Page 64 of Sweet Poison

I know she’s a vegetarian so I understand my choice is not one that's appetizing to her but still she doesn't judge or act like those obnoxious and judgmental people who want others to think, act and live the same way they do.

Not, Willow though.

She’s never unkind or judgmental.

“And what will you be having to drink?” the waitress asks, looking between us.

I lean back slightly, and say, “Bring us a bottle of 1961Château Pétrus.” Then I turn to Willow, curious to hear her choice.

And just when I think this woman can’t possibly surprise me anymore, she does it again.

With a shy grin, Willow signs, “I would love aCaipirinha!” She beams looking adorable, and I can’t help but raise an eyebrow in surprise. Alcohol?

As if reading my thoughts, she laughs awkwardly, her cheeks flushing a bit. Then she signs, “I’ve been drinking it all throughout my stay. It’s so yummy!”

I can’t help but smile, chuckling at how genuinely happy she is about it.

“Okay, then,” I say, shaking my head in mock disbelief. “OneCaipirinhafor the fairy it is” The waitress nods, her own smile wide as she jots down our orders. As she walks away, I look back at Willow to find her looking at me the same way she looks at her mushrooms when discovering a new species. That’s when it hits me—I just laughed. I laughed in front of others, and it wasn’t a fake or a forced laugh either.

It was real. A laugh that came from somewhere deep inside me—my soul.

She did that.

She’s the one who changed something in me, just like she did when we were kids. Back then, she didn't get the chance to paint my world, but she’s doing it now.

“M-Madden…” Her voice is soft, almost hesitant, like she’s afraid to ask.

“What?” I glance over at her.

She opens her mouth, then closes it again, clearly trying to find the right words. “How was your life after?—”

Before she can finish the question I’m not quite ready to answer, a little girl walks up to our table. Her wide eyes are sparkling with mischief. “My mom thinks you're cute…” she says,speaking rapid-fire Portuguese, her words tumbling out like they’re bursting from her tiny body all at once. “She’s right,” the little girl says, now standing on her tiptoes to get closer to my face. “You’re really cute. Like a fairytale prince.” She giggles, and my heart does something unexpected—thud. What the fuck? Why is the damn organ in my chest such a weak little bitch lately?

Maybe it’s because she looks like an exact replica of the woman who is currently looking at us with the sweetest, most gentle smile on her equally sweet face. Willow.

The little tiny ball of sunshine of a girl adds with a wink, “Though, the tattoos make you look a bit like the villain.”

“Huh…” I turn to Willow, teasing her. “What do you think, fairy? Do the tattoos make me look like a villain?”

Instantly, her cheeks turn the brightest shade of pink, and my heart does another one of those weird flips.

She mouths the word ‘no’, shaking her head quickly, her eyes soft.

“Scary tattooed villain or not, you’re still cute, mister,” the little girl adds, her giggles ringing through the air like a jingle bell.

I can’t help but soften at her innocent charm and lovely sound.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I ask, genuinely curious.

“Isabella,” she beams, then holds up a napkin with a hopeful look in her eyes. “Can I have your name? I want to give it to my mommy as a nice Christmas present because I don’t have a lot of money,” she adds with a little pout.

Thud.

Thud.

Thud.

Something about the way she’s so selflessly thinking of her mom for Christmas makes my chest tighten. Most kids would ask for an autograph for themselves or jump at the chance of getting presents— or even money— from me. True fucking story.

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