Page 94 of Mila: The Godfather

“Why?” Looking up at his jawline, I ask. I wonder how soft his beard feels.

“Why what, sweetheart?”

“Why are you glad that I think you’re beautiful?” Please spell it out for me. It’s hard reading him most of the time.

“I want you to like me.” I notice his expression doesn’t change. Looking down at his bearded cheek, I reply. “I already like you.”

“I want you to desire me as a man, not a friend, Mila.” His voice catches me off guard. He sounds different than before. Almost mad?

No, not mad.

Passionate.

He doesn’t look joyful, but he doesn’t look angry either.

The thing I appreciate most about Riagan is his willingness to explain his emotions and his thoughts to me when I’m unable to read him. When it’s difficult for me to do so.

Like right now and many countless times before.

I force myself to stare into his eyes, and then I realize that is a mistake because the words get stuck in my throat. All I want to say is that I can’t. I’m unable to find logic or speak the words of my heart when he looks at me like he is looking at me now. I might have very little or zero knowledge about men, but I do see the same expression on Riagan’s face in every romantic movie ever made.

Then, I think back to all the little and big things he’s done for me. The lengths he’s gone to not only put a smile on my face but to keep me safe as well, and the weird feeling in my stomach grows stronger, spreading through my body like wildfire.

I already like you more than I should. I want to say, but the words scramble in my brain like they do every time I feel anxious or out of my element, and although I seem to feel more comfortable with Riagan than most people, he still makes me feel a multitude of emotions I can’t seem to understand even if I want to.

It’s freighting.

A moment of silence passes between us, and I wonder if I made this awkward when I didn’t mean to. Did I ruin the moment? Did my silence to his confession make him think of me any differently than he did before?

I become worried and anxious.

But, like always, Riagan swoops in and breaks through my thoughts, killing any anxiety that tries to take over my mind and body when he asks. His voice, as rough as it is, is both serene and melodic.

“Are you hungry?” he asked, grabbing a loose curl and rubbing the strand between his thumb and index finger.

That’s when I noticed all he did.

The gazebo, much like the plants surrounding it, have fairy lights all around it with a picnic set up. A very soft-looking maroon blanket is placed on the floor with exactly seven pillows.

A picnic under the stars surrounded by one of my favorite things in the whole world.

Plants.

Riagan gently helps me down on the blanket and then joins me. He looks comical, sitting down next to me, being gigantic as he is. Even while sitting, he still towers over me. Our size difference won’t ever cease to amaze me.

He then starts to open containers of food, and my mouth starts to water when the delicious smells hit my nose. Which is surprising, to say the least because I’m very picky about food. I learned at a young age that I hated most smells, colors, tastes, and textures. It brought me a lot of discomfort because no one besides my sisters took me seriously when I refused to eat certain things, and, as the years passed, to save myself and my sisters from punishment, I started to eat everything that was given to me, even when it psychically made me ill. I don’t want to ruin the meal he worked so hard for. At moments like this, I wish I was less like me and more like Riagan. Carefree. Normal. Just so I didn’t have to constantly worry about what I say or don’t say, nor what I do or don’t do.

“Hope you like it.” Looking at him, I notice he almost seems nervous. Looking away from the food, I focus on him instead when a thought pops up. “Did you make all of this?” I whisper, without realizing I’m smiling wide until he reaches forward and bumps my nose with his index finger, and the smile spreads wider on my face.

Nodding, he replies. “Yeah…” He is acting weird. Does he feel shy? I recognize shyness. I’m used to that, but it can’t be. Not him. I believe he is the most confident man I know.

It’s endearing.

“You cooked for me?” I ask him in awe.

Grunting, he replies. “I did. Although, it’s nothing special.”

“If you made it. It’s special.” I look up, catching his gaze for a short second before looking down at the picnic set-up. Clearing my throat, feeling embarrassed by the silence that followed, I focus on the food instead. “Sushi?” I ask happily, when I see one of my favorite foods ever. Most people hate sushi rolls, if not for the taste than the texture. I had an issue with it at first until I tasted the delicious Japanese delicacy. I notice he placed the soy sauce next to the daikon radish.

---