That Kind of Love - The Legacy Saga Book 2 Short Story

That Kind -

 Chapter 5

“Uno!” I call, putting down a Braille-marked draw two card. Adagio puts down a red card, which is what I need. I place my final card on his, chuckling at his cry of disbelief.

“I give up! How many hands is that?”

“Five to your one.”

“And it was by sheer luck I won that one. Good thing I've been dealing every hand. With these cleverly-marked cards, I wouldn't have stood a chance.”

“Yes, you would have. I would've given you a handicap and let you win one or two. Maybe.”

“Well, I appreciate the thought.”

“No problem,” I say, enjoying our playful bantering. “Now I think I'm brave enough to try the Tiramisu you brought.”

“I promise you will love it,” Adagio assures me, helping to put the leftover hot wings and potato skins away. “It was my grandfather's recipe. My father taught me to make it when I was ten.”

“Ten? Seriously?”

“Completely. When I turned eighteen I started working in the family restaurant as a chef. I learned much from my father and grandfather.”

“That must have been a great experience for you.” I try to keep envy from creeping into my voice, but it is hard. Everything I know about cooking, and tending a home period, I learned from Ruth and her daughter, Kathryn. They have been the cook and housekeeper of Mother and Father's home since I was a toddler. And since my mother spared very little attention for me, the two kind women took me under their wings and I grew to love them like family.

“It was,” Adagio answers. I can tell by the tone of his voice he is trying to be sensitive to my feelings, and I appreciate it more than he knows. As I shared bits of my life with him earlier, including my parents using me for their gain, I could feel his compassion for me. It had been a relief having him here to talk to, and to actually have a friend who cares means the world.

“Do you plan to resume your chef position one day?”

“Maybe one day, but not now. As much as I love cooking, it isn't a career choice at the moment, just a relaxing hobby. Music is my career.”

“Singer or songwriter?”

He snorts. “Neither. I'm a composer.”

“Cool!” I say, impressed. “Have you composed many works?”

“I've done a few.” The modesty ringing in his voice tells me he has done more than a few, and has probably done well in his career. “Okay, when we finish eating dessert, the Clavinova is yours.”

“If you insist,” he whines playfully.

* * *

As we come to the end of an amazing evening, I'm a little saddened that he has to go. I've never had so much fun with someone. This is the first time in years that I have not felt alone. Even though we have only known each other for a couple of days, I can honestly say he has become a dear friend to me, and for the first time ever, I mourn the absence of my sight. My expression must betray my thoughts because he notices my distress immediately.

“What is it?” Adagio asks as I walk him to the door.

“Nothing,” I say, trying to smile without much success.

“Hey,” he says, taking my hands in his. “What is it?”

Feeling the threatening sting of tears, I furiously blink them back. “I just wish I could see you.”

“You can.” There is a slight crack in his voice.

I allow him to guide my hands to his face. As soon as they make contact with his skin, I smile, warmth spreading through me as my fingers move from his whiskered cheeks, lightly tracing his closed eyes, his brows. His lashes are enviably long. I allow my hands to get lost in his hair, hearing him draw in a breath in response. My fingers slowly travel down the masculine bridge of his nose, then to his broad, muscular shoulders, and finally back up to his full lips, saving the best for last. I slowly drop my hands and smile. “How tall are you?”

“Six-foot-two,” he breathes.

“What color are your eyes?”

“Green.”

“And your hair?”

“Black.”

“You aren't just handsome . . . you're beautiful.”

He takes my hands again, drawing me close. “You are beautiful.” His voice is a whisper. “The most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”

I swallow hard against the lump in my throat. “No one has ever told me that before,” I say, finding it hard to believe his words. Even when Andrew was alive, he never told me I was beautiful. I feel the warmth of Adagio's hands as he takes my face in them and tears spill unchecked down my cheeks. My heart pounds as his shadow draws closer. When his face is close enough for me to feel his breath fanning my lips, there is a knock at the door. He softly presses a kiss to to my forehead and moves away. I take a moment to compose myself.

The voice that greets me when I finally open the door is the last one I expected to hear.

“I need to talk to you,” Father says, abruptly pushing past me. The over-powering smell of alcohol follows him.

“Father, this isn't a good time for me right now.”

“Well, it's the perfect time for me.” There is no kindness in his voice, but then again, there never has been. “Thanks to your coldness, the Tanners are pulling out of the deal.”

Evidently, Adagio is out of sight. That he is still here is comforting to me. “I'm sorry the merger fell through, but I am not to blame.”

“Oh, you better believe you are. But I'm about to tell you how you will make it up to me.”