Page 69 of Mila: The Godfather

And as if Riagan read my mind, he leans closer and takes my hand in his, causing those tingles to spread all over my skin again. Electricity. That’s how it feels when he touches me. It doesn’t feel like bugs crawling up my body like it usually does. “I won’t let you fall, sweetheart, and no one will laugh. I promise you, and if they do, they’ll lose their lives, so it wouldn’t matter if they laugh because they’ll be dead.” He says nonchalantly.

It takes me a second to understand what he is saying.

He is not joking.

There was not a smile on his face, so he didn’t make a joke.

He is being serious.

“You can’t kill someone for laughing.” I point out.

“I sure as fuck can kill someone that is being unkind to you.”

His words hit me like a rush of wind.

“You’re not like everyone else.” I point out, noticing he still hasn’t let go of my hand, and why don’t I want him to?

That’s the question, and right now, I don’t have an answer, at least not one that I’m willing to admit right now.

“Likewise, sweetheart. I have never met someone quite like you.”

“I’m just me. There’s nothing special about me. The only unique trait I have is my–” He interrupts me when I proceed to remind him of what makes me think differently and sometimes not be like others.

“Nah, it has nothing to do with that.” He pulls me gently until I’m straddling the bike. I hold my breath as he stands behind me with both tattooed arms around me. Then he places my hands on top of the handlebars. “You shine, Mila. So. Fucking. Bright.” he whispers, and I can feel the little hairs on the back of my neck rise.

So do you, Riagan.

Like all the stars in the sky at once.

I think to myself.

And there he goes again, stealing my breath and making my head spin with a multitude of questions. I move my head toward him and the words get stuck in my throat when I realize how close we are. Our lips are a breath away from each other. My eyes clash with his, and I smile. I smile with not only my mouth but with my eyes to let him know without words how grateful I am that he looks at me that way. That he doesn’t see a disability or quirky behavior when he looks at me like most people tend to do. He sees me for… me.

“Now, with your feet, move the pedals. I won’t let go.” He promises. “Remember to use the breaks to halt the bike.”

Nodding once, I turn away from him and look down at the pedals and do as he says and then we’re moving, and he doesn’t let go of me.

Not once.

Not even when I successfully get the hang off it.

It’s not that complicated.

You just need to find a balance while moving the pedals and try your best not to crash. That would be very, very bad.

I rode with Riagan holding onto the seat four more times until I got the confidence to ride without him. Then I ride with the wind in my hair and Riagan watching from the sidelines with a smile on his face. Where did you come from? Where were you all this time? I wonder as I keep riding while still stealing glances at him.

“I did it.” I sing-song happily a few minutes later as I bring the bicycle to a halt right in front of Riagan.

Looking at his chest, I smile. “I learned how to ride a bicycle.” I say in awe, thinking that maybe this might seem insignificant to other people my age, but to me, it means everything and I have him to thank. He then helps me off the bicycle, and I’m standing in front of him, still holding onto the handles. “You did, sweetheart.” He winks at me, and my heart does a strange, baby-goatish gallop. Just looking at him makes my heart pound and my stomach flutter.

“I like you, Riagan. I know it is very premature of me to say this without us really knowing each other, but I have this gut feeling that tells me you’re one of the good ones. You’re a good friend, and my nonna used to say I should always trust my gut feeling. I am trusting my instinct. Please don’t prove me wrong.” I blurt vulnerability.

“I won’t, baby.”

Baby…

A moment of silence passes between us as the breeze picks up, and I think I somehow said something that he did not like. Why did he suddenly go quiet? Looking up at his face, I find him staring down at me with a look that I can’t comprehend. He doesn’t look happy, nor does he look sad.

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