Chapter 11
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I’ve gotta be better for this perfect woman.
Lukas
Every time I catch a glimpse of my name on Clara’s skin, I want to convince her to bemorethan friends. But I’ve already decided that a request like that is not my move to make. If she ever wants me in that way, I’m here. On my knees. Pleading.
And, if she doesn’t, I’m still here, on my knees, pleading.
Even if I’m actually standing beside her, arranging her special charcuterie plate, and only subtly filling it with tiny hearts to convey my blazing desire for her.
Okay, fine.
I’m not being subtle at all. But it’s not my fault she brought out the little cutters I picked for her when we were at the homegoods store and they’re all tiny hearts and flowers. I am innocently using the tools provided. I am practicingrestraintand inhibiting my selfish whims. I am…
Oh, who am I kidding?
I’m hopeless.
“Clara.”
My angelicfriendstops her merry humming to look up at me, pretty blue eyes all a-sparkle with joy.
I lift a freshly-cut little cheddar heart. “Open up. I want to make sure you like this before I fill your plate with it.”
Her lashes flutter, but she doesn’t even hesitate before torturing me. “Please.”
As I press the morsel to her lips—literallyfeedingher my love—I know this is disastrous. Impossible. I am ruined. Done for.When she kisses my fingertip before she starts chewing, I know I could be smote right now yet perish gleefully.
This is bliss.
And, I guess, it’s also terror.
Because who knows whether or not anyone—least of all her—can love me as much as my demented brain needs with how utterlydementedI am?
Falling for her has become physical. I’m stuck in the rush as I plummet. And while Ihatemyself for the initial motivations behind my interest in her, I find relief every single time she does something with confidence that strikes me deeper than mere submission ever could. Every time she proves that she feelssafeenough to be herself instead of the shadow she was raised to be, I fall somehow harder.
I just…reallylike her.
And I do meanher. Not the ghost.
And that’s reassuring in a lot of ways.
Smiling down at the plate I’m making, I design a little heart garden broken by bites of chocolate and homemade bread. She made three loaves today, just for tonight, on top of a small selection of crackers. And when one of those cracker batches turned up less-than-edible? She found me in my room working on a song, sniffled, and plunged herself into my arms, begging me to tell her it was okay, I wasn’t mad, and mistakes happen.
Mercy, I cooed reassurances for ten straight minutes and pretended that I wasn’t losing my mind with ecstasy.
I am not well.
I am very, very not well.
It’s fine, though. Because, again, I could die right now, life fulfilled.
“King.”
I turn, like a summoned dog, toward my darling Clara. She’s holding up a little cheese flower, and, “Please,” slips out of my mouth before I compute what’s happening.
