I sink in on myself. “I… Well…”Nothing’s happenedis not what she’s looking for. I know that. Worse, it won’t just disappoint her; it’ll make her mad. Everything makes her mad though. I never know what might set her off. I, however, am also not sure how to provide details for something that I don’t understand and that did not happen. “I’m traumatized,” I whisper, hoping for something I know I won’t get. Mom isn’t the comforting sort. She grew up poor, in a bad neighborhood, with parents who hit her and her siblings. She’s not one forgentle.
“Ooh? It wasthatgood, huh?” she purrs. “Lucky. I wish your father…”
The next words my mother deigns to provide me with leave me further traumatized. And sick. And I’dreallylike to return to my meal planning. The bunny stickers call for me. Innocent, and peaceful, and probably not traumatizing. I hope.
A knock sounds at my door, making me jump. “Cupcake?” Lukas calls, so I am forced to interrupt my mother’s disconcerting ramble.
“Mom, Lukas is here. I have to go.”
“Insatiable fellow. Lucky, lucky, lucky.” She puffs a jealous breath. “Fine. Take care of your man. Justdon’tforget about your mother again.”
“I—”
She hangs up.
“…might.”
Another knock makes me squeak. “Yes?” I call.
The door opens before I’m prepared, so I clutch a pillow to my chest, forgetting once again that I’m supposed to beseducingand evengetting pregnant. Seeing as I am not a fan of any of that, I keep the pillow clutched.
Topless, with a towel around his neck, Lukas swipes moisture from his brow and scans my room. Every bare inch of him glistens with sweat. Was he just…working out? Thislate?
I suppose abs don’t just stick around for no reason.
“I wanted to make sure you were settled in for the night before I retired for the evening.” He leans against the door jamb. “Are you comfortable? We didn’t forget anything you needed?” His attention lands on my laptop, and his brows rise. “You’re already set up with the Wi-Fi?” Pushing off the archway, he strides to me, sits on my bed, tilts the mattress toward his weight, and snoops. “What are you up to?”
“Oh. I was just planning what to make for tomorrow. Do I need to coordinate with…Morana? Does she normally handle meals?” I overheard that she was the Bachelors’ maid, but then she ate dinner with us, and bantered with Kyran throughout the whole thing. Also, a maid isn’t a chef. Maybe they don’t have a chef? MaybeI’mtheir chef?
I don’t have any formal training that qualifies me to be called a chef.
I hope I don’t royally screw anything up.
Maybe millionaires are just insane, and I participated in a hiring process that I don’t understand? Maybe I don’t need to worry about seduction? Maybe that will infuriate my mother…but maybe she’s hours away and not a present threat and…
Lukas whistles, reaching for my notebook. “This is detailed. So cute.” He smiles, flips through the pages. “No, you don’t need to worry about Morana. Unless things have drastically changed while I’ve been gone, we’ve never been aplan our meals with color-coded directionskind of family.”
Maybe I’m overachieving. “What time are meals?”
“When they’re ready.”
That’s not very strict, is it?
Graciously, he actually provides me with something like information: “Unless something has changed while I’ve been gone, there tends to be a formal breakfast, but Kyran never eats that early. Lunch is pretty up in the air for everyone. SometimesViktor’s out, so he and Crisis will grab lunch in town. Kyran records at weird times, so he’ll usually just grab a sandwich around his work schedule. If Zakery’s drawing, time eludes him. So even if Kaleb and I are home most of the time, it doesn’t make much sense to try and have a family lunch with half of us missing. Plan anything really special for dinner, when we can normally all be coaxed out to the table, and—of course—bring me any special treats directly.” Resting his head against my bed, Lukas toys with a damp strand of my hair. “It’ll make me feel special. Here, let me have your phone.”
I don’t question him wanting my phone. I simply hope my mother isn’t texting anything inappropriate as I unlock it for him. “Who’s Kaleb?” I ask softly. I think he was the man sitting beside Crimson at dinner, but I’m not certain how he connects to the household or why he’s been specified in the round up now.
“Kaleb’s my younger brother. He…took to a more modest lifestyle, so he’s not subjected to the same media as the rest of us.” Serenely relaxing beside my bare thigh, Lukas taps on my phone, then on his, and sets the entire matter of there being another Bachelor brother aside. “I’m putting my number in here and sharing our locations with each other so you can always find me in this mammoth of a house, and vice versa.” He offers me my phone back with the new contact labeled asMy King.
There’s a complex of some kind here. I just know it.
“We should probably discuss rules,” he springs on me next.
Rules. Oh my goodness.Yes, that would be wonderful. I love rules. I just hope they’re notfluid. Very clear, verynotabstract rules are delightful. They contribute to survival and peace. “Rules,” I chirp, opening a document on my computer and labeling it. “Okay. I’m ready.”
He nods. “Rule number one, I’m your favorite.”
Hesitating for but a moment, I type:Lukas Bachelor is your favorite. And then I sob internally because what thefluffernutter does thatmean? Can’t I live somewhere with clear guidelines? Something like, I don’t know,stay out of the West Wing. Easy. Done. Leave me in the kitchen. Give me the key to the library. We’re set. All good. Happy Clara. No West Wings for her.
