Page 85 of Mila: The Godfather

Riagan.

The way she says my name.

So proper and so sensual at the same time. She has no fucking clue, and that makes her even more enticing to me.

“How do you know so much about butterflies?” I ask while we move toward the butterfly bushes, which are located next to a small waterfall fountain I had installed last year. It was the last touch the glass-house-slash-butterfly-conservatory needed to be perfect. Perfect for her.

Once there, she takes me by surprise when she absently reaches out and touches my wrist. Once. Twice. Three times.

I watch her in fascination as she does it, and on the third, she pulls away, and actually looks like she was relieved to have done it.

Mila is a creature of habit, balance, and structure. She has things she does that might seem odd to most people, but to her, it offers some sort of comfort. It grounds her.

“I like butterflies,” she admits. “I like watching them fly around the garden back home.”

I grin. “All right then, tell me why you like them so much.”

And so, she does. She talks about it for a good, long ten minutes before she frowns and stops in the middle of a sentence.

“Butterflies have the ability to tell time and track…what?” I push.

She frowns. “I didn’t mean to go on and on about it.”

Poking her nose, I tell her. “Mila, if I had a problem with what we were talking about, I would’ve said something.” Even if I did have a problem, I would rather shoot myself in the face with my gun than to hurt her feelings.

She seems to think about that for a long moment, and then nods once.

“I’m going to culinary school,” she randomly says.

I blink. Of course, she will. “Hell yeah, you are.”

She looks up at me and she beams.

Beams so bright.

And I realize I’d give anything to see that look on her face.

Anything.

Stepping closer until our lips are inches apart, I look down at her as she looks up at me with that smile on her face that drives me wild. My chest, all of a sudden, feels too tight.

Without thinking twice, I grab her by her small waist and gently pull her to my chest, watching her eyes grow big, and her hands come up to my chest, tapping it repeatedly.

And it takes me back to the time my mother used to touch my chest gently, so I could feel her love, asking me to keep her there.

And right then, while surrounded by butterflies and holding the sweet and addicting girl in my arms, I wonder if the fucking stars aligned the day we crossed paths or if my mother sent her to me when I became cold and started drifting from her life.

Staring at her face, I focus on her lips and make a choice.

One that will change everything.

I will push her to see what’s right in front of her.

“Butterfly, I have a problem.” I caress her cheek gently, thrilled with the way she shivers at my touch.

“W-what?” She breathes out, concerned.

“I can’t be your friend.” Her pretty blue eyes meet mine for a second and instantly turn sad, shooting daggers through my heart. Say it. Do it. “I can’t be your fucking friend because friends Mila… they don’t dream, day and night, about doing what I’m going to do to you next.”

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