Page 25 of Legacy
“I don’t trust small appliances,” he replies seriously, not looking at me.
“You don’t trusttoasters?”
“I don’t trust anything that smells like burning.”
I laugh, and he gives me a crooked smile over his shoulder, one that hits me lower in the stomach than it should.
Later, we sit at opposite ends of the couch, legs tangled in the middle, watching Law and Order for the third episode in a row. He knows every line. Every twist. He mouths them sometimes before the characters say them.
“Do you want to just tell me who did it now and save me the heartbreak?” I ask, biting into my second slice of pepperoni.
He points at the woman in the gray blazer. “She’s too emotional. Red herring.”
I groan. “How are you this good?”
“I told you, I learned everything from this show. Jurisprudence. Body language. Human nature.”
“You should’ve gone to law school.”
He shrugs. “Too many rules.”
That night, I try not to overthink it when he hands me a glass of wine before dinner or when his fingers brush mine a little longer than necessary. It’s the smallest things that get me; the way he always holds the door open, how he listens when I talk, the way he remembered I don’t like mushrooms without me having to say it twice.
He makes it feel easy.
Like I’m not the daughter of Ricardo Castillo.
Like I’m not a tool my family’s used more than once.
Like I’m just...Scarlet.
And God, I want to stayher.
I want to stay in this loft that smells like coffee and his cologne, wrapped in a T-shirt that doesn’t belong to me, drinking wine under lights that cast soft golden shadows across the floor. I want to talk to him about everything and nothing and keep pretending like I don’t have a secret curled under my ribs, waiting to ruin all of it.
He doesn’t know who I am. Not really. And I don’t know how he’d look at me if he did.
Would he pull away?
Would he look at me like the rest of them do… like I’m bait or burden?
I don’t want to find out.
Not yet.
Not when he’s looking at me like I’m safe.
***
I have three days left with him and I’m curled up on the balcony couch, legs tucked under me, glass of wine balanced carefully on my knee. The air is cool and still, thick with his cologne and the distant hum of the city below. The record player inside spins something soft and slow, and I can hear it bleeding through the open doors, hazy and warm, like a memory.
Angelo leans against the railing, swirling the deep burgundy in his glass, his other hand shoved in the pocket of his jeans. His shirt’s unbuttoned, hanging loose, and the last of the sunlight catches in his collarbone, casting golden streaks over his chest.
He looks over at me and grins; lazy, confident, a little dangerous. “You look comfortable.”
I stretch, letting the hem of my cream sweater slip up just a little over my bare thigh. “I am.”
He walks over and lifts his glass. “What do we toast to?”
