The Wedding Game

by Quinn, Meghan

  LunaMoonCrafts: First time a guy pissed me off so much that I reverted to barking.

  ChrisEcrafts: I need to keep that in mind the next time someone pisses me off.

  LunaMoonCrafts: What I wouldn’t give to see the posh and sophisticated Alec Baxter dig deep into the pit of his stomach and let out a yelp.

  ChrisEcrafts: I wouldn’t yelp—I’m not a goddamn Chihuahua. I’m a St. Bernard. A good Aaaroof with girth and bellow is the way I would bark.

  I snort even louder.

  LunaMoonCrafts: If you had a beard, I would consider the girth and bellow. But right now, the only thing I can possibly bump you up to is a greyhound.

  ChrisEcrafts: I should be insulted, but I can kind of see it.

  I should not be enjoying this conversation. I shouldn’t even be partaking in it, to be honest, but I can’t help myself. With the stress of the competition and the constant pressure to do my best for my brother and Declan, the realization that Alec is struggling even more than me, and actually cares about it . . . well, I’ve reached my breaking point.

  I give in.

  I allow myself to talk to someone who actually knows what I’m going through.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Glad you’ve come to terms. How’s the cake coming along?

  ChrisEcrafts: I was just waiting for you to ask. Here’s a pic.

  I wait for it to download, and when it does, I snort so loud my nose stings.

  “Oh my God,” I say quietly, taking in the heap of “cake” that’s crumbled and stacked together. At least my skills aren’t as bad as Alec’s. It’s like a messy science-fair volcano. There’s no rhyme or reason to it: icing is sporadically stroked all over, berries are sticking out on every end. And there are so many crumbs that I’m pretty sure he didn’t grease the pans.

  ChrisEcrafts: Nailed it, right?

  LunaMoonCrafts: That is . . . something.

  ChrisEcrafts: I’ve never baked a cake in my life and now I know why. That was unpleasant.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Then you don’t want to see mine.

  ChrisEcrafts: Let me guess, perfectly symmetrical, smells like a dream? The complete opposite of the pile on my counter? I pulled mine out of the oven and cringed. It did not smell good. Think I put something in there I wasn’t supposed to.

  LunaMoonCrafts: It’s nice that you tried. And if we’re being honest, I screwed up my first batch of batter. It tasted horrid and I had no idea why.

  ChrisEcrafts: Be still my heart, Luna Rossi is admitting imperfections.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Gloat much?

  ChrisEcrafts: Not really, actually. Nothing to gloat about, but I’m going to keep trying with this cake thing. I’m determined. Tomorrow I’m attempting practice cake number two. Any advice?

  LunaMoonCrafts: Grease the pans before you put the batter in.

  ChrisEcrafts: No wonder you have over five hundred thousand followers.

  LunaMoonCrafts: How was round number two?

  ChrisEcrafts: Have you ever had one of your cakes grow a goiter?

  Sitting on my bed with a fresh glass of tea on my nightstand, I chuckle and shake my head. I spent the entire day catching up on my projects, eating the cake I made last night—relieved that it didn’t taste like rat poison—and wondering when I was going to hear from Alec about his second attempt.

  After I gave him some advice last night, he signed off, claiming he needed to dispose of the “evidence.” I wished him luck and then went back to the kitchen, where I finished icing and putting my cake together, wondering how it was possible for Alec to screw up as badly as he had.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Can’t say that I have. I’m going to need a picture.

  ChrisEcrafts: Steady yourself. It’s a horror show.

  The picture comes in, and I nearly fall off my bed in a fit of giggles. Thankfully Farrah is out on a date right now, so I can be as loud and alarming as I want.

  Flat on the counter, with no plate underneath, is a lopsided cake. It has more structure than yesterday’s, but it’s on the verge of toppling over because with each tier, there is a massive “goiter,” misshapen and bulbous, making the tops incredibly uneven.

  ChrisEcrafts: It looks like it’s about to morph into a creature and eat your face off, right? To be honest, *Leans in, whispers* I feel like it’s the cake from yesterday reincarnated.

  LunaMoonCrafts: I am scared for your life.

  ChrisEcrafts: What I’m really wondering is how it put itself back together and climbed up the trash chute?

  LunaMoonCrafts: I would be worried about it having a key to your apartment, and who else it handed a key to.

  ChrisEcrafts: Shit, I didn’t even think about that. I just shivered in my briefs.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Time to change the locks.

  ChrisEcrafts: I’m on the phone with a locksmith now.

  LunaMoonCrafts: While you’re on the phone, I’ll let you know, it looks like you overmixed the batter.

  ChrisEcrafts: You can overmix batter? Jesus. I didn’t even know that was a thing.

  LunaMoonCrafts: Baking is a science. There are many ways you can screw up.

  ChrisEcrafts: I’m finding that out. Hell . . . I’m trying here, and all jokes aside, I really feel like I’m going to let Thad down again. It’s a tough pill to swallow.

  I feel for Alec, I really do. I couldn’t imagine being in his shoes (or, more accurately, loafers)—having a rocky relationship with my brother already and then feeling like I’m constantly failing him. It tugs at my heart and makes me want to do something stupid.

  Really stupid.

  LunaMoonCrafts: I can show you if you want.

  I press send and realize the mistake I’ve made.

  Show him, as in, I would go to his place or he would come here. Wait, no, not here, most definitely not here. Farrah would lose her mind.

  Hoping he’s one of those people who says, “Oh no, I don’t want to take up your time,” I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

  ChrisEcrafts: You would seriously do that?

  Shit.

  Now what?

  I bite my bottom lip. The longer I wait to answer, the more it will seem like I didn’t mean it. And I guess I didn’t mean it, but I don’t want him to know I didn’t mean it—then he’d just think I’m rude. And even though we’ve been rude to each other in the past, I feel like we’ve turned over a new leaf. I’ll probably have to go through with the offer, even though it makes me sweaty and nervous, and, oh God, why did I get close enough to smell him the other day, and why does he smell like a man who just came out of a pool of pheromones?

  Damn, I really need to stop rambling.

  What it comes down to is this: I need to follow through on the offer my fingers tricked me into making, because it’s the kind thing to do.

  LunaMoonCrafts: I would. But you’d owe me.

  ChrisEcrafts: I’ll provide dinner. Whatever you want.

  Crap. Dinner and baking. Feels like a date.

  LunaMoonCrafts: I like tacos.

  God, why did I type that? My fingers are reacting before I can even fully process what’s going on.

  ChrisEcrafts: Perfect, so do I. I’m assuming we live in the same neighborhood, which means you probably know about Stuff My Shell.

  Ugh. That’s my favorite tacos place.

  LunaMoonCrafts: How do you know we live in the same neighborhood?

  ChrisEcrafts: The diner. No one goes there unless they’re in the neighborhood.

  I forgot about the diner. Apparently he hasn’t. Does he have the mind of an elephant? They have good memories, right? That phrase elephants never forget . . .

  LunaMoonCrafts: You’re an elephant.

  ChrisEcrafts: *Scratches head* Trying to figure out how that came out of the blue, but I’m afraid I’m not putting the puzzle pieces together. A little help, please.

  Look who’s panicking now. Might as well be in the middle of the extract aisle, bumbling around with a stack of macadamia nut cans.

  LunaMoonCrafts: You k
now . . . elephants never forget? *cringes*

  ChrisEcrafts: It’s good to know I’m not the only one who can make a buffoon of themselves in this relationship.

  Oh, God. Relationship. I know he means it in a friendly way, but my heart trips over the word, which doesn’t help the teeny, tiny, positively miniscule crush I might be—or maybe not; could be indigestion—developing.

  I’m hoping that tingle in my sternum isn’t coming from his humor, his humility, his honesty. I’m chalking it up to the pad thai I had for lunch.

  But then . . .

  ChrisEcrafts: Granted, I’m the bigger buffoon, but at least you’re showing signs of buffoonery and it’s giving me life.

  I’m smiling so hard.

  Cheek-to-cheek smile.

  The kind of smile observant people catch and say, “Oooo, what’s making you all giddy?”

  Answer: Alec Baxter, the last person I ever thought would make me smile. He’s made me scowl, but smile? Color me surprised.

  ChrisEcrafts: So . . . Tacos and baking? Tomorrow night at six? You in?

  I don’t think I even have a choice in the matter.

  LunaMoonCrafts: I’m in. Send me your address. Get ready to work.

  ChrisEcrafts: I wouldn’t expect anything less.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  ALEC

  Fuck, I’m nervous.

  Like really fucking nervous.

  The type of nervous that rips through your entire body, making you jittery and cold but sweaty at the same time.

  Luna Rossi is coming over to my place to teach me how to bake a cake. What are the odds of that happening?

  Was I expecting her help?

  No, not this kind of help. Maybe tidbits here and there, but not an actual tutorial. Nor was I expecting to invite her over for dinner.

  But here I am, pacing the length of my spotless apartment, hand pushing through my hair as I wait for her to come over. I went in to work early this morning so I could get everything done before I took off to grab the tacos and head back to my apartment. I had a cleaning service come by to make sure every surface was spotless, especially the kitchen. I cleaned it myself, but there was still flour everywhere; apparently, a law degree is not useful in figuring out how to gradually add flour while mixing.

  I changed out of my suit and into a pair of jeans—my after-work sweats seemed way too casual—and a short-sleeve black shirt. I debated putting shoes on until I realized it would be weird if I wore shoes in my own house, so I stuck with just socks, because jeans with no socks sends a mixed message. I’ve been told jeans with no socks is sexy; I don’t want Luna coming into my apartment, seeing me in jeans with bare feet, and then thinking I have other ideas about the kind of cake we’re going to make. If you know what I mean. *Wiggles eyebrows*

  This is strictly a professional visit, even if I think Luna is gorgeous and she makes me laugh, and I could see myself cuddling with her on the couch . . . or even better, pulling her back to my bedroom and slowly stripping off her clothes before tasting every inch of her body.

  Christ, I’m having fucking fantasies after years of swearing off any kind of relationship. Pull it together.

  I clear my throat. Business, Baxter. This is strictly business.

  Knock. Knock.

  My head snaps up to the door. She’s here.

  Oh fuck, she’s here.

  I spin around in a panicked circle, for who knows what reason.

  Answer the door, you raging moron.

  Right.

  Be cool, be casual, don’t say anything stupid.

  With a deep breath, I open the door to reveal Luna standing on the other side, wearing a pair of black leggings that emphasize her petite frame and a red shirt—which is really her color. Her hair is pulled up into that signature bun she likes to wear, large black glasses frame her face, and her skin is practically glowing without any makeup. A canvas bag is slung over her shoulder. Her smile twitches ever so slightly, and I wonder if she’s just as nervous as I am.

  “Hey,” I say.

  “Hi.” She gives me a curt wave. “You going to let me in?”

  “Oh yeah, sure, sorry.” I step aside and shut the door behind her.

  She takes in my apartment, and there doesn’t seem to be any praise or disapproval in her eyes. I feel the same way: neutral.

  “Did you have an easy time finding the apartment?” I ask, stuffing my hands in my pockets.

  “It’s actually three blocks away from my place.”

  “That close.” I nod, feeling so awkward it’s painful. “Imagine that.”

  “Yeah,” she says, avoiding all eye contact.

  Silence coils between us, and I feel like it’s about to eat me alive. This is it, how I go: painful silence with a girl I’ve come to be sort of fond of. And here I thought my impending doom was going to be one of my client’s exes, angry because I won over the prized yacht he never used in the divorce proceedings.

  Unsure of what to say, I let out the first thing that comes to mind. “This was easier when we were fighting. Want to fight about something?”

  She chuckles, and it eases the tension in my chest. “I don’t know, the night might still end in fisticuffs and a trip to the emergency room. And to be honest, I really don’t feel like driving around in a cop car tonight.”

  “Are you implying that I would be the one headed to the emergency room?”

  She holds up her fist. “Take a look at this. Total knuckle sandwich. I’d stuff it down your throat before you could even think to chew.”

  “Yikes, Luna.” I hold up my hands. “That’s a little aggressive.”

  “Got to be when you’re in New York City. Not all of us can afford a car service to drive us around so we don’t scuff our hideous loafers.”

  I chuckle and shake my head. “I’m a lot more down to earth than you think.” I point down my hallway, toward my room. “And down there are all five pairs of my shoe collection. Please peruse them and see that I don’t have just loafers.”

  “Only five? Hell, I have more shoes than you.”

  “You’d be surprised what you’d find if you stopped judging a book by its cover and actually flipped it open.” I almost smile, remembering one of our first conversations.

  She gives me a sly once-over. “Maybe I’ll give it a flip tonight, but first, tacos. I’m starving. I usually eat at five on the dot.”

  “What are you, eighty?”

  “Technically the elderly are known for eating at four.”

  “Well, I don’t want you dying of starvation.”

  I direct her to the table, where I have a dozen tacos waiting to be consumed as well as some chips and salsa. As she sits down, I go to grab some glasses of water for us.

  “I only have water. I hope that’s okay. Drank all my beer the last couple of nights and didn’t get a chance to restock.”

  “Water is gr—oh my God, you got the pineapple salsa.”

  “You like it?”

  “It’s my favorite.” She dips a chip in it and pops the whole thing in her mouth. “Ugh, it’s so good. Thank you.”

  “Of course. Just remember the salsa when you’re elbow deep in flour with me.”

  I set the two water glasses down and start digging in. Luna does the same, taking three tacos and putting them on her plate along with some chips and salsa.

  “So.” She holds a taco up to her mouth. “Why are you being nice to me?”

  I laugh out loud, thankful I haven’t taken a bite of my taco just yet. “Just going to come in hot with the questions, huh?”

  “I don’t beat around the bush.”

  “So I’ve noticed.” I take a bite, chew, and swallow. “Honestly, I never wanted to be mean to you in the first place. It just happened. I was in a shitty mood, and I took it out on you. I tried to bridge the gap, but you went all dog on me and made it impossible.”

  “A tip from Farrah.”

  “Does she often have to fight men off?”

  “More than I’m s
ure she cares to admit. Glad the barking worked, though—helped me focus.”

  “Why? Was I distracting you?” I raise a brow at her, and her eyes widen.

  “What, no, I mean . . . no. Not like that kind of distracting. Not the sexual kind. But you know, the competitive kind.”

  I smirk. “Why don’t you act a little more horrified? Feels really good.”

  She laughs this time and leans back in her chair, studying me. “I’m a little nervous, okay? This all seems so weird and strange, so excuse me if I’m a little awkward.”

  I drum my fingers on the table, studying her in return. “I’m a little nervous as well.”

  “Really? The man who doesn’t seem to show any sort of emotion? Nervous?”

  “I am.” I pick up my taco. “Not every day I get to be in the presence of DIY royalty.”

  She rolls her eyes and throws her napkin at me. “You are every weekend, and I’m not talking about me.”

  “Then who? Wait, are you talking about Mary DIY?”

  “Uh yeah. She’s the queen.”

  “She’s fucking rude.”

  “What?” Luna asks, as if I’ve just insulted her. “Mary DIY is not rude. Well . . . I mean, she’s—”

  “Have you actually met her yet? Like, officially met her, talked to her when the cameras weren’t rolling?”

  “I mean, she’s busy. . .”

  “No one is that busy. Hate to say it, but the lady is self-absorbed.”

  “Yeah.” She sighs. “I didn’t want to believe it, but she is sort of rude.”

  “She is, and I’d be worried if I were her—I think there’s going to be a new queen in town.”

  Luna points to her chest with a chip. “Are you talking about me?”

  “Who else would I be talking about? Know-it-all Helen?”

  “Well, she does seem to know how to tell everyone what to do but has no actual skills, which is rather impressive in itself.”

  “Not as impressive as the things you’ve been turning out week after week,” I admit.

  She twists her water glass as she looks up at me. “Are you giving me a compliment, Alec Baxter?”

  “Yup. And I mean it. You’re good, Luna. Really fucking good. Cohen is lucky to have you as a sister.”

  Growing serious as well, Luna says, “That means a lot to me. Thank you.”