart. He put a hand to his chest, shocked to find that he wasn’t actually bleeding. Could’ve fooled him by the amount of pain he was suddenly in.

The three at the table looked cozy. His brother, the guy’s fiancé, and the woman Diego had once loved more than life itself leaning into each other, speaking quietly but earnestly, smiling easily, laughing…

Diego realized that he’d stopped in his tracks right in the middle of the restaurant. Rocco glanced over and saw him. “Diego,” his brother said, coming to his feet, gesturing him closer.

Diego’s feet took him there, though he couldn’t seem to tear his gaze from Daisy. Ten years. It was almost too much to process. It’d been ten years, and just the sight of her still rocked him off his axis. With immense difficulty, he tore his gaze off her and looked at his brother.

Rocco grinned. “It’s good to see you.”

Diego didn’t smile or speak. Wasn’t even sure he could.

The twelve-year-old-looking maître d’ was trying to get him to sit. He’d pulled out the empty chair and was gesturing to it with a flourish of his hand.