Wait. No. Stop. This is a kidnapping. I’m in a man’s bed. Against my will and all that.
He lowers himself, bracing an elbow against the bed as he kneels, and strokes my widow’s peak, and watches me as thoughhe’s calming a frightened cat. “Can you make chocolate muffins for breakfast in two days?”
My stupid wants-to-be-a-baker heart flutters. “Chocolate muffins? Yes…? I should be able to.”
The pleased sound that leaves him makes me almost wish he were touching me, which is lunacy at its finest—yaaay for mentally unwell Clara…
Breath escapes my chest as I dwell on the way his fingers comb, and comb, and settle my heart. By all means, this is an interesting way to woo a woman and media sure didn’t set me up to expect it, but I’m grateful for the ability to regulate my system.
“I can’t wait to be home.” His eyes close, and his hand stills. “It’s warm, and safe, and you can do whatever you want, pretty much. No one judges you. No one tells you you’re wrong…except Viktor. Sometimes. He’s got this wholeeldestcomplex, but it’s just because he loves you.” His eyes open again, reminding me I shouldn’t fall into this daze of pretty promises. “It’s loving,” he says, and I…fall into the daze of pretty promises. “You’ll love it. You won’t need to worry about a thing, okay? It’s all going to be okay. I’ll take care of you, cupcake.”
I have no delusions that I’ll be able to reach a state of zen tonight concerning whatever is happening, but at least that sentiment is…sweet. “Clara,” I whisper.
“Hm?”
“My name is Clara Field.”
He smiles and offers me his hand above the blankets. “Lukas Bachelor, known to many asKing.”
For some strange reason, I nearly smile at that introduction and his proffered hand. Reaching out of the blankets, I shake. “It’s very nice to formally meet you, King.”
He chuckles. “Formalities aren’t exactly my forte. But, man, you have a—” he cusses, “—beautiful name. It’s like music and poetry.Clara Field.” His fingers slip from mine, returning tobrace his chin in his palm. “Maybe I’ll write songs about you while you make muffins.”
There’s a phrase that feels surreal coming from a man like Lukas.
Rising, he stretches and turns toward the…door. “Goodnight, Clara.” Hand over the lightswitch, he looks back at me, readying to leave. “Sleep well.”
Relieved beyond the measure of confusion that I am also experiencing, I say, “Good…night?”
The light turns off, and the last thing I see is the way his white eye glows in the darkness before he exits.
I then spend the entire night deliberating on if a man who is willing to buy me ingredients for chocolate muffins is also willing to pay for therapy.
Clearly, I desperately need some.
