Page 113 of Never Fall for an Angel

“You and Mom would have gotten along. She would have loved you.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because Mom had a knack for finding the sickest creature she could to try and nurse it back to health.”

“She sounds lovely,” I quip, and he smiles softly.

“She was. Too fucking nice for her own good. Dad didn’t deserve her. She may not have realized it, but I did.”

“Why do you say that?”

He’s silent, turning to look at me. His eyes search mine, sliding from my lips up to my hair. A tingling sense of awareness slips over me, but I force myself not to hide.

“A lot of men don’t deserve the women who love them, Mila.”

I can’t decide if he’s talking about us or in general, so I chose not to allow myself to think about it. Thinking about it will only get me more questions that I’m not prepared for the answer to.

“Or maybe a lot of men are too hard on themselves.” He doesn’t respond.

“Not my father.”

“You don’t get along.”

“We never have,” he murmurs. “He was always a dick. Mom was everything Dad could never be, and he hated her for it.”

“What was your mother’s name?”

“Mom was Elizabeth. My brother was Sebastian.”

My eyes are growing heavy, but there are so many questions I want to ask him that he would never answer before.

“I’m sorry you lost them,” I whisper. He opens his mouth, but whatever he was going to say is lost when I reach for his hand, wrapping my fingers around his.

It’s hard to believe the mountain of a man beside me would be the same person as the kid who must have been terrified. Part of me wishes I could go back in time and stop those things from happening, but I also know everything happens for a reason, and no matter how painful it was, it shaped who he is today.

How many girls would he not have saved had he not been through so much bad himself? Would he have left Washington and come to LA, or would he still live here, living a completely different life, right now? Maybe married with a couple of kids. A dog they rescued from the pound and a house with a white picket fence.

I can’t stop myself from picturing what his wife would look like. Beautiful with a gentle smile and soft hands. A kind heart, just like his mother. Maybe she’d make pancakes every Saturday for him and the kids, or maybe they’d spend the morning lazing around in bed together.

Whoever she is, she’s beautiful. Perfect for him in every sense of the word.

I hate her. I hate her, and she’s not even real.

“You were sent to us by the FBI to bring down my stepfather, weren’t you?”

“I was.”

“So . . . that’s why you and Bailey . . .”

“I never wanted your sister, Mila.”

“Oh.”

“I was meant to gather intel. The easiest way to do that was through the people closest to Parker. Bailey thought I wantedher, so I played into the role. Nothing more than a few off-hand comments.”

“Makes sense,” I grumble, because that doesn’t mean I don’t hate it.

“Bailey’s a good girl, but . . .” he reaches up, brushing his knuckles down my cheek. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t get this little blonde brat out of my head . . . still can’t.”

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