Page 17 of Legacy
“They’re carnations,” I smile, stepping forward to take them, bringing them to my nose. “They’re beautiful, but yeah… definitely not roses.”
“Damn.” He frowns, like he’s genuinely disappointed, and reaches to take them back.
I pull away. “I love them.”
His brows lift slightly.
“I want to keep them. Please.”
I can feel the heat crawl up my cheeks, and I look away just longenough to miss his reaction, but he nods. Quiet. Almost thoughtful.
He grabs a bottle of red from the fridge, uncorks it smoothly, and pours two glasses. He sets one in front of me, then hesitates, pausing mid-movement.
“I just realized you’re notlegallyallowed to drink,” he says with a quiet laugh. “And we downed half the rosé stash last night.”
“I’m notallowedto do a lot of things,” I reply, taking the glass and swirling it gently. “Yet here I am.”
His smirk deepens, but there’s something else behind it this time, like he’s trying not to let me see just how much that answer gets to him.
He raises his glass.
“Here you are.”
We clink, and I sip, and it tastes like warmth and possibility.
The night unfolds in slow, golden waves. Laughter spills easily between sips of wine and stories that mean nothing but feel like everything. We talk about art, food, our favorite movies, the worst lies we’ve ever told. It’s the kind of conversation that makes time blur, like we’ve known each other in other lives. Like we’ve always known each other.
By the time we end up curled on the couch, the bottle of wine nearly gone, I’ve forgotten the weight of my last name.
Angelo stands suddenly, his presence like gravity shifting in the room. He walks to a corner where a beautiful vintage record player sits beside a stack of vinyl's. He flips through them slowly, deliberately, before pulling one out and setting it on the turntable. The needle drops with a soft hiss.
Then music.
Low, rhythmic. Dreamy.
He turns back toward me and holds out a hand.
“May I have this dance, Scarlet?”
His voice is velvet, tinged with amusement and something warmer. Something that reaches me.
Despite myself, I smile.
“Sure,” I whisper, placing my hand in his.
He pulls me gently to my feet, his palm warm against mine. We begin to move, slowly, bodies swaying in time with the music. The air between us hums, something charged and magnetic and tender all at once. His hand settles on the small of my back, fingers splayed, searing through the fabric. My cheek brushes his chest,warmand solid. Like every inch of him was made to hold me
We don’t talk. We don’t need to.
Our eyes stay locked, the only sound the soft vinyl crackle and the melody that wraps around us like silk. His thumb strokes my side, and I melt into the motion,into him.
He leans in, his forehead brushing mine, and my breath hitches.
Then his hand lifts to cradle my face, gentle, warm.
And finally…finally…his lips find mine.
The kiss is slow. Deep. Like we’re both afraid to shatter it.
