My record player.
It’s on the console table behind the couch, spinning, playing Etta James.
My fingers drift to my lips. I don’t even know why my eyes sting. It’s just… beautiful.
I turn slowly. “Matt… what is all this?”
He doesn’t say anything. He just takes my hands and walks me toward the windows, the glass walls that overlook the city. His arm wraps around my waist, and he pulls me in close. He locks his other hand in mine and brings it to his chest.
He starts moving us, slow, swaying.
My brows pinch. “Dancing? You don’t dance.” I shake my head, smiling. “And you hate this music.”
He pulls me closer, hand firm at my waist. “Yeah,” he says easily. “Normally I’d be grinding against your ass in a club.” His mouth brushes my ear. “But I’m not doing that to music my grandparents most likely made love to.”
I burst out laughing. “Made love?”
“If you’re fucking to this music,” he says, dead serious, “it’s called making love.”
“Ooooh,” I say, raising my brows. “So are we making love tonight?”
His eyes lock on mine, expression serious. “You bet your ass we are, baby.”
He smothers a grin, andGodhe looks so sexy.
This whole thing is so Matt—over the top, thoughtful, romantic as hell.
And it’s veryme.
He knows I’m obsessed with this era. The dresses, the music, the movies, the slow dancing. I grew up watching old black-and-white movies with my yiayiá and mamá. Listening to my grandparents’ records on repeat. My pappoús loved Louis Armstrong. I played that album so many times, he ended up giving it to me on my tenth birthday.
“If you’re lucky,” I tease, brushing my lips over his.
“I don’t plan for lucky. I plan to win.”
“You sound awfully confident.”
He grins. “Babe—I know you. I know exactly what I signed up for.”
“Hmm,” I hum, still smiling.
He kisses me softly, and the room falls quiet.
We sway for a moment in the silence before Matt pulls back.
“Just a minute,” he says, stepping away.
He walks to the console table and carefully lifts the needle, switching out Etta James for another record. He lowers it back in place, then makes his way back to me.
The crackle at the beginning is one of my favorite things about vinyl. I soak up the anticipation, that suspended second before the music begins.
Louis Armstrong’s gravelly voice fills the room, hitting me straight in the chest.
And not just any Louis song.
What A Wonderful World.
My favorite. It has been forever.
