Page 184 of Legacy
“I want to take you somewhere, why don’t you get dressed,” his thumb brushing my jaw his eyes locked on mine.
“What—what do I wear?” I ask hating the breathlessness in my voice.
“Something casual, chic, anything you wear is beautiful.”
His thumb lingers on my jaw, and for a second, I forget how to breathe.
Somewhere.
He wants to take me somewhere.
The kiss is still warm on my lips, my mind still spinning from the way he kissed me, like the years between us never mattered. Like I was his to take back. His to claim.
His,always.
I nod, slow. “Okay.”
His eyes trace my face for a beat longer, like he’s saving this version of me—the flushed one. The one who didn’t pull away and run.
Then he steps back, and suddenly the air feels thinner without him in it.
“I’ll wait in the living room,” he says quietly. “Take your time.”
He doesn’t say anything else, just slides the balcony door open and leaves me there in the golden light.
Still trembling.
Still tasting him.
Still wondering what the hell I just agreed to.
***
We pull up to an elegant building, all glass and sunlight, its windows overlooking a sprawling vineyard that glows in the afternoon light. My mouth parts in surprise as Angelo cuts the engine and steps out.
He rounds the car, opening my door like it’s instinct.
“We’re here,” he says, offering his hand.
I hesitate only a second before taking it.
I glance up at him questioningly, but he just smirks; that same knowing curve of his mouth that used to drive me insane. We move toward the entrance, where an older gentleman greets us like they’ve known each other for years. He says something in Italian. Angelo responds smoothly.
We’re led through the building to a private room with sweeping views of the vineyard. It’s quiet. Warm. A little too perfect.
“Wine tasting?” I ask, settling into the chair Angelo pulls out for me.
“Something like that,” he replies, hand resting lightly on the small of my back. His touch is reverent. Careful. Like I’m something fragile he’s scared to break again.
An attendant appears, silent and polished, carrying two wine glasses and a bottle of red on a silver tray. He pours, bows, disappears.
I swirl the glass, watching the wine catch the light before taking a sip.
It blooms on my tongue—dark, rich, layered with cherry and something smoky underneath. I hum, despite myself.
“You like it?” Angelo watches me too closely.
“It’s very good,” I admit, setting the glass down.
