“Rule number two, don’t listen to any of my brothers.”
I type that out and chew my cheek. Because, yeah, okay, sure. Don’t listen to the other powerful men who could end me. Ilovethat rule. Solid rule. Great rule. Absolutely no repercussions I can see arising from that one.
If Lukas weren’t watching, I’d make a note to cry myself to sleep later.
“Rule number three, fall madly in love with me.”
My fingers hitch. Thoughts race because what?What?Why does he want that? Why wouldanyonewant that? I’m not exactly prime relationship material. I’m annoying, difficult, disobedient, weak, stupid. Regardless, I type:Fall madly in love with Lukas Bachelor.
Out of the corner of my eye, Lukas’s mood blackens. He says, “Learn to sayno.”
Air shudders through my lungs as I transcribe.
“Take more initiative for yourself. Speak your mind. Take up space.”
These all sound like things that will end very poorly. My mind is not rated for general audiences. It is constantly spouting disrespect. And I’m not sure I can take up any more space than I already do without it being even more of a health concern.
My gaze trails toward the mess of bags strewn all over the floor. At present, I’m already the cause of a fire hazard.
Are there anyeasyrules I can follow? Clear ones? Anything actionable? Wake up at X time. Have breakfast ready for me at Y. Clean up after yourself. Provide me with Z number of snacks a day. Present them on a silver platter.
I can’t believe it’s only occurring to me in this moment that this man harbors an inconsolable ego…
I suppose it’s nice that he’s transparent about it at least? My family is…somewhat less transparent concerning their pride. It makes it difficult when someone who clearly expects worship denies it. Surprisingly, it’s hard to respect someone when their definition of respect issupplication, but don’t be obvious about it.
I am not a subtle lass.
So I always seem to mess up where it concerns how my family expects me to treat them.
It’s fine, though. Probably. My parents had rough childhoods, and my brother’s a product of being the firstborn son after a miscarriage. Emotions are sticky and expectations are weird. I don’t blame them for how it’s affected me. I just do my best.
I just…wish my best were good enough. At least every once in a while.
It’s nice to dream.
“Is there anything else?” I ask softly.
“No, I think that about covers it. For now.”
This covers nothing.
My eyes drift to rule three:Fall madly in love with Lukas Bachelor.I’m very unsure how I’m meant to accomplish that one.
It’s a joke, right?
Rule six suggests I should ask, but heh. Speaking my mind is totally a trap. All the rules after three are total traps, so I will not be doing any of them, thanks. Saying what I’m thinking has never once worked in my favor. I’m not even good at it. Somehow, the vomit mess of words that escapes me only makes things worse. I don’t know how to collect my thoughts and communicate in a way that is effective. Any time I’ve tried, thesituation immediately escalates into how I don’t actually have the right to speak at all.
I once asked my brother if he could please clear his dishes off the table and put them on the counter by the sink for me, and Mom cut in to say how she’s seen me also leave my dishes at the table so I should leave him alone.
Then neither her nor my father cleared their dishes anymore. Ever. In some kind of cruel solidarity or punishment for my daring to ask for something when I’m not perfect either.
Meanwhile, I’m still wondering if I have ever left my dishes at the table, if she just said that because she didn’t like what I was saying, or if it even matters at all because it was my job to do all the dishes, regardless of where they’ve been left.
“What’s wrong, cupcake?” Lukas murmurs, absently looking through my notebook. He’s found my crème brûlée recipe. He’s found out that I’ve drawn tiny flames around the step where you’re supposed to caramelize the sugar with a blow torch.
Embarrassment over how insipid and childish I am sours in my throat.
I should have known better than to think my little recipe notebook would be private. Right now, I am very much the property of a man whose behaviors I have not yet learned. And King has never once givenconsistentin the chaos of his brand. He’s wild and dramatic. Entertainment seeps from his very pores. Every interview, every interaction…
