Page 5 of Legacy
I tap my nails against the counter, trying to remember what my friend Carmen told me to order. Something with lime? No. Mint? No, that was for mojitos. Ugh.
My brain spins, and my confidence starts to slip.
But then I remember.
Manhattan. That’s the one she said tasted like cherry cola. I don’t even know what’s in it. I just remember cherries.
And Ilovecherries.
I shift on my aching feet, glance around once, then lean a little more onto the bar, trying to catch the bartender’s eye again. Just an inch more—and in my desperation, my elbow nudges the base of a glass perched a little too close to the edge. It wobbles, then topples.
A splash.
A sharp curse.
I whip around as the drink spills all over the man next to me.
“Oh no! I’m so sorry,” I gasp, grabbing a napkin and instinctively blotting at the mess.
It isn’t until I realize where I’m blotting—oh, no no no no—that my breath stalls in my throat.
My hand freezes, mortification flooding every vein in my body. I’ve just dabbed a stranger’s crotch.
His crotch.
I look up, already stammering, apology halfway formed only to come face to face withhim.
Gray eyes. Light and piercing, like storm clouds lit from the inside. They crinkle faintly with amusement, a slow, lazy smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. His jaw is sharp enough to make my knees question everything. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, like he just ran his fingers through it before walking in here to ruin someone’s life.
Mine, apparently.
“You should buy me dinner first,” he drawls, voice low and smooth as silk, “if you’re going to touch me like that.”
I yank my hand back like I’ve been burned, cheeks blazing. “I didn’t mean to, I just, I was trying to help. I didn’t even see—”
“I noticed,” he says, that maddening smirk still carved into his face.
My heart won’t slow down. I step back, practically tripping over my own heels. “I’m going to go,” I mumble, suddenly desperate for air, for escape, for anywhere but here.
Before I can turn, his hand wraps around my wrist.
Not rough.
Not possessive.
But… firm. Deliberate. Like he’s used to people obeying the second he speaks.
My breath catches again. His thumb brushes over the inside of my wrist, warm and slow, and I hate that I don’t hate the way it makes me feel.
“Don’t go yet,” he says, calm and unbothered, like the world always listens when he speaks. His eyes are on me again, steady and unreadable. “What’s your name?”
“Scarlet,” I whisper before I can stop myself.
It’s not a lie, it’s just… the middle name I use when I want to feel bold. And right now,I need bold.
His smirk curves into something darker, something more dangerous. He lets go of my wrist, but I still feel the imprint of his touch like it’s been tattooed onto my skin.
“Like your cheeks,” he murmurs, his hand lifting to trace my jawline now, slow and maddening. “I like that.”
