by Carian Cole
“I’m a pretty bird,” the bird says.
Oh, wow! He’s incredible. “Hi, pretty bird,” I say softly.
The bird cocks his head at me. “Don’t talk to him,” he says, mimicking Lukas. Exactly. Somehow, the bird has impersonated Lukas’ raspy voice perfectly, which is creepy and cool and pretty wild.
“I see you met Ray.” Lukas crosses the room and stands next to me. “You have to be careful around him. He repeats everything.”
I turn to him in awe. “Lukas, he’s amazing! Why didn’t you tell me about him?”
“He’s amazing,” the bird says, impersonating my own voice almost exactly now.
“Oh my God!” I exclaim. “I’ve never seen anything like this.”
Lukas runs his hand through his hair. “Yeah, he’s cool, but he’s a fucking pain in the ass. When he gets in a mood, he talks non-stop and repeats everything I say. It’s only cool sometimes. Trust me.”
I stare at the bird, waiting for him to say something, and I think he’s doing the same to me. He raises his little wings a bit and skitters across his perch to come closer to me.
“I love him! I had no idea they could talk. Is he a raven?” I poke my finger through the cage bars and gently stroke his wing.
“He is. I found him when he was a baby, years ago. He had a broken wing, so I brought him home to take care of him, and when he started repeating everything I said, I couldn’t let him go. I got attached to him. He’s kind of a runt, I think. He hasn’t grown much at all. And, yeah, some can learn to talk, and as you can see, they have an uncanny ability to mimic voices and sounds. For a while there, he could mimic my ring tone.”
“Amazing,” Ray squawks, clearly excited.
Lukas grabs my hand and pulls me away from the bird. “Okay, that’s enough of him. If we give him too much attention, he won’t shut up. I’d like to be able to talk to you without him babbling in the background.”
I can’t help but laugh. “He’s hard to ignore. Your house is gorgeous. I can’t stop looking at everything. It’s such a unique place.” I smile at him. “Just like you.”
He grins. “I hope that’s a compliment?”
“It is, and something smells great. What are you making?”
He leans down and whispers into my ear. “Chicken à la king.”
“Why are you whispering,” I whisper back.
“We don’t want the bird to know we’re eating one of his kind.”
“Lukas!” I cover my mouth and try to suppress my laugh. “That’s not funny.”
“I know. That’s why I whispered. Let’s go eat. It’s ready.”
I follow him to the kitchen, which is a classy mix of modern appliances with an antique table and chairs, granite counter tops, stone backsplash, and more gothic wall decor.
He pulls out a chair and motions for me to sit. “Can I help with anything?” I ask him, feeling spoiled. I’ve never had a man cook for me before, and I have to admit, it’s definitely a nice feeling.
“Nope, I’ve got it all under control.”
I watch him move around the kitchen, setting bowls and plates of food on the table in front of me.
“White wine?” he asks, holding a bottle up.
“Ooh, sounds great.”
He takes his seat and pours two glasses of wine. Everything he’s prepared looks and smells delicious. All his serving dishes are black with a marble pattern—very different from the cream-colored set I have at home. He’s made a spring mix salad, and the chicken à la king is arranged on my plate with a side garnish of orange peel slices in the shape of a flower. I feel like I’m sitting in a five-star restaurant and not some young goth guy’s kitchen.
“I’m very impressed,” I say, smiling across the table at him. “You did all of this?”
“I sure did. I love to cook.”
“It shows. It looks too pretty to eat.”
“Don’t be shy. Dig in. I have extra forks, and I can make you lots more pretty food.”
I shake my head and smile as I cut up my food, loving how he teases me. “This house is so big. Do you get lonely here?” I ask him before taking a bite of the chicken. “Mm . . . this is delicious!” I exclaim, and it really is yummy perfection. Is there anything he can’t do?
“I have the bird to keep me company,” he says simply, and I can tell that he means it sincerely, like having just the bird is totally okay, nothing and no one else needed. I’m not sure if it’s sad or admirable.
“Can I ask you something personal?” I have so many things I want to ask him, but I hate feeling like I’m prying into his life and possibly digging up bad memories for him.
He tips his glass at me before raising it to his lips. “That’s why we’re here, baby doll, to get to know each other better. Ask away.”
“Have you ever been in a long term relationship?”
He nods and swallows. “Yup. I was with a girl for almost three years, seventeen to twenty. We had a pretty great thing going, but unfortunately, money changes people.”
“Your inheritance? Did getting all that money so young change you?”
He shakes his hair out of his eyes and smirks a little. “No, me getting all that money changed her.”
“Oh,” I say. “I’m sorry to hear that.”
“Hey, better I found out before it went any further and she spent every dime, right?”
“True, but it’s still a shame.”
“It is, because I really loved her, and I thought she loved me. I guess she did, at least for a while.” He props his elbow on the table and rubs the side of his face. “As soon as I got the money, she changed. She went from being a fun, sweet girl to a demanding bitch. And ya know what? I would have given her anything, but the way she treated me? No fucking way. She just assumed, and expected, that she had free reign to my money and could spend it on whatever she wanted, and demand all sorts of crazy shit from me, like she was entitled to it.”
“That’s terrible. My faith in people just dwindles the more I hear stories like that. Doesn’t anyone value love and commitment anymore? Or is everyone just about getting something better for themselves?”
“Um, yeah, that’s pretty much how it seems to be, doesn’t it?”
“It does. Are you still in love with her?” I blurt the last part out before I can change my mind about asking. As much as I’m afraid to hear the answer, I need to hear it, because I’m slowly falling for him and I don’t think I can compete with the memory of a girl he might still be in love with. I can’t take another hit to my heart just when I’m finally starting to feel a little bit of happiness again.
He leans back in his chair and looks up at the ceiling. “I’ll always care about her, but no, I’m not in love with her anymore.” Sitting forward again, he studies me silently. “And how about you? Are you still in love with him?”
I’ve reached a point where I can answer that question with certainty. “No, not anymore. Like you, of course, I’ll always care about him, but he’s just hurt me too much and destroyed too much. He’s not the man I fell in love with.” Lukas listens intently, relief evident in his eyes at my admission. “I guess my parents were right,” I continue. “They told me years ago, when I got pregnant and married, that we were way too young to make such a big commitment, that people change too much, especially in their twenties, and don’t really know what they want in life yet. And looking back on that, I think that’s true in a lot of ways, although I hate to admit it to my parents.”
He runs his finger over the rim of his wine glass, his eyes following the circle he’s making on the crystal edge. “Do you feel that way about me?” he finally asks, shifting his eyes up to meet mine. “Do you think, because I’m in my twenties, that I don’t know what I want? That in a few years I’ll be different?” He tilts his head to the side. “That I might grow away from you?”
I look down at my plate, needing a break from his intense eyes for a few seconds, having to remind myself to breathe. Sometimes, like just now, when our eyes meet, that intens
e, warm vibrating feeling rushes into me again, making me feel like I’ve forgotten something and then all of a sudden remembered it again in one turbulent shudder of my heart.
“You felt that just now, didn’t you? It scares you,” he states.
I shake my head, ignoring what he just said for now because that feeling does scare me, but not exactly in a bad way. “Yes, I admit I’m worried because you’re still in your early twenties, and what you want, who you want, is most likely going to change.”
“Not gonna happen. I know myself.”
“People change sometimes as they get older. It doesn’t mean it has to be negative, just different. People grow and evolve and sometimes want different things than what they thought they wanted.”
“I could say the same about you. In five years, you might change what you want in life, too.”
I smile across the table at him. “That’s true.”
“Is what you want now the same as what you wanted when you were in your twenties?” he asks.
I take one last bite of my dinner and weigh my answer carefully. “What I want is the same. Who I want to share it with has now changed. Love and commitment has always been the most important things for me. Unfortunately, the person I thought I was going to have it with didn’t feel the same.”
He winks at me, picks up our plates, and carries them across the room to the sink. “Don’t even try to help,” he quips, not looking back at me. I watch him rinse the dishes and place them in the dishwasher, checking out his ass as he bends down. I tried not to, but his body just commands attention.
“I value those things, ya know,” he calls back over his shoulder.
“What things?” I ask, quickly looking away from his sexy rear.
He turns and leans back against the kitchen counter, crossing his muscled arms in front of him.
“Love and commitment,” he answers. “Bring your cute self over here.” His sultry voice drifts across the room and intoxicates me, and I bask in it for a few moments before I get up and walk across the room to him.
“Getting demanding, are you?” I say playfully, peeking up at him. He grabs me around the waist and pulls me against him.
“Would you like it if I was?” His voice takes on a whole new level of raw sexiness, making my legs go wobbly. I rest my hands on his arms and try to answer him in my own hopefully sexy voice.
“I think I would, Mr. Valentine.”
Leaning down, he kisses me softly. “Dinner was perfect,” I say when we part. “And I do still value those things. A lot.”
“I know you do, Ivy.” He kisses me once more. “Come upstairs with me? I want to show you the rest of the house.”
“I’d love to,” I answer, wondering if that’s secret code for let’s go upstairs and have sex and I just unknowingly agreed to it. Taking my hand in his, he leads me up the wide wooden stairway.
“My bedroom is down the end of the hall,” he says, gesturing in that direction. “But I’m not going to bring take you there, so stop looking like you want to run away. I have these two other bedrooms, which are pretty much never used unless my niece sleeps over, or sometimes my buddy Finn stays over.”
“Finn?” I repeat.
“Yeah, he’s my best friend. Hopefully, you’ll get to meet him sometime, and my niece, too. She’s the cutest thing ever.” We walk toward the loft area, which is set up like a sort of office and art room, with a large desk, easel, and ceramic cups filled with all sorts of different charcoal pencils. More of his framed drawings and paintings decorate the walls.
“Is this where you draw?” I ask, perusing everything. I’ve always been awed by artistic people, and he is one of the most talented I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting in person.
“This is where I’m supposed to draw, but I usually end up drawing in bed or on the couch. Now, I’m going to show you my favorite part of the house.” He draws the blinds back to reveal sliding glass doors.
“Oh! Is this the balcony I saw from the parking lot?”
“It is.”
The balcony is set up like a scene straight from a romance novel. A small electric fireplace is in the corner, which at first seems odd to me since we’re technically outside, but I quickly see the point of it when I notice the loveseat over to the right, and the small table in front of it that’s set with lit candles and a vase of purple flowers. A string of tiny white lights runs along the balcony edge and outlines the glass doors. It’s dark outside, but the candles, lights, and fireplace give off just enough light for us to see each other.
“Wow,” I exclaim, eyeing all the little details that he’s obviously put time and thought in to. “This is beautiful . . . I can’t believe you did all this.”
“I was hoping you would like it out here.” He picks up a big thick black throw blanket that’s draped over the couch. “Sit,” he says, nodding to the couch. “We’re gonna snuggle.”
“Oh . . . okay then,” I say, startled by his plan.
“Why do you look so surprised?” He looks at me with that smile on his face that makes my insides go to jelly.
I shake my head as we sit on the loveseat and he draped the blanket over us. It’s cold out, but I don’t feel it at all with the heat from the fireplace and the blanket covering us, not to mention the warmth coming off his body being so close to mine.
“This . . .” I say, looking around. “It’s just so . . . romantic and thoughtful. You do things that most men don’t.” And he wants to snuggle. Without being asked or forced. He’s the equivalent of a unicorn.
“I wanted to be under the stars with you.”
He makes my heart clench. Is this real? Is he real? I want to believe he is. I need to believe he is.
“I have something for you,” he says, reaching behind the loveseat and coming back with a tiny box.
“What? For me?” I stammer, surprised. Is he really giving me a gift?
“Open it.”
I hold the small box in my hands, afraid to open it. I can’t remember the last time someone gave me a surprise gift.
“Why did you get me a present? You shouldn’t be buying me things.”
“Why not? I wanted to give you something, so I made something for you.”
“You gave me a drawing.” There’s no way there’s another drawing in this tiny box. This is like a jewelry box.
“And now, I’m giving you something else. Just open it.”
I open the little red box and push the tissue paper away. Inside, I find a silver necklace with a little tiny fork charm hanging off it.
“Lukas! Oh my God, I love it!” I lift it out of the box, smiling. “You made this?”
He takes it from me and gently puts it around my neck, lifting my hair and clasping the chain.
“I made the little metal fork,” he answers.
I hug him. “Thank you. I love it.” I want to never take this little tiny fork off. His sweetness just gets better and better.
He turns his body toward me, resting his back against a big pillow that’s leaning against the arm of the love seat, and finds my hand under the blanket, lacing his fingers between mine.
“Do you believe in soul mates?” His voice is low and soft, with a hint of hesitancy, like he’s afraid of what I might say.
Lukas doesn’t belong here, I realize right then. He’s a Knight. A prince. A warrior. A Viking. He’s one of those men that fight for love ’til the end of time. One who would carry a woman away on his horse and make mad passionate love to her on the grass. A man who takes what he wants and makes it his forever. A man not afraid to dream or believe in what can’t be seen, but can only be felt. His heart is lost in this time, where people no longer live to love or believe that love can transcend time.
And me? ”Who am I,” I wonder.
As a little girl I dreamed of the fairytale love, like we all did. I dreamed of a love that would last forever. I hoped for bouquets of roses for no reason other than to say I love you. I fantasized about a magical marriage proposal an
d a beautiful wedding gown. None of that happens in real life, though. At least not in mine. I had happy moments, but no magical moments. Until now.
I sigh dreamily and look up at the stars in the dark winter sky. “I love the idea of soul mates,” I finally say, squeezing his hand. “To think that there is someone out there that has loved you before, loves you now, and will love you again? It’s a pretty intense idea, but I think it’s only something that happens in movies and books, unfortunately.”
He pulls me against his chest and wraps one arm around my waist, his other hand letting go of mine, sliding up my arm, over my shoulder, and stopping to rest at my neck, holding me so he can look into my eyes.
“Maybe.” He kisses my lips softly. “Or . . . maybe not.” His lips come down on mine again, lingering longer this time.
“If soul mates are real, I want you to be mine,” I whisper against his lips. And I do; I really, truly do. Maybe that’s what we keep feeling . . . that spark, that heart-jump, that odd recognition. A low groan comes from his throat, and he pulls me even further on top of him, sliding his body down on the couch until he is completely under me. He pulls the blanket over us and finds my lips, kissing me hungrily. His hands slowly roam my body, giving me time to get used to his touch. Turning us both on our sides, he lifts my leg over his waist, his hand sliding up my outer thigh to my ass, pressing my body against his so I can feel his hard cock through his jeans. My heart rate quickens as I touch the exposed part of his chest, and lower my head to kiss him there.
“Unbutton my shirt,” he whispers, his breathing heavy. With a shaky hand, I undo the remaining buttons of his shirt and push the dark fabric aside, letting my hand roam across his chest and down over his hard toned stomach. My brain and body are fighting a battle . . . my brain saying I’m not ready to go further than this right now and my body saying go, Go, GO.
He reaches for me and pulls the hem of my sweater up, and I freeze.
“I just want to feel you against me. That’s all,” he says reassuringly, sensing my panic. Leaning up, I let him pull my sweater over my head, and he wraps his arms around me, holding me tight against him. His skin is so warm, even in the cold night air.
