Chapter 9
?
Best. Date. Ever.
Maelin
It is very likely I have never tasted anything so rich and wonderful as this chocolate cake. Every bite fills me with renewed strength, suggesting Harry, who? Oh right, that guy. That guy I was dating? Who I was engaged to? Who broke my heart?
No, no, no. None of that rings any bells.
Harry is little more than the reason I tumbled into Zakery’s lap, the reason I have this job modeling for him, the reason we’re fake dating each other right now, and the reason we are at this teahouse.
This glorious, glorious teahouse, which serves the most majestic chocolate peanut butter cake in the world. The frosting is practically fudge . Every last gram could kill a hamster. It’s taken everything in me not to dissolve into a grateful puddle of moans.
Across from me, barely touching his butterscotch pudding, Zakery swears and draws. “If you enjoy yourself any more, Maelin, I will be forced to up the content warning on this picture to NSFW.”
I flush. Swallow. “I’m not doing anything unsafe for work.”
“You are making out with your cake.”
“I am not. I am eating it. Like a normal person.” Like a normal person, who is in love .
Zakery’s icy eyes graze me, fall back to the painting he’s working on. “There’s chocolate all over your lips.”
I lick them, feeling heat crawl up my neck.
Without glancing my way again, Zakery murmurs, “If you want to entice me into kissing you, you need only ask, princess. So long as you don’t mind teaching me how, I’m not unwilling to learn.”
That little comment forces me to hide my face in a fresh cup of tea. (We are on our second pot, a rebrew of the first, because one pot of the best tea I’ve ever had was not enough.) This whole experience has me contemplating investing in a collection of loose leaves.
Zakery sighs, finally lowering his tablet to take a bite of his dessert. “Your eyes will be the death of me, and—subsequently—the cause of my resurrection.”
“I’m sorry my eyes are causing you so much trouble.”
“Don’t be sorry that mortal hands cannot accurately depict your beauty. Your existence is a blessing that gives me something to strive for and makes me a better person…assuming that better people cuss a whole lot.”
I had noticed the cussing, yes, but I wasn’t going to mention it. “May I see what you’ve done this time?”
Defeat possessing him, he stretches the LeoPad across the table.
My breath catches as I set down my fork.
It’s… I’m stunning.
He’s painted me, glowing, with my cake. The deep dark shades of the chocolate contrast so well against all my pale skin and hair, and the way he’s worked the whites into the piece gives life to the natural shadows. It’s not like his comics, which are flat line art. This has depth to it. Blending. Color.
It makes me wish I knew how to do this.
“I think you’ve captured my eyes perfectly,” I whisper, afraid to take the device from him, lest I drop it in my tea.
Dragging my attention off the picture, I tense.
Lip curled, he glares at me, disgust evident and unusual on his face. He’s been all soft, blurred lines since we came out in public, yet, right now, he is a harsh edge. “Don’t insult yourself.”
“Insult myself?”
“Daring to suggest I’ve captured your eyes…” He scoffs. Shakes his head. Removes my privilege of looking at his painting. “Have you no self-respect?”
Um.
Well.
(If we’re being honest, my self-respect has been taking blow after blow recently, and it’s still riding around at the all-time low, which saw me chased through a convention hall in a furry costume…so…)
“Don’t answer that,” he mutters, regaining his gentleness and relaxed smile when our waitress returns to ask us how our dessert is. “I believe my date fancies hers more than she fancies me,” he says, despondent sigh leaving his princely pout. “Everything has been wonderful. Thank you.”
It’s so peculiar how he changes his colors at a moment’s notice.
In some ways, it makes me feel special.
But then I remember that I’ve barely known him a week, and feeling special is my insanity speaking, and—wow, look at that—I require more cake. Scooping another bite, I bury my thoughts and feelings in chocolatey goodness, missing entirely when Zakery ordered me a slice to-go until the foam parcel winds up beside me on the table.
I look at it, then at Zakery, then back at it. “This is…for me?”
He winks. “Something to remember me by while we’re apart this evening. As you kiss the frosting, imagine that kissing me might be half so enjoyable—it wouldn’t be, of course, but a little delusion is good for romance. Which we are concocting. Rather successfully.” He pinches his chin. “I think.”
Um. Yes. Very successfully. Already a thousand times more successfully than Harry ever did, and we weren’t faking. “Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
Brow rising, he murmurs, “She didn’t deny making out with the cake this time… Cake makeouts confirmed? More at seven.”
A giggle escapes me. “Quit it. You’re too much.”
“On the contraire, my sweet. Beside your exquisiteness, I am naught. A fly. A gnat. A mere blade of grass, brown and wilting, sent hither and thither at the whim of the wind.”
Given the regal way he carries himself, it is hard to imagine he has self-esteem issues. Even though he talks like this, he also called normal people “peasants” about thirty minutes ago, so…
I think I’ll refrain from slipping therapist business cards into choice locations of his bedroom for another week. Yup. Good plan, Mae.
Finishing up my cake, I say, “Is there anywhere else you think the wind’s blowing you today?”
He stands before I can scoot out my chair and helps me up. “Perhaps. Why do you ask?”
“I’m not sure how well this cake will survive in the car…”
Amusement tints his eyes as we head toward the cashier desk at the front of the establishment. “Am I being stood up…for a cake?”
“No.” I look elsewhere, cradling my styrofoam container securely in my hands. If I trip before getting safely to the car, I will sacrifice myself for this parcel. No questions asked.
Zakery’s eyes burn against my face the entire time he’s paying. Unconvinced, he hums. “We can take your precious cake home before our next stop.”
So there is a next stop. I glance at him, projecting curiosity as the cashier returns his card.
“I was planning to take you to the craft and fabric store so I can get you whatever you might need for your dress. I don’t know how long it takes to make a gown suitable enough to complement your radiance, so I want to make sure you have as much time as is possible.”
The craft and fabric store, he said?
My grip indents my foam to-go container.
He’s taking me to the craft and fabric store ?
His gaze trails my face as he returns his card to his wallet. “We don’t have to, of course. I can tell you’re very eager to have some alone time with your cake.”
“No.” Whoa there. My voice sounded very funny just now. I clear my throat and try again. “No. No, we can totally go to the craft and—” I clear my throat again. “—fabric store. My cake can wait. Happily wait, even.”
“You’re sure?”
“I am so very positive.” That I want to do anything but abuse the power he’s bestowing upon me. I would never take advantage of his credit card in order to get pretty things. I have a task. A selfless task. I cannot embarrass him at the Creator’s Ball. I must make certain to create a gown befitting a Bachelor brother’s date.
(I am going to make the fluffiest, most elegant, most princess dress ever .)
Pink. Ribbons. Bows. Tulle. Crinoline.
The options are endless . As endless as this man’s card limit, I betcha.
Ah, shucks… I think I am going to abuse this. Big time.
Zakery holds his eyes to mine while I drift off into magical—plausibly maniacal—places. At last, he says, “I fear for my life.”
Deranged, I chuckle. “ Fabric store. ”
“Indeed.” Looping an arm behind my back as he pops his wallet back in his pocket, he escorts me outside. “Just you, and me, and yards and yards of fabric. How romantic . We’re killing it at this dating thing. Go us.”
Unbidden, I shiver.
Go us for sure.
?
Fabric as far as the eye can see. Rows and rows of bolts. Silk, and satin, and lace, and chiffon, and rayon, and muslin, and—
I forget how to breathe.
And also how to walk.
“Careful, princess,” Zakery murmurs, catching my arm to save me from careening face-first into the wall of rainbow ribbons dead ahead. “There’s a step there.” Holding back a laugh, he nods at the very obvious yellow-painted ledge.
“Oops.” I regain my footing, step tentatively down. “That there is.”
His chest shakes as he releases me. “I’m getting stood up again. This time for fabric .”
Well, it’s not my fault he keeps serving me my favorite things on a silver platter. I have no restraint around fresh, new fabric. Miles and miles of options. Hundreds upon thousands of laces and trims an—
He catches my shoulder and firmly adjusts my direction before I have a chance to collide with a metal part of a display. As I stumble away from danger, my daze breaks, and I find myself with his strong hand planted against my back. Looking down into my eyes, he struggles to contain himself. “You are—” His whole being vibrates. “— so bad at walking.”
My cheeks heat.
He does not understand.
I have been making clothes out of pillowcases and sheets and thrift store finds for most of my life. This— this —is luxury. I’m distracted . Because I’m a normal person .
“Don’t look at me like that,” he says, freeing me from the safety of his arms. “It’s not an insult.”
“How is it not an insult to suggest that even toddlers are better at walking than I am?”
His mouth opens, then his attention drifts.
“Well?” I fold my arms.
“I’m trying to recall where I suggested such a thing.”
“You were definitely thinking it.”
“I was thinking, exactly: she’s like a baby giraffe, assuming baby giraffes are like baby deer; are baby giraffes like baby deer? When can baby giraffes start walking? I need to look this up. ”
We spend the next moment blinking at one another, then the following moments researching baby giraffes on our phones—purely to gauge my offense, of course.
The results leave Zakery clinging to a shelf, bent over to avoid the eyes of workers, and battling to speak. “You’re worse,” he sputters between chuckles. “ Worse than a baby giraffe .”
“It’s not my fault baby giraffes can run ten hours after being born! You could have let this be a compliment! ‘Oh, Mae, you’re so elegant and skilled at walking, just like a baby giraffe.’ But no .”
“I have no intention of ever calling you Mae . That is a grandmother’s name.”
My mouth drops . “How could you say such a thing to me?”
He snorts and covers his mouth. There are tears in his eyes. “A thousand—nay—a million pardons, my goddess. Your humble servant presses the limits of your benevolent humor. Forgive him.”
Jutting my lip, I say, “I’ll think about it. But don’t get your hopes up.”
This is the most fun I’ve had in years, and I haven’t even been able to start shopping for fabric yet.
“So,” he hedges once he’s managed several deep breaths and contained himself, “what are you thinking for your gown? Green, to match your eyes?”
I shake my head. “Pink.”
“Pink?”
I nod. “Pink. I love pink.”
“I suppose I should know that, as your significant other and all.”
Odd. I’m not sure Harry ever bothered to learn my favorite color. “What’s your favorite color?” I ask.
“Green.”
My brows rise.
He lets another chuckle slip free while he combs his fingers through his hair. “I promise it’s been green for a while. Although, your eyes absolutely have coerced me into choosing a new favorite shade. Green is versatile and calm. I like the peace it adds to pictures. Why do you like pink?”
“It’s pretty, and soft, and matches white.” I fear my cheeks are matching my hair very well right now.
His eyes scan me—head to toe—slowly. “That is very true. If you prefer pink, why do you wear so much white?”
Um. Well. Because. Thrift store sheet sets usually do not come in pink. They come in white. Or, chillingly, yellow when they’re supposed to be white…
I hum, dodging the question, lest I give away the fact he’s walking around with a woman who is currently garbed in old bedding. “Doesn’t white also look good on me? It deflects the sun, which is very important.”
“Duly noted,” he says, toying with a ream of pale pink taffeta.
Taffeta. Taffeta would make a lovely dress.
“If at all possible, and safe, given your reasons for needing sun protection, I’d like to see you in more pink.” Zakery smiles as he glances my way. “Don’t hold back. Get whatever you need for the ballgown and for a new wardrobe. Spoil me with new things to draw you in.”
My flesh buzzes . “Do I have a budget?”
“Viktor puts a weekly allowance of a thousand dollars on my spending card, unless I make a specific request…and I don’t always spend that much every week, so it adds up, but maybe—just for the sake of posterity—we try not to exceed a week’s allowance in one afternoon?” His head tilts. “Is that reasonable?”
Is letting me buy up to a thousand dollars worth of fabric reasonable ?
Giggling, I whirl.
Softly, he says, “Oh dear…”
But he doesn’t stop me. He doesn’t discourage me. He doesn’t remind me of the budget every few minutes, like Harry would, on my birthday, when he’d take me out to pick my own birthday gift of up to twenty dollars, no more .
All Zakery does is stop me from running into things any time I let my excitement overwhelm my ability to judge where something is.
When I miscalculate…and manage—somehow—to purchase one thousand and four dollars worth of supplies, he doesn’t even flinch
With Harry, if I went over budget, he’d extend his hand to me in the car for the surplus, and I’d fish it out of my wallet, thinking it was only fair. He gave me a rule; I broke it. Of course I need to correct the mistake. That’s what you do in a healthy relationship.
“Well,” Zakery murmurs, closing his back door on the hundreds of dollars’ worth of fabric and buttons and lace, “I am very glad I drove my four-door today. Maybe I should have opted for the SUV, but at least I wasn’t trying to show off with a sports car.” He turns to me, smiling, then drops his attention to the five dollar bill I’m holding out to him. His smile drifts away. “What’s that for, princess?”
“I…went over budget. I don’t even know how I went over budget. It was a thousand dollar budget.” Swallowing, I shove down the sickening sensation rising in my throat. It is incredibly likely that I went insane . All things considered, we’ve been in the fabric store since lunch time, and now the sun is hanging low in the sky. In a trance, I spent a thousand dollars of Zakery’s money and kept him imprisoned with me in a craft and fabric store for six hours . He never complained a single time. I can’t remember laughing with someone so much. “I’m sorry. I feel bad now that I’m not losing my mind. I shouldn’t take any of your money like this. We’ve known each other for a week, and the whole bringing me to the Creator’s Ball thing is for my benefit. I’d let you draw me in public without all this hassle. You…” Make it painless? Being with you is painless and anything but shameful. I feel safe in public with you, in ways I didn’t know were possible, in ways I’ve never felt before. No . No. Don’t say all that. Don’t you dare say any of that.
I move onto my next, more relevant thought. “Maybe I could work for free until I pay off everything? I…I don’t know. Mora’s salary covers our expenses. Even there, you and your family are doing so much for us. I’ve still been taking care of my laundry clients throughout the night, so I’ll give her that money and make some clothes for her, too, to apologize for going ballistic… This is all too much. And I—”
Bypassing the bill, Zakery curls a finger beneath my chin to gently close my mouth. “You could have spent two thousand, and I’d still just be eager to see what you’ll make. Do you think I’d take money from a real girlfriend for going over the budget I gave her, when—all things considered—the budget was irrelevant?”
“You wouldn’t?”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“B-but it’s important to be with someone who doesn’t take advantage of you like that. Someone you can trust to follow your instructions.”
He stares at me, gaze cryptic, simmering with drops of concern. “Instructions?” His head tilts, then he nods. “Yes, of course. You’re right. You’ve been in a relationship; I haven’t. So what you’re saying must be true.”
Oh good. I’m glad we came easily to this conclusion. I’ll pay the overcharge now, then work for free for a little while. He pays me well enough and draws for hours each day, so it shouldn’t even take a week to fix things.
“Follow these instructions, Maelin,” he says, twirling a finger in the air. “Put your money away.” He marches to the passenger-side door, opening it for me. “And get in the car before the last rays of light scorch your poor skin.”
I blink.
He waits.
I don’t put my money away as I approach the door. “Zakery—”
“You’re not very good with instructions.” He cuts his eyes toward the car. “In.”
Tensing, I do as he asks, then I crinkle the bill when he opens and shuts his door. I can’t decide whether he shut it a little too hard or not, but his sigh squeezes a fist around my lungs all the same. “Put it up, princess,” he warns as he pulls his seatbelt on. “I don’t need your money.”
“But…”
Leaning over the console between us, he cups my face in his cold hand and repeats, “I don’t need your money. I… might need a kiss.”
My heart flutters, leaping into my ribs.
“Kiss me like one of your chocolate cakes, princess.”
My heart hits the roof of my mouth.
Before I can recalibrate my brain, Zakery pulls back, laughing. He sticks his key in the ignition, and the engine rumbles to life. “Imagine that. A first kiss in the parking lot of a craft and fabric store.” He pulls out of the spot and heads toward the main road. “I have got to work on my romanticism if we’re going to pull this off… Don’t worry.” He smiles at me. “I’ll do some research before we’re acting in front of idiot.”
I…am not worried.
Not even a little.
Swallowing, I catch sight of myself in the side mirror, and—ha ha…—yeah.
Pink and white.
They really do go well together, don’t they?