“Call me King.”
I shiver. Or perhaps shudder. Or perhaps…die?
“Maybe someday I’ll even let you call me Lukas, but…” he trails off, looks elsewhere, doesn’t bother to finish.
Oh no, oh no, oh no. Now there’s asomedayin the mix? I’m not sure I’m going to survivetoday. This feels like a fanfiction. If I’m in a fanfiction, the author needs to calm down. I am strictly built for five hundred pages of slow burn and a cinnamon roll lead. Someone sweet and gentle and careful. Someone who understands I willbreakinto a gazillion pieces if pressed. Someone very…the oppositeof what Lukas has going on. He’s perfect. Really, reallyperfect.
But I cannot withstand perfection. I need softness and caution, zero pressure.
Decidedly…not…this.
Drawing back, Lukas fixes patientdisappointmenton me, and my stomach drops out of my body. Carefully…manipulative, he puckers his brows and pushes back the long dark strands of his hair. “You don’twantto come home with me?”
Like a terrible reflex, I fawn and find myself capable of the word I’ve needed to say this whole time…except now I’m saying it in the complete wrong context. Great job, Clara. Youidiot. “No, no. Not that.”
Exactly that! Bingo! Point to Lukas for his impressive decoding skills! Detective man he is! Rah, rah, rah, Lukas! So…why am I ruining it?
“It’s just…” I continue, shakily. “Well. We’ve only just met. Moving in with you seems a bit fast, don’t you think?”
“No,” Rocks for Brains says.
I strip him of his decoding license and take away his detective magnifying glass.
“I want you to bake for me,” he clarifies.
“Bake…for you?” I echo, then I gasp as itallbecomes clear. My idol and a man whose creative work I have stannedforyearsis NOT propositioning me against a balcony in the middle of a September night! He isoffering me a job. Because of a misunderstanding!! Smiling, I rush to inform him of the truly depressing news—that will free me from this horror story. “Oh, I’m so sorry. I’m just part of the catering crew. I didn’t make the things my bakery represents today.”
“Can you bake?” he asks, undeterred.
My lashes flutter. “Can’t…everyone?” You follow the instructions. You read thewholestory, which oftentimes warns you about any mishaps that might arise and how to handle them. Baking isn’t hard, not really. You just pay attention and follow directions. If there’s one thing I’m good at, it’s obeying exact instructions.
“So youcanbake?” he murmurs.
I should lie. I should lie. I should lie. “Yes…?”Clara, you moron.
“That’s a question, not an answer.”
I shift my weight, fiddle, say, “Sorry. I mean. Y…es?”
He arches a brow, shifting his own position to kick one foot back behind the other in thisleanof his, which brings his great big height down, positioning his face inches from mine. “You’re not the best with affirmations, huh?”
I would sayno, except rambling ayes, no problem! I can help out!is what got me in this mess. Very affirmy, that.
“We’ll work on it.” He lifts his hand to my head and pets my hair. “Don’t you worry. You’ll be sayingyeswith confidence soon.”
I quite entirely need to be sayingnowith confidence, Lukas.
Quite. Entirely.
“It’s settled then.” He steps back, straightening himself up togiant, and I bask in the glory that is getting a full breath of air. His hands clap together. “You’re coming home with me. You’llbake treats for my brothers and me and live next door to my room. It’ll be great.”
That sounds like a really awful, bad, no good time, actually. My breaths shorten. “I need to ask my parents.”
His eyes scan me—head to toe, lingering in none of the places most men’s eyes do. “You’re not a child, cupcake,” he states once his attention returns squarely to my face. “You don’t need to call Mommy and Daddy to ask if you can come over. You justcome over.”
Valid points, valid points.Problem.“I still live with my parents. I think it’s a matter of courtesy to tell them when I might not be living with them anymore?”
“Youthink? Or itis?” he presses.
