Page 16 of Legacy
And then… it’s just me.
And my backpack.
And a short walk to temptation.
I round the corner toward Angelo’s street, and my heart is pounding. With every step, the nerves build. My palms feel too warm, my breaths too shallow.
I reach his door and pause. One deep inhale. One shaky exhale.
Knock, knock.
The door pulls open.
And I nearly drop my backpack.
Angelo stands there,dripping.His hair is damp, messy like he’s just run a towel through it. His jeans hang low on his hips, and a towel rests casually over his shoulders like he forgot it was even there. Water still glides down his chest, each droplet catching the light and tracing every line of his muscles like a goddamn invitation.
My mouth goes dry. My fingers twitch like they forgot how to function.I’m in trouble.
“Scarlet,” he says, voice low and tempting. “You came.”
“Wouldn’t miss it,” I reply, praying my voice sounds more confident than I feel.
His eyes sweep over me slowly, drinking in the outfit I was so unsure about ten minutes ago. His gaze lingers, not in a creepy way, more like he’smemorizingme, piece by piece.
Then he nods toward my shoulder. “What’s this?”
“Just some things,” I say, shrugging casually, like my heart isn’t doing cartwheels. “In case I need to crash somewhere.”
His brow lifts, a flicker of interest, but he doesn’t press. Just steps aside to let me in, and immediately, I’m hit by the warm, rich scent of garlic and butter and something slightly spicy.
“Did you cook?” I ask, climbing the stairs into the loft that now looks completely different bathed in daylight, less seductive more lived-in. Sunlight spills over the polished wood floors like honey, making everything feel… softer. Like maybe I’m allowed to belong here.
He smirks over his shoulder as he walks toward the kitchen and my jaw drops.His back.Broad. Muscular.Inked with wings. Giant, black, tattered wings that stretch from shoulder to waist.
Gorgeous.
I freeze at the sight of them, breath catching in my throat.
“I do more than just look good shirtless,” he tosses back breaking me from my thoughts.
I clear my throat and roll my eyes, dropping my backpack by the door with a thud before trailing after him. The sight of him in the kitchen—barefoot, damp, focused—is somehow intimate.
It makes me nervous.
It makes mewant.
“What are we having?” I ask, leaning against the counter, trying to pretend he doesn’t make my spine hum just by existing.
He turns with two plates in hand, each one layered with pasta delicate and glossy with creamy sauce, flecks of herbs sprinkled like confetti.
“Fettuccine Alfredo,” he says. “I hope you’re hungry.”
He disappears down the hall for a second and returns,regretfully wearing a shirt now,but with one hand behind his back and a sheepish look on his face.
“I had these delivered,” he says. “Thought I ordered roses. I don’t think they are.”
He pulls out a lush red bouquet, and I gasp before breaking into a laugh.
