Drew suggested a small strip of restaurants in a neighboring suburb. It sounded great to me; dining out for the heck of it was new to me. We didn’t do it much growing up, and I tried to reserve it for special occasions these days.

I was a bit dazed as we crossed a bridge, Drew’s fast car barreling over the steep incline, the river below us, the skyline of stadiums on the right and murky water on the left—evidence of the ’burgh formerly being a steel town. We sped on through the tunnel cut through a mountain and entered the freeway, or the parkway as we Pittsburghers called it, exiting for the suburbs.

The street we parked along was quaint with its lantern-style street lamps and dimly lit storefronts and bistros. Suddenly, I felt insignificant. I’d never been here, really anywhere, and this was way more than salad.

“Thought we could both use a break from town,” he said as he opened my car door.

“You sure we can go like this?” I gestured to my black leggings and sweatshirt covered by a big bulky coat.

“It’s cool, the owner’s a friend of mine. He ran into some trouble a while back, and I took care of things. Plus, the place is super casual.”

Swinging his arm back around me, he guided me to the door with the name ROMAN’S etched into the frosted glass, its frame trimmed in white twinkling lights. As soon as we walked inside, the scents of garlic, fresh basil, pungent tomato sauce, and fresh-baked bread assaulted my nose. My belly growled for Italian food, yet another Pittsburgh staple. If you grew up in this city, you had to love Italian food. My mom was Irish, and yet she’d made it a point to cook Italian specialties as I was growing up. Her neighbors taught her, and the ones before showed my grandma. The memory of her cooking made me a little sad, knowing she wouldn’t be cooking for me anymore. Parkinson’s disease had made cooking difficult for her, long before the dementia kicked in.

“Hey! My hero.” A guy dressed in chef whites called out from the open kitchen. “Good to see you, how many tonight?”

Drew held up two fingers as Roman—I presumed—wiped his hands on his apron and made his way out. The two men shook hands, and Drew handled introductions.

“Chef Rome, meet Alyson. Alyson, meet Rome.”

“Aly,” I said, correcting him gently with a small wave.

Rome winked at me, his light gray eyes crinkling around the corners. “Good to meet you, doll.”

“Don’t get too friendly; she’s one of the honest ones. I tried to get her to come my way, but she has morals.” Drew was smiling, lending a sense of lightheartedness to his words, but they weren’t light to me. I believed in a fair trial for those accused, but also justice for the victims.

“Public defender, I take it? You’ll change your mind soon enough.” Rome slapped Drew on the back, causing his own jet-black hair to fall over his forehead, and gave me another wink. “Come on, sit down. I’ll send over an appetizer on me.”

After we’d settled in a booth in the back corner, a large platter of roasted vegetables and a bottle of sparkling water appeared before us, and the waiter asked if we wanted wine.

“No, thank you,” I answered politely. Nowadays I dined out way more than we ever did when I was growing up—which was like never—and I still couldn’t get over how much people spent on wine and food. “I’ll have the small salad with grilled chicken and portabellas, vinaigrette on the side, and also, can I have extra cucumbers?”

Drew ordered some gigantic Italian salad with meats and cheeses, and a bottle of beer. While we waited for our dinner, we made small talk. Despite what he did, Drew was a nice guy. He was funny and sweet, and it was obvious he liked me. Even though we did the same thing, he made fun of my altruistic career choice.

I knew he was mostly joking. I’d told him during my job interview that I really couldn’t do what he did. I was honest . . . my dad was the victim of crime although it looked like it was his fault. I’d given Drew my party line, telling him earnestly, “In my mind, criminals should be punished only if they deserve it. Too many times we pin the wrong guy.”

The difference in opinion was mostly why I held back from Drew. That, and the money factor was intimidating, but he truly didn’t seem to be affected by the vast divide between the two of us.

“Roman, baby! How are you?” A shrill feminine voice rang out through the small restaurant.

My head whipped up and I saw a head of blond curls nestled against Roman’s broad chest. How did the guy get anything cooked? All he did was come out and talk—and flirt—with customers.

“Hey, get your dirty paws off my employee,” came from the direction of the door.

The familiar voice sent a shiver down my spine and back up again. Hearing it was like slipping into soft pajamas after a long hot bath. I’d only met the owner of the voice once, and it took every fiber in my body to keep from crossing a professional line and a personal vow.

With two arrests for assault on Jake Wrigley’s record, he would normally be classified as violent, but when I’d heard why, I’d become sympathetic to the criminal with the velvety voice. He’d spent the better part of being detained by the police hitting on me. Well, he actually had been free to go, but I kept him a bit longer, questioning what happened, curious about his motives.

That was a mistake. I should have just accepted at face value that the gorgeous man in front of me on that bitterly cold Christmas Eve was a criminal, but I’d asked for it. If the charges had stuck and I’d been tasked with representing him, I would have gone for the jugular and gotten him off.

Jake Wrigley was a protector. Did he have the strength to hurt someone? God, yes. Rippling with muscles and nearly bursting through his tight-fitting clothes, I imagined he could take Rocky Balboa down with one blow.

“Jake, you can’t hoard Camper all to yourself!” Roman tossed back toward the door while he spun around the female in question, breaking out into an impromptu dance in the middle of the restaurant.

She giggled and laughed at the attention, batting her eyelashes and feigning embarrassment. Her loose-fitting cropped sweater hung off her shoulder, revealing a thin black lace bra strap, and when Rome spun her, her tight butt came into view, encased in form-fitting jeans.

Camper. She must be the girl Mr. Wrigley was defending that night.

Drew was talking, saying something about his firm taking on a big national case, but I didn’t hear a word he said. I was fascinated by the woman in front of me. Her curves were round and perfect, her hair was wild, shiny and free, and her skin was a golden brown. No freckles in sight. She was just like the girls who would bake in their mini-ovens while I sat in the corner. She was perfect, and I was not.

Amazing how I could be incredibly confident in an interrogation room or a courthouse, but not in my own skin. I believed in the law and giving my clients a just defense, but not myself. When it came to me, I didn’t know what I deserved.

“Yeah, yeah, Rome. She works for me and answers to me first.” Jake came up behind the two and tugged Camper away, guiding her toward the bar and pulling out a stool.

“You two eating here tonight?” Rome asked them as he headed back toward the kitchen.

“Yep. Left the new girl in charge, giving her some space, and I owed Camper here a meal for all she’s done this month.”

“Aly? Hello? You okay? Where’d you go?” Drew’s voice drew me out of my bout of voyeurism.

I shook the cobwebs from my head. “I’m good. I just got distracted for a moment.” I took a sip of my water and plucked an asparagus spear from the plate in front of me. “So, you were saying?”

“Well, this national case, the guy who went on a multi-state shooting spree? We got it, and I’m representing the guy. At least, I’m one of the lawyers on the case. He’s got like five or six. Two or three are definitely in it for the spotlight. I’m not sure, but we’ll be dealing with multiple jurisdictions, so it could mean some travel, but definitely a ton of hours.”