Agape, I stare
“Cupcake,” he warns, “don’t just watch me. Stop me, or I’m buying you one of everything in this entire store.”
That would be so impossibly wasteful. I wouldn’t be able to use everything before it goes bad.
Butstophim? Stophim? How does one stop a man like him? I’m sure I don’t know.
He pauses, fixing his black and white eyes on me. “Please, Clara. You don’t need three different brands of baking soda. Icannot keep threatening to buy you entire stores. Viktor would be so mad at me if you let that happen. Don’t be difficult.”
I wince in response to those words. I’ve heard them loads of times. For a while, they felt like the only ones my parents would say to me. “I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be difficult.”
“Stop apologizing.”
I bite my tongue before another apology slips free. Nausea plagues me.
He motions to the cart, then—patiently—says, “Fix it.”
Carefully, I reach for the flours first, putting all but one back. The other kinds call to me, but he never said to make him rye bread or macaroons. He said chocolate muffins. So…I need cocoa. Eggs. Milk. Vanilla. The flour, of course. And sugar. Both kinds. Just in case the recipe I find calls for it.
I switch some of the white out for a bag of brown.
“Cupcake.”
I tense amid deciding on the brand of baking soda to get. Slowly, I glance at Lukas and try not to feel like crying.
“I want all kinds of treats, not just chocolate muffins.”
“What sorts of things would you like?” I whisper.
He shrugs his broad shoulders. “Surprise me. Every day. Maybe even more than once a day.” Bracing his forearms on the cart, he smiles. “I love the idea of you making things for me.”
I love the idea of not upsetting a powerful man who holds my fate in his palm.
Macaroons are a treat. I get the almond flour. With the array of cheese available here, I could make some amazing cheese bread, too… Does that count as a treat? Sweetandsavory? “King?”
His smile spreads, sultry. “Yes, cutie pie?”
Heat floods my flesh, and I avert my eyes. “Do you only want sweets or savory things, too?”
“Both, yes.”
Rye flour and semolina, then… I hesitate once I’ve touched the pasta flour.
“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, so gently.
“Do you only want snacks and sides and desserts, or also meals?”
He looks at the bag in my hand. “Are you going to make fresh pasta?”
I donotsay,Well, you did get me a pasta machine at the homegoods store, so I don’t know what else you’d expect me to do with it.I say, “Maybe? If you’d like me to.”
“Do youwantto?”
Whether I want to or not seems irrelevant. He’s the one who’s dragged me hours away from home for vague reasons. Iwantto be home, snuggled up in my bed, reading on my phone far away from this insanity.
And, okay fine, I alsowantto make pasta from scratch, so I nod.
“Excellent.” Pride brightens his face so completely I lose myself in the beauty of it for a long moment. Lifting his chin toward the shelves, he says, “Make my absolute day, E-clair-a. Go wild.”
