“That’s not accurate at all. I don’t need another human’s validation to characterize myself.”

Her face reddens in anger. “You’re not a nice person. Now go away so I can finish my idea. I don’t want you stealing it.”

Back away, Alec. Back away.

But I can’t seem to listen to the voice of reason. I’m irritated, Thad has pushed all the right buttons to heighten that irritation level, and frankly . . . I’m embarrassed.

Embarrassed that everyone on set seems to have a connection with their loved ones while I’m struggling to find common ground with my brother. I knew going into this that it wasn’t going to be easy, but this hard, this soon? There doesn’t seem to be any reasoning with Thad, and we haven’t even started to compete; we’ve only done the intros.

And for some reason, the anger that’s building up inside me has to be spilled out somewhere. Luna seems to be the lucky one to receive the wrath.

I place my hand on the workbench and lean forward. “I am a nice person,” I say through clenched teeth, like if I say it any harder, I can Jedi mind trick her into thinking it. “And I don’t want to steal your ideas because I’m sure they’re not as good as the ones I have up here.” I tap my temple. I know full well there are zero wedding ideas up top, but a guy’s got to save face, you know?

“Oh yeah, I’m sure a divorce attorney has a lot of ideas. If anyone knows anything about weddings and marriage, it’s the person who helps rich assholes get out of them.”

Well, she’s fucking rude. She has no idea what I actually do and whom I represent.

“Told you he was a great guy,” Thad calls out. “Real stand-up fella. Great at apologies too, huh, Luna?”

We both ignore him as we start the most epic staredown of the century.

Gloves on. Ding, ding, ding . . . time to duke it out.

“Judging a book by its cover, huh?”

She tilts her head to the side, lips pursed. “I don’t have to flip open the cover to know what’s inside.”

“Oh yeah?” I fold my arms over my chest. “Please, enlighten me about myself.”

She doesn’t even blink. “You’re an entitled asshole who believes everyone works for him. You spend your career dissolving marriages rather than creating them. You’re rude and have acquired no manners in the”—she looks me up and down—“thirty years you’ve been alive.”

“Thirty-two.”

She rolls her eyes. “In the thirty-two years you’ve been alive, and frankly, Helen was right. Your shoes are hideous.”

I glance down at my black loafers. “What’s wrong with my shoes?”

“Entirely too fancy for a show like this.”

“Well, I’m not about to wear work boots.”

“And a snob as well,” she huffs, bringing her paper back out and examining it but not showing me anything.

“You think you have me all figured out, don’t you?”

“Doesn’t take a genius to spot a rotten tomato.”

Wow . . . just . . . wow.

“Well, it doesn’t take a genius to spot a self-absorbed egomaniac either,” I say, forgetting that the whole point of getting pushed over here was to apologize.

Her eyes whip up to mine. “Egomaniac? How do you figure? Because the way I see it, an egomaniac would never have gotten a self-righteous boob some coffee.”

“Jack of all trades, master of every one,” I repeat, ignoring her comeback, because frankly it’s a little true, and I’m trying to make a damn point here.

“Uh . . . okay.” Her confused look is almost cute . . . almost.

“That’s what egomaniacs say.” It’s an incredibly weak argument, especially for an attorney, but with very limited research, it’s all I’ve got.

She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she studies me . . . hard.

It’s unfortunate that she’s gorgeous. Smooth skin, dark lashes, silky hair, and lips that look entirely too tempting. But the scorn in this girl’s eyes ruins any chance at actually getting to know her.

Her tongue runs over her teeth, and then she gives me the slowest once-over I’ve ever experienced. Starting at my shoes, which she raises a brow at—seriously, what’s wrong with them?—up to my torso, and then stopping at my eyes. She crosses her arms over her chest and very calmly says, mind you, with a smile, “You’re reaching.”

What a wench.

She’s a goddamn wench.

“You’re obnoxious,” I shoot back, reverting to an admittedly juvenile comeback.

But . . . she joins me.

“You’re pompous.”

“You’re repugnant.”

Her mouth falls open for a second before she says, “You’re terribly unpleasant.”

“You’re . . . you’re short.” Good one, Alec.

“You have horrendous taste in shoes.”

“There’s nothing—” I take a deep breath. “There is nothing wrong with my shoes. But there is something wrong with your personality.” I give her a once-over too. “And taste in clothing. 1990 called—they want their bedazzler back.”

Luna gives me a look that could tear any man in half.

“I suggest you walk away,” she practically spits at me.

“Already on it. Hope your glue gun burns your finger off.”

Before she can respond, I stride back to our workstation, where Thad has his hands clasped, waiting impatiently for my return.

“How did it go?”

“Swimmingly,” I mutter.

Thad grips my shoulder. “I knew you could do it. See? A little apology goes a long way.”

In this case, I’m sure name-calling is going to go a long way too . . . but in the wrong direction.

CHAPTER SIX

LUNA

His shoes really aren’t ugly, but ugh . . . he made me so mad I had to do something about it.

“Are you breathing heavily for a reason?” Cohen asks me.

“What were you doing in the bathroom for so long?” I snap, my irritation at an all-time high.

The nerve of that man.

Alec Baxter.

Divorce attorney, as we learned in the intros. No special talents but apparently knows how to make a wicked pot roast.

Ha, doubtful.

Pot roast is only wickedly delicious when caressed every hour while in the Crock-Pot. Everyone knows this. Alec doesn’t seem like a caresser: he’s more of a dump it, leave it, and eat it kind of Crock-Pot human. Just because it steams and cooks the food on its own doesn’t mean it should be left unattended. Crock-Pot meals need friends too!

Bet the guy doesn’t have any friends, not with his surly, ostentatious attitude.

“Get me coffee . . .”

Honestly, who talks to other humans like that? We all have to unzip our flies when we pee, which means we should all be treated equally. That’s how I see it. Apparently, Alec’s pants magically vanish when he has to pee and then reappear when he’s done. Must be fun in public restrooms, his two butt cheeks just hanging out in the open. Talk about an awkward encounter.

And yes, I spat in his coffee, multiple times. Three to be exact, and I’m not even sorry about it. I know he didn’t drink it. I watched him toss it in the trash can and mumble something to himself, but the sheer fact that he had the coffee he’d demanded but couldn’t drink it was all I needed to feel justified.

I felt like I got what I needed, and yes, I might have been scowling from time to time during intros, but it was because I couldn’t believe the man’s audacity. And then having to watch him so effortlessly talk to the camera with that handsome, stupid face of his . . . it irritated me more than I care to admit.

Yes, handsome; the man is handsome. I want to say his face looks like a garbage can and call it a day, but we all know that would be a lie, and do you know why? Because, I swear on my Cricut Maker—my most prized tool—Alec Baxter is Chris Evans’s long-lost twin brother, but I think we know who ended up with the winning personality . . . and who didn’t.

Don’t want to take my word for it? Well, Declan even leaned in and whispered, “He looks just like Chris Evans without the shaggy beard.” Yup, just annoyingly smooth man skin.