Probably not as much as he has on me, though.
“Cohen taught me to never take crap from anybody.” Quietly, I add, “If only he took his own advice growing up.”
“Was he bullied?” Alec asks, growing serious.
I nod. “He was. But not because he was gay. He didn’t come out until high school. But middle school, ugh . . . it was bad. He would come home and just sprint to his room, where I would hear him crying. He was different. He liked the simple things, like creating and building. He was never into sports, superheroes, or video games. He would spend hours upon hours just working on structures, perfecting some new design. Woodshop was his favorite class. He’d spend his lunches in there so he wouldn’t have to worry about the kids. Until his favorite teacher moved because his wife got a new job, and the new woodshop teacher wouldn’t let kids work on things during the lunch break.”
“Leaving Cohen to deal with the other kids,” Alec says, understanding.
“Yup. It was upsetting, to say the least, to see him go through such a difficult time. No friends, completely alone. He would read during recess and lunch, but they would pick on him because at the time, he was small—an easy target. It wasn’t until his freshman year of high school that he really started to grow, but by then, the damage had been done. When he came out to me, he was terrified of what would happen to him if the kids at school found out, so he crawled even further inside himself. It’s why he’s so reserved now. But at least with Declan, he can truly love his life. I just wish he would indulge more in PDA. He doesn’t hold Declan’s hand in public, and he wouldn’t dare kiss him. He always says he doesn’t want to bother the people around him or make them uncomfortable, so he keeps his love to himself.”
Alec’s brow furrows. “How’s that fair to him? Or Declan, for that matter?”
“It’s not, but one of the reasons I wanted him to do this show was because I knew it would push him out of his comfort zone, make him lower his defenses a bit. He’s still reserved in front of the camera, of course, but he’s participating, and that’s what truly matters.”
“It does.” Alec studies me for a second. “You’re a good sister.”
“Thank you. My family is my world. I don’t know what I would do without them.”
“I’m hoping I can be the same way,” Alec says, looking off to the side.
I lean forward and press my hand to his thigh. “You’re taking the steps toward that goal, and that’s truly commendable. Plus, you’re already an amazing brother. You just had to dust off the title a little.”
He chuckles. “More like take a leaf blower to the dust, but I’m slowly starting to get there.”
I set my plate down on the coffee table and curl into the couch, bringing my knees to my chest. “So, you think you’ll be mean to me on Saturday?”
“Depends. Do you plan on barking?”
“Maybe.” I smirk.
He chuckles. “I plan on at least saying hi.”
“Yeah? Plan on asking for coffee?”
He shakes his head, his eyes playful. “I learned my lesson the first day. I prefer milk and sugar in my coffee, not a loogie.”
“Smart man.”
His eyes fall to the plate that’s still in his hand, now lowered to his lap. “I’ll be honest. I’m going to be nervous as hell.”
“Why?”
He glances up at me. “The stakes have been raised. Now I might not only let down Thad and Naomi—I might let you down too.”
“Stop.” I nudge him again. “The only way you can disappoint me is if you beat me. Then I’ll be very disappointed that I taught you my tricks.”
He laughs, then sets his plate down on the coffee table and stretches his arms above his head. I take in the way his biceps flex next to his ears before glancing down to his waistline, where a light patch of taught skin peeks through. What does his skin taste like? How would it feel under my palms? And below his waistline? How would it feel to slip my fingers under his briefs and—?
“Luna?”
“What?” I snap my eyes up to his. He just smiles as my entire face flames with embarrassment. Oh good lord, he saw. He saw me ogling him. He saw my eyes transfixed on his crotch.
If only the ground would swallow me whole right about now.
“You okay?” he asks, bringing his arms back down. “You look a little . . . flushed.”
“Fine. Just fine.” I stand quickly from the couch. “Fine. I’m completely fine.” I wave my hand over my face. “Just a little hot. You know how ovens can really heat up a space. But I’m fine. Don’t worry about me. I just . . . sheesh, it’s late; I think I should get going. I’m sure you want me to get going. I have no problem leaving. It’s fine. I’m fine. We’re all fine.” I hurry around the couch, but in my attempt to flee, I trip over his rug and tumble to the ground, whacking against one of his living room chairs with an oof.
Why, God . . . why?
“Luna.” I can feel Alec rush to me, but I quickly stand and push my hand over my forehead as I maneuver around the furniture, face flaming. “Hey, slow down. Are you okay?”
“Fine. I told you I was fine. Everything is fine. Just grabbing my hand mixer.” I race to the kitchen and toss it in my bag, which I left on the counter, and then spin around . . . and slap into Alec’s chest. He steadies me, his hands on my shoulders.
“Whoa, take it easy.”
I don’t even bother looking up. Instead, I step away from him, take his hand in mine, and give it a firm shake while I bow my head awkwardly. “Thank you. Good cake.”
I move past him and over to my shoes as he says, “Not just good cake—moist cake.”
I slip the shoe over my heel and place my foot on the ground, taking a deep breath. He’s trying to lighten the mood, and I appreciate it, given the rather ungraceful exit I’m attempting to make.
“Very moist.” Slipping on my other shoe, I lift my bag over my shoulder and wave at him. “See you Saturday.”
“Hey.” I freeze, and he walks up to me, his eyes never leaving mine. My breath catches in my throat as he comes to a halt less than a foot away. “Thank you for everything,” he says before wrapping both his arms around my back and pulling me into his chest.
Instinctively my arms go around his waist and my cheek lands on his thick pecs. My nerves light up from the warmth he’s spreading through me, from the way I feel so protected, appreciated . . . oddly fragile in his arms. I’ve experienced my fair share of hugs, but there’s something in the way Alec is holding me, the way his body feels against mine, that has my mind whirling into new territory.
This is the type of hug you don’t easily forget. The type of hug you go home and obsess over. The type of hug that keeps you up at night, wishing those arms were still wrapped around you, holding you as you drift off.
I sigh, and my eyes drift shut for the briefest of moments before I pull away and look up at him. I can’t hold back the smile that stretches across my face.
“See you Saturday.”
He steps back and pushes his hand through his hair as he smirks. “See you Saturday.”
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
ALEC
“What’s with the beard?” Thad asks as he comes up to me and takes a seat on one of the stools next to our designated workbench. He carefully rubs his finger over the dent he put in it a few weeks ago, when he slammed scissors into the top—a total diva moment that’s been etched into my brain, especially the crazed look in his eyes.
I scratch my jaw. “Do you like it?”
“It’s thick.” Thad examines it for a second, but then I think he remembers he’s supposed to be mad at me, because he quickly turns away and starts pulling papers out of Naomi’s purse—which he carried into the studio for her because he’s a confident man who doesn’t give a shit about what people say.
“Hey.” I poke him in the side, and he swats me away. The set is pretty quiet. Most of the contestants are still arriving and grabbing their morning sustenance, so I push him to talk wi
th me. “Thad.” He turns farther away from me. “Thaddeus.” Still nothing. “Thaddeus Marlene Baxter.”
He whips around, his eyes scorching with lightning as he leans in. “How dare you say my middle name in public.”
“Well, don’t fucking ignore me. I’m trying to talk to you.”
“Take the hint, Alec. I don’t want to talk to you.”
“Well, that’ll make it difficult to win this challenge.”
“Why? It’s not like you help anyway.”
Okay, I deserved that one.
“About that, I’m sorry I’ve been unenthusiastic about this.”
“That’s stating it mildly.” As he sifts through papers, I pull on his shoulder, forcing him to face me.
“Thad, I’m apologizing. It would be nice if you actually looked at me.”
“Wow, what an apology.”
Christ.
I drag my hand across my beard. “Listen, I don’t want to fight with you. I want to do the exact opposite. I want to . . . to get to know you again. I want to be a part of your life, a real part, not just someone who drops in every few months.”
Thad’s scowl lessens as he leans against the workbench and folds his arms. “I would like that.”
“So would I.” I shove his shoulder. “I miss you, man.”
“You do?”
“I do.”
He nods. “Okay.” I can still sense he’s a little salty, and I can’t say I blame him.
“And the challenge this week—I’ve got it.”
His eyes narrow. “What do you mean, you’ve got it? I told you we’re not paying off the judges. I refuse to win that way.”
“I’ve been practicing.”
Thad snorts, and the residue from his nose hits my hand.
Gross.
I wipe the back of my hand on his pants.
“I’m serious,” I say.
“Pfft . . . you . . . Alec . . . you’ve been practicing?”
“I have.”
“Okay.” He rolls his eyes. “After I asked you multiple times to practice with me, you’re saying you actually practiced?”
I pull my phone from my pocket and quickly locate the picture of me and the cake—minus Luna—and I shove it in his face.
“I’ve been practicing.”
Thad gasps and pulls the phone closer. “You made that?”
“I did, you fuckhead. So when I say I’ve got this, I mean it.”
“Holy shit,” he whispers, staring at the picture. And then slowly, like Tom Hanks from A League of Their Own, he says, “We’re going to win.” He glances back at me, and then the phone. “We’re going to fucking win.” He spins around and presents his backside to me. “Pinch my ass cheeks. Make sure I’m not dreaming.”
“Get out of here.” I push him away and take my phone back, mainly so he can’t scroll through the pictures and find out Luna was involved.
“I can’t believe you practiced. Alec . . . dude.” He opens his arms wide, and before I can sidestep him, he pulls me into a hug. “You care.”
“I care about you,” I say quietly, not wanting to make this a huge moment in front of the whole cast and crew. Luckily, we’re the only contestants at the workbenches right now.
“You’re going to make me fucking emotional, when I need my game face.” He pushes me away and dabs under his eyes. “Okay, this means we don’t have to make the chocolate cake I had planned. Thank God—I attempted the frosting last night, and the powdered sugar sprayed up my nose.” I can understand that more than he knows. “Go get some coffee or something. Leave me be.”
I shake my head and step away. “Don’t fuck with my plans today. Got it?” I call over my shoulder. “None of this ‘Thad surprise’ shit. Follow my lead.”
He holds his hands up in defense. “If you produce another cake like that, I’ll do whatever you say.”
He’d better.
I leave him to himself and head toward the coffee, where I spot Luciana and Amanda talking quietly to each other.
“Good morning, ladies.”
“Hello,” Luciana says, her tone curt.
“Good morning,” Amanda replies, giving me a slow once-over before they both move away.
What the fuck was that about?
I mean, I know I haven’t been the most welcoming person on set, but the slow once-over . . . and then it clicks. I glance down at my loafers and wonder if they’ll be reporting back to Helen, the shoe snob. My guess is yes, because heaven forbid I wear the same shoes I wore during our first filming.
Seriously, what’s wrong with them?
Not wasting any more thought on it, I make myself a cup of coffee.
“Hey.” That sweet, now-familiar voice sends a shiver up my spine. I turn and find Luna smiling up at me. I have to repress the urge to lean down and kiss her. Her hair is tied up in a bun, and her lips are doused in red. I can’t help but stare at them for a few seconds before I return her smile.
“Morning.” I bring my cup of coffee to my lips and blow on it before taking a sip. I glance down at her shirt—and it takes everything in me not to spit out my coffee. I let out a bubbly laugh instead as coffee drips out of my mouth. She hands me a napkin, a knowing smile on her face. “You fucking made it,” I say, dabbing at my chin.
Her smile grows even brighter. “I told you I would.”
“‘Cake: the hostess with the moistest.’” I chuckle in disbelief. This girl is so fucking adorable. “No one is going to get that.”
“We do,” she says with a shrug as she makes herself some green tea. I watch as she puts a teaspoon of honey in it and a squeeze of lemon. “Sometimes it’s nice to be on the inside of an inside joke, don’t you think?” She turns back toward me, and her face brightens my day.
“It is.”
She nods to the side, and I follow her to a sectioned-off area near the cameras, away from the food and drinks, and lean against the wall. “I half expected a text from you last night, a picture of you and another cake, just to show how much you really practiced.”
“Want to know a secret?”
“Always.” She leans in, clutching her tea near her collarbone.
“I made more frosting last night. Made sure I really whipped it long enough.”
“Yeah? What did you put it on?”
I hold out my hand. “My fingers; then I licked it off.”
“Stop, you had icing fingers last night? Please tell me there was dinner involved.”
“First of all, you used the term ‘icing fingers’ as if that’s a normal thing, and of course I had dinner. I finished off the goulash you left behind.”
She smiles softly at the mention of her meal, and I’m overcome with the urge to pull her close and kiss the corners of her mouth, to make that smile even brighter.
“‘Icing fingers’ is a very common term in baking.”
“Is that so?” I raise a brow. “Should I look the term up right now to confirm?” I pull my phone out of my pocket, and she pushes it down.
“No. It’s slang. Won’t be on the interwebs.”
“You know, using terms like ‘interwebs’ and being a pro knitter aren’t making you look any younger.”
Her eyes widen. “Are you calling me old?”
“I mean . . .” I shrug.
“Watch it, Baxter.” She points her finger at me. “I could still use the same recipe as you and blow you out of the water.”
I would love if she blew me . . . not out of the water, though.
“Why did your eyes just glaze over like that?”
“Huh? Like what?” Jesus Christ, man. “My eyes are not glazed over.”
“Yes, they are. It’s like they got a fresh coat of shellac.”
“Well . . . you . . . uh . . .”
Think of something, man. Anything . . . just don’t mention her blowing you.
She taps her foot and points at the imaginary watch on her wrist. “Waiting.”
“Uh . . . you’re, uh . . . your lipstick’s nice.�
�
Makes no sense, but compliments are always a win.
Her brow furrows. “You’re acting strange.”
Probably because in a matter of seconds, I’ve gone from just being attracted to you to being genuinely happy to see you. Because hearing you say hi to me this morning actually filled my lungs with air. Because I’m a hot-blooded man who’s starting to have dirty thoughts about you. Because I really fucking like everything about you.
“Nerves,” I answer, rocking back on my heels, one hand in my pocket as I take a sip of coffee.
Her face softens. “You’ll do great. Just remember what we talked about. Don’t overmix, and for the love of God, don’t let Thad touch anything.”
I laugh out loud. “Trust me, I already told him this morning he is not allowed to help. He can read the recipe to me, but that’s about it.”
“Then you’ll be good.” She winks, and I turn into a fucking puddle of mush inside. “I should find Cohen and Declan to go over our recipe. Good luck.”
She starts to walk away when I say, “Hey, Luna?”
She glances over her shoulder.
“My shoes—you still hate them?”
She looks down and then back up at me. “Why does it matter?”
“Team Hernandez sneered at them. My ego was bruised.”
She rolls her eyes. “Well, if you’re looking for me to mend your ego, you’re looking at the wrong person. Anyway, I’d have no chance of mending it when you’re wearing those shoes.” She smiles and takes off.
“What’s wrong with my shoes?”
No answer.
Smiling to myself, I sip my coffee. I can feel it: it’s going to be a good fucking day.
“One minute!” Mary calls out.
Sweat drips down my back, and my hands shake.
One more minute.
Steady hand, man. Steady hand.
I’ve refused to look around the room. I’ve refused to take in any of the hustle and bustle around us. Instead, for the past hour and fifty-nine minutes, I’ve focused on the cake and the cake alone.
Three tiers is way more of a challenge than the two-tiered cake I made with Luna, but she told me how to handle it, helped me figure out the recipe for the perfect amount, and told me about the stabilizers for the cake so the extra tier wouldn’t flop over or sink in.
The Wedding Game Page 17
