Prologue #2
“Bake…for you?” I echo, then I gasp as it all becomes clear.
My idol and a man whose creative work I have stanned for years is NOT propositioning me against a balcony in the middle of a September night!
He is offering 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 the whole story, 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 you can bake?” 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 this lean of his, which brings his great big height down, positioning his face inches from mine. “You’re not the best with affirmations, huh?”
I would say no, except rambling a yes, 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 saying yes with confidence soon.”
I quite entirely need to be saying no with confidence, Lukas.
Quite. Entirely.
“It’s settled then.” He steps back, straightening himself up to giant, 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’ll bake 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 just come 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?”
“You think? Or it is?” he presses.
As noted previously in relation to how I deal with pressure, I break into a gazillion pieces. “I’m…pretty certain.”
His attention strips me bare as his arms fold, muscles stretching his trench coat taut with the action. “How old are you?” he asks.
I crumple. “Twenty-two…”
“That’s ten years younger than me.” He frames his chin with his hand, pondering.
Pondering what exactly? I don’t know.
Maybe ethics.
Because I think we lost those inside the building, and we should probably go back in and find them.
Or, you know, not, since it takes him about three seconds to shrug and say, “So there’s still probably hope.”
Hope for…what, exactly?
We have reached concerning levels in the realm of infinity percent at the speed of Mach ten million.
In response, I might cower. But I’m sure it’s fine, probably. Grooming is only absolutely a serious crime, especially between a party like myself—helpless, young—and a party like himself—celebrity, mature.
Ignoring every red flag he’s just set up in a pretty crimson circle around us, he says, with finality, “You’re old enough to make your own decisions. You can text your parents later and let them know you’re coming with me.”
I…think I’m being kidnapped.
The feeling heightens when Lukas’s hand closes around mine and he rips me away from my emotional-support railing.
Turning toward the party, he sweeps the curtain aside and marches in.
“I’m tired,” he murmurs, low. “We have a full day of driving tomorrow.” He snaps his fingers, and several people fall into step around us on his cue.
“Yes, Mr. Bachelor?” a man wearing a suit and an earpiece asks, keeping pace in front of me.
“I’m heading out. Let Jackson know I want to leave tomorrow early enough to make it back home for dinner.”
“Right away, sir.”
Before he can march off to do Lukas’s bidding, Lukas stops him. “Also, if someone could bring a plate of any leftover pastries to the bus, I’d appreciate it. Beyond that, I’d rather not be disturbed until it’s time to leave in the morning.”
“Of course.” The man cuts a suspicious look back at me, then leaves.
I…gulp.
Searching the crystalline room for much-needed assistance, I lock onto my manager serving our bakery’s exquisite collection of pastries at one of the elaborate display tables I helped put together early today. Her eyes find me and widen as her mouth falls open.
I beam help and me directly at her, going so far as to blink SOS in morse code.
My manager—who seems to not know even the most basic morse code—nods enthusiastically and throws me two thumbs up.
No. No. You misunderstandddd, Ella! Ella, you moron. I’m so clearly being kidnapped against my will. What are you doing, throwing me approval?
Stop standing there like a useless twit and save me.
Anyone who’s seen a King music video knows that this man does not take his psychotic meds in the morning! It’s hot on screen, when he’s asking the audience to fall in love with his crazy eyes.
It is not hot when he’s got his hand around my wrist like a vice.
Dread builds, thundering in my chest, and the darkness of night swallows me again, this time since we’re leaving the building out the backdoor.
Bodyguards encase us as Lukas drags me to his tour bus amid the stray cries of screaming fans and flashing cameras.
Once inside the bus, the noise doesn’t settle, and my heart rate sure kicks up several notches.
“Couch or bed, cupcake?” Lukas asks.
My soul drops into my toes as he looks back at me.
Trembling, I take in the black sofa lining the wall beside me, across from a miniscule kitchenette.
The rectangle vehicle stretches, larger on the inside than I would have thought and more spacious than I would have assumed possible, yet it manages to close in on me all the same.
Couch or bed for what, sir? I’ve never so much as been kissed.
My parents have always told me that dating is bad and men are evil and I’m not allowed to do anything bad with evil people, so any interest I received in school left me with the options of crying and/or fleeing, which are marvelous options that I still tend to use when I’m not caged in by a multimillionaire.
Now that I’m an adult, my parents’ angle on the dating front hasn’t changed much.
It’s still bad, because men are still dangerous, and, “They’re only really after one thing, Clara.
Yeah. You know. That chest of yours. So it’s best if you just go to work, come home, do your chores, and read, isn’t it? ”
I have never once in my life disagreed.
For the record, I still agree, even though I’m not certain my life is persisting right now.
A terrifying smile spreads across Lukas’s face, and he murmurs, “Why, cupcake…if you want to share the bed, you should just say so. I’m happy to.
” Striding two paces to a closed door at the back of the bus, he pulls me up in front of him, then pushes me inside.
“You’ll find a spare toothbrush somewhere in the bathroom and a t-shirt that should fit you in the dresser.
Go ahead and get ready for bed. I’ll join you after the leftover treats get delivered. ”
The door closes on my back, leaving me in a room with a large bed and a set of drawers built into the base. Dead ahead, an open bathroom in all dark tile sits.
What…do I do with this?
Call the police?
It’s not like Lukas took my phone away—which is honestly sloppy kidnapping of him.
Shaking, I slide my hand down to the pocket of my apron, slip my fingers into it, and retrieve the device, which even has plenty of battery. What grand fortune.
Okay…okay.
Timing my breaths, I assess what I’m doing.
What I need to do. Even though I feel like an idiot, and I’ll probably be treated like an idiot, I need to call the police.
9-1-1. It’s that simple. Three numbers. But…
will they do anything against King? He’s got more money and power and influence than anyone needs, and in this society, I not only don’t matter, but I’ve also been offered a gift.
King wants me. What a boon.
With those thoughts in my head, I don’t call the police.
Instead, I call my mother, praying she chooses this time to pick up.
She struggles so badly with answering her stupid phone, especially when I need her the most.
After seven rings, it goes to voicemail.
Panic rising, I hang up and call again.
Three more times.
Finally, the line connects. “Clara, what? I was in the bathroom.”
“I’m so sorry,” I breathe.
“It’s fine. What do you need? Are you going to be home soon? Your brother’s been experimenting in the kitchen again, so the dishes are piling up.”
My shoulders droop. Whenever Brent “experiments” in the kitchen, he uses every pot and pan in the house.
And it’s my job to handle clean up, because dishes are my responsibility.
I am not looking forward to that. But it really doesn’t matter right now.
Priorities. I say, “I’d like to be home soon.
But…well…you remember how I told you my boss asked me to help cater the King event? ”
Mom makes a small, approving sound that makes me uncomfortable. “Yes. I remember you got lucky. Don’t tell me…” A thread of excitement runs through the line. “…you were able to meet that gorgeous man and you got his autograph for me!”
“We were told, explicitly, not to ask him for autographs at his last day of tour party.”
She clicks her tongue, losing all mirth. “And you just had to listen instead of thinking of your poor mother.”