“Wasn’t obvious at all.”
His eyes glint, and he whispers, “Sassy, sassy,” as he kisses my forehead. “Never took you for a brat, cupcake, but I’m very into it.” He grips my hips, letting a low rumble leave him. “My stupid brother is lucky you’re mine. You wouldn’t do these nice things for anyone I don’t care for.”
I probably, absolutely, one hundred percent would make a sandwich for a person Lukas doesn’t care for if they asked. My journaling has led me to a phenomenally freeing conclusion: people pleasing isn’tbadunless it’s self-corrosive. I love pleasing people. It’s only when pleasing people injures or compromises me that it’s not ideal. I can still love and respond to people in a way that embodies who I am.
So long as I have enough time and energy for it.
So long as I’m not losing myself in the process.
I twine my arms around Lukas’s neck. “Everything I do is secretly for you.”
“Exactly.”
I whisper, “I’m not telling the truth.”
He whispers back, “I know.” His thumbs leaves indents in my flesh as they rub. “Most things, though?”
“Probably. You really are my favorite person in the whole world.”
His hands slide all the way up my body to my back where his fingers dig around my wing bones, kneading sore muscles. “May I say something unbelievably vulgar?”
I ponder, then swiftly decide, “Yes.”
He looms nearer, whispering, “I’d like to get you facedown in my bed and dig my hands into your muscles. Your back is so tight, sweetheart.” His eyes close. “Let me work while you tell me about your book? Please?”
“Lying facedown anywhere is marvelously uncomfortable…but I’m very interested in a massage.”
“I have so many pillows. I’m sure I can get you comfy.” He runs his nose up the bridge of mine. “Your back wouldn’t be so tense if you didn’t abuse it by hand kneading so much bread for Kyran’s sandwiches. We do have a mixer. With the fancy hook even.”
“I like to hand knead the last few minutes, just to make sure the dough’s come together right. Makes me feel like a baker.”
“My baker.”
“Your everything.”
He sighs. “You really are.” Before we can head to his room, the phone in my apron pocket begins buzzing. My stomach dips as realization crashes into me.
Mom.
I forgot about Mom.
For an entire day.
I’ve been so blissfully unaware of everything other than Lukas, I completely forgot to address the missed call, list my excuses, smooth the waters—if smoothing them is even possible.
Seeing my face and supposedly close enough to feel the vibration, Lukas slips his hand into my pocket, lifts the device, and looks at the screen.
His moodblackens.
My heart shakes.
Heanswers. Voice coarse, he mumbles, “She’s busy.”
My throat closes as Mom’s voice comes through, loud. “Too busy for hermother?”
“Who do you think you’re talking to?”
“The man who took my baby girl away for an entire month without ever asking her parents.”
