Papillon

Chapter 2: Soyez Audacieux

Francis

Isabella Ryder was just as glamorous as she always was.

She was brightness and light and sparkles and glitz and glamor, all in pink. So fucking pink. All the time. Everything she owned was pink.

I hated pink.

Queen bee. Loud. Attention grabbing. Prim and proper.

Parfait.

Perfectly styled blond curls that were spun like gold fell around her shoulders. Feline blue eyes that shone like diamonds in the night sky. Low throaty voice that was so alluring it could make anyone do anything. Full pink lips that were always shaped into a pout. Magnetic smile that made an entire room brighten.

Needless to say, it was fucking annoying.

But there was one main issue with Isabella Ryder: I couldn't read her.

I couldn't figure her out the way I did everyone else. She didn't fit into a cookie cutter mold like I placed the world. Most people fit into comfortable little categories in my mind, stored away in a filing cabinet with their textbook personalities.

But her? She didn't fit anywhere.

I studied her. I thought about her. More than I cared to admit. She was interesting, fascinating. What was hidden under the layers of hair spray and Chanel perfume?

Isabella was a year younger than me. But the second I saw her, I wanted her to be mine. I blurted it out–said as much to Christian when I first met his sister. Directly told him something that awarded me with a punch to the nose. We never spoke about it again, but I knew. He knew.

Keeping my distance from her was difficult. Not terribly—most things in life weren't hard to for me but it did present as a significant challenge. But with a Herculean effort, I did. I didn't want to be anywhere near her. Because if I did, I wouldn't be able to stop. I knew she'd infect every single part of me so keeping her at an arm's length was the best way to keep my sanity intact since my need to tame the wild girl was so visceral. So carnal. It burned through me constantly when I was around her. What made it worse was that I had a fucking photographic memory.

I remembered everything about her. But I understood nothing.

She was infuriating.

Now, here she was. Standing in front of me. In a ridiculous pink romper.

So impractical. So showy. So bright. So her. She made no sense.

"Hello, asshole," Christian came up from behind her and grabbed my hand in his. I let loose a rare smile, scanning his hands for bruises and blood. Nothing new. Good.

"Glad you made it here in once piece," I nodded.

"Barely. Bella was having a nuclear meltdown about high school," he said dryly.

"I can hear you," she sing-songed, flipping through a menu at the hostess' table.

Christian shot me an amused glance. I breezed past the hostess to an empty booth, not bothering to tell Bella to follow me. Her eyes widened in surprise, but she followed her brother dutifully. She and Christian sat on one side of the table. I sat on the other, opposite my best friend, keeping my eyes securely away from her.

"Nice place," Christian murmured, already looking at the drink menu despite the fact that it was the middle of the afternoon. He hated casual, easy-going things. When he did eat, it was always at clinically uptight places. Bella took in the place as her eyes swept the dingy diner. She was used to fancy places, and this put her on edge–I liked that.