Page 74 of Angel

‘Damn, beautiful. You’re right. Look at you, secret lyricist.’

I worked my brushes into the canvas while he muttered lyrics into his phone and scraped his pick across the strings.

Between chords, the sun caught the flash of metal in his right hand.

I paused, squinting at the silver thumb plectrum shaped like a half-ring, a custom piece engraved with a pair of feathered wings.

‘That pick looks familiar,’ I said, resting my brush across the palette.

He stopped strumming and gave me a long look, his eyes searching my face.

‘Don’t recognize it, Rox?’ he rasped. ‘You gave it to me for my eighteenth birthday. You saved up your allowance for it. It’s sterling silver, heavy-gauge, custom-made, by a Nashville silversmith who was also a local musician. I don’t use anything else on stage.’

My jaw went slack. ‘I bought it for you?’

‘Did you forget?’

‘I must have,’ I breathed, my pulse quickening.

He ran a finger over the engraved metal.

‘I’ve never forgotten, Rox. I’ll use it until either it or I crumble into dust.’

‘Good to know.’

The fact he’d kept it all these years was mind-blowing, and a knot tightened in my throat as he turned back to his instrument.

Minutes later, Mrs. Campanelli appeared, fueling us with a spectacular, sprawling spread.

She brought out a massive platter of Insalata Caprese, thick slices of heirloom tomatoes and creamy buffalo mozzarella swimming in wild basil and local olive oil.

Alongside a basket of warm, rosemary-infused focaccia.

Then came the star of the show: a deep ceramic dish of crispy, layered eggplant parmigiana, its aroma so heavenly it derailed my train of thought.

Angel set his guitar beside the stone wall and loaded up our plates while Mrs. Campanelli poured us glasses of cold white wine before heading inside.

We ate as the mid-afternoon heat baked the flagstones as the sea glinted in the distance. My phone buzzed on the table.

A text from Di.

I read it with a sigh.

‘The suits at Rosedale Corp need fresh honeymoon content to pump into their brand channels,’ I groused to Angel.

Angel peered at my screen and twisted his mouth.

‘I still don’t get why we’re doing this,’ he groused.

‘They tag you and me as Reese’s family; the Rosedale Group name rides your clout.’

‘I hate selling myself out for social media.’

‘It’s par for the course, though,’ I teased, pouring more wine into my glass.

‘I only do it coz I have to. Otherwise, a thirty-five-year-old man chasing clout on the internet is pathetic,’ he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair. ‘I’d rather stay off the grid. Live on a rock like this, anonymous, with my woman.’

My breath hitched in my throat.