Chapter 4 #2
I peer down at the sleeping lamb on my cotton nightgown.
Not very intimate or suggestive, is it? I thought it was cute while I was mad dashing through Amare, looking for things I’d need so Lukas wouldn’t buy out the store on me and blame me for it later.
I’m still not certain how I’m going to avoid being accused of wasting all his money on stuff I’m not using.
I better learn makeup and start painting my toenails.
Also, to answer my mother’s question: poorly. I am holding up poorly. I’ve been both so relieved that nothing’s happened and so anxious over the nonsense of what has been happening, I completely forgot that my mother would like me to get pregnant.
“Everything’s going well,” I lie.
“Well?” she prompts. “What does well mean?”
I have not yet died—from shame, fear, or assault. That’s my definition of well. I have a feeling that isn’t what Mom wants to hear, though.
“Details,” she snaps. “How was it? King is a broad, ripped giant. Was he rough? Surprisingly gentle? Let me live vicariously through your celebrity fling, Clara.”
I grimace in response to the whining, utterly unsure how to say you’re making me hysterically uncomfortable in a way that won’t upset her.
“Don’t be selfish,” she mutters.
I sink in on myself. “I… Well…” Nothing’s happened is not what she’s looking for.
I know that. Worse, it won’t just disappoint her; it’ll make her mad.
Everything makes her mad though. I never know what might set her off.
I, however, am also not sure how to provide details for something that I don’t understand and that did not happen.
“I’m traumatized,” I whisper, hoping for something I know I won’t get.
Mom isn’t the comforting sort. She grew up poor, in a bad neighborhood, with parents who hit her and her siblings. She’s not one for gentle.
“Ooh? It was that good, huh?” she purrs. “Lucky. I wish your father…”
The next words my mother deigns to provide me with leave me further traumatized. And sick. And I’d really like to return to my meal planning. The bunny stickers call for me. Innocent, and peaceful, and probably not traumatizing. I hope.
A knock sounds at my door, making me jump. “Cupcake?” Lukas calls, so I am forced to interrupt my mother’s disconcerting ramble.
“Mom, Lukas is here. I have to go.”
“Insatiable fellow. Lucky, lucky, lucky.” She puffs a jealous breath. “Fine. Take care of your man. Just don’t forget about your mother again.”
“I—”
She hangs up.
“…might.”
Another knock makes me squeak. “Yes?” I call.
The door opens before I’m prepared, so I clutch a pillow to my chest, forgetting once again that I’m supposed to be seducing and even getting pregnant. Seeing as I am not a fan of any of that, I keep the pillow clutched.
Topless, with a towel around his neck, Lukas swipes moisture from his brow and scans my room. Every bare inch of him glistens with sweat. Was he just…working out? This late?
I suppose abs don’t just stick around for no reason.
“I wanted to make sure you were settled in for the night before I retired for the evening.” He leans against the door jamb.
“Are you comfortable? We didn’t forget anything you needed?
” His attention lands on my laptop, and his brows rise.
“You’re already set up with the Wi-Fi?” Pushing off the archway, he strides to me, sits on my bed, tilts the mattress toward his weight, and snoops. “What are you up to?”
“Oh. I was just planning what to make for tomorrow. Do I need to coordinate with…Morana? Does she normally handle meals?” I overheard that she was the Bachelors’ maid, but then she ate dinner with us, and bantered with Kyran throughout the whole thing.
Also, a maid isn’t a chef. Maybe they don’t have a chef? Maybe I’m their chef?
I don’t have any formal training that qualifies me to be called a chef.
I hope I don’t royally screw anything up.
Maybe millionaires are just insane, and I participated in a hiring process that I don’t understand? Maybe I don’t need to worry about seduction? Maybe that will infuriate my mother…but maybe she’s hours away and not a present threat and…
Lukas whistles, reaching for my notebook. “This is detailed. So cute.” He smiles, flips through the pages. “No, you don’t need to worry about Morana. Unless things have drastically changed while I’ve been gone, we’ve never been a plan our meals with color-coded directions kind of family.”
Maybe I’m overachieving. “What time are meals?”
“When they’re ready.”
That’s not very strict, is it?
Graciously, he actually provides me with something like information: “Unless something has changed while I’ve been gone, there tends to be a formal breakfast, but Kyran never eats that early.
Lunch is pretty up in the air for everyone.
Sometimes Viktor’s out, so he and Crisis will grab lunch in town.
Kyran records at weird times, so he’ll usually just grab a sandwich around his work schedule.
If Zakery’s drawing, time eludes him. So even if Kaleb and I are home most of the time, it doesn’t make much sense to try and have a family lunch with half of us missing.
Plan anything really special for dinner, when we can normally all be coaxed out to the table, and—of course—bring me any special treats directly.
” Resting his head against my bed, Lukas toys with a damp strand of my hair.
“It’ll make me feel special. Here, let me have your phone. ”
I don’t question him wanting my phone. I simply hope my mother isn’t texting anything inappropriate as I unlock it for him.
“Who’s Kaleb?” I ask softly. I think he was the man sitting beside Crimson at dinner, but I’m not certain how he connects to the household or why he’s been specified in the round up now.
“Kaleb’s my younger brother. He…took to a more modest lifestyle, so he’s not subjected to the same media as the rest of us.
” Serenely relaxing beside my bare thigh, Lukas taps on my phone, then on his, and sets the entire matter of there being another Bachelor brother aside.
“I’m putting my number in here and sharing our locations with each other so you can always find me in this mammoth of a house, and vice versa.
” He offers me my phone back with the new contact labeled as My King.
There’s a complex of some kind here. I just know it.
“We should probably discuss rules,” he springs on me next.
Rules. Oh my goodness. Yes, that would be wonderful. I love rules. I just hope they’re not fluid. Very clear, very not abstract rules are delightful. They contribute to survival and peace. “Rules,” I chirp, opening a document on my computer and labeling it. “Okay. I’m ready.”
He nods. “Rule number one, I’m your favorite.”
Hesitating for but a moment, I type: Lukas Bachelor is your favorite.
And then I sob internally because what the fluffernutter does that mean?
Can’t I live somewhere with clear guidelines?
Something like, I don’t know, stay out of the West Wing.
Easy. Done. Leave me in the kitchen. Give me the key to the library.
We’re set. All good. Happy Clara. No West Wings for her.
“Rule number two, don’t listen to any of my brothers.”
I type that out and chew my cheek. Because, yeah, okay, sure. Don’t listen to the other powerful men who could end me. I love that rule. Solid rule. Great rule. Absolutely no repercussions I can see arising from that one.
If Lukas weren’t watching, I’d make a note to cry myself to sleep later.
“Rule number three, fall madly in love with me.”
My fingers hitch. Thoughts race because what? What? Why does he want that? Why would anyone want that? I’m not exactly prime relationship material. I’m annoying, difficult, disobedient, weak, stupid. Regardless, I type: Fall madly in love with Lukas Bachelor.
Out of the corner of my eye, Lukas’s mood blackens. He says, “Learn to say no.”
Air shudders through my lungs as I transcribe.
“Take more initiative for yourself. Speak your mind. Take up space.”
These all sound like things that will end very poorly. My mind is not rated for general audiences. It is constantly spouting disrespect. And I’m not sure I can take up any more space than I already do without it being even more of a health concern.
My gaze trails toward the mess of bags strewn all over the floor. At present, I’m already the cause of a fire hazard.
Are there any easy rules I can follow? Clear ones? Anything actionable? Wake up at X time. Have breakfast ready for me at Y. Clean up after yourself. Provide me with Z number of snacks a day. Present them on a silver platter.
I can’t believe it’s only occurring to me in this moment that this man harbors an inconsolable ego…
I suppose it’s nice that he’s transparent about it at least?
My family is…somewhat less transparent concerning their pride.
It makes it difficult when someone who clearly expects worship denies it.
Surprisingly, it’s hard to respect someone when their definition of respect is supplication, but don’t be obvious about it.
I am not a subtle lass.
So I always seem to mess up where it concerns how my family expects me to treat them.
It’s fine, though. Probably. My parents had rough childhoods, and my brother’s a product of being the firstborn son after a miscarriage. Emotions are sticky and expectations are weird. I don’t blame them for how it’s affected me. I just do my best.
I just…wish my best were good enough. At least every once in a while.
It’s nice to dream.
“Is there anything else?” I ask softly.
“No, I think that about covers it. For now.”
This covers nothing.
My eyes drift to rule three: Fall madly in love with Lukas Bachelor. I’m very unsure how I’m meant to accomplish that one.
It’s a joke, right?