Maybe a little.

What am I thinking? No. I want nothing to do with Alec Baxter.

“This conversation is getting out of control. We’re losing track of the problem.”

“And what’s the problem?” Farrah smiles at me.

“Well, you see . . . the problem is . . .”

She laughs some more. “Oh you sooooo like him.”

I sooooo don’t.

“Mother effer, I’m hurting.”

“You’re hurting?” Farrah asks. “I’m the one up at six on a Sunday morning because my friend dragged me out of bed so she didn’t have to eat greasy food alone.”

“I needed a hangover buddy, and I have to report to set by ten today for confessionals.”

“I’m going to remember this the next time I need a hangover buddy.”

We both plop into our booth, not even needing a menu. Dining Hall, the diner a block away from our apartment, is our second home. We know everyone. I can tell you exactly what the person in the booth before us ate, just from one whiff. The red leather seats are worn, and the subway tiles covering the wall remind me of old-school New York City, which adds to the nostalgia of the diner. The chalkboard up front, listing the specials, hasn’t changed since 2016, despite not having the specials anymore.

With one look at us, our favorite waitress, Fay, gives us a brief nod. Two hangover cures coming right up.

“You could have at least let me change into something a little more presentable.”

“You look wonderful,” I say, leaning my face against the cold, sticky surface of our table. A shower is in my near future, but bacon first.

“I’m wearing a chicken onesie.”

I snort. “And you look fantastic in it.” Fay sets down two waters and a shot of what she refers to as her cure-all in front of us. We don’t ask what’s in it.

“Booze bags?” Fay lifts a brow.

“How did you know?” Farrah asks, plugging her nose and throwing back the shot.

“There are two types of hangovers when you girls come in. The first is just a regular hangover, where you look like death but still have your wits about you. Then there’s booze-bag drunk, where you both look like you slept in a dumpster and sucked on sugarcane the whole night.”

“Yup.” I nod and hold up two fingers. “It was number two.” I quickly down the shot and start coughing when its heat hits me. “Holy hell, Fay.”

She smiles. “Put some extra Tabasco in there to get your legs moving.”

“And bowels,” Farrah says, gripping her stomach. “Dear heaven, please don’t let me do something nasty in this chicken onesie.”

Fay gives her a pat on the back. “You know where the bathroom is. Food will be out shortly.”

When Fay leaves, I say, “Do you really have to go to the bathroom?”

“Can’t be sure. Will let you know.”

“Really, I’m good.” I hold up my hand and then again rest my pounding head on the cool table. “Four booze bags each was not a good idea.”

“Should have stopped at two.” Farrah flips her hood over her head, revealing the red sewn-in chicken comb on top.

“Agreed.” The scent of day-old syrup fills my nose, and to avoid losing my shot on the table, I sit up and press my hands to my forehead. “Did I dance last night?”

“With your sewing bag on your head.”

I nod. “That’s what I thought. Why the bag?”

“You didn’t want to fall and bang your head on a table because, and I quote, you’re ‘famous now, and Mama needs to protect her face.’”

I chuckle. “Oh yeah. That’s right.”

“And then you muttered something about not wanting Baxter to have one more thing to pick on.”

“Ugh, Alec Baxter.” I drop my hands. “I hope his brother accidentally uses his ass as a pincushion.”

“From what you told me, he very much might.”

I chuckle. “I can hear his girlish cry now.”

“Whose? Alec’s or the brother’s?”

“Thad, the brother’s. He has one hell of a shrill cry. When they won, I thought it was Naomi who screamed. Nope, it was Thad.” I shake my head, still in disbelief. “Their whole theme screams tacky in every way possible, the title had nothing to do with what was on their board, and everything was haphazardly stuck everywhere. No cohesion, no mix of textures and colors. Truly, one of the biggest pieces of garbage I’ve ever seen.”

“Dumpster fire?”

“Epitome of dumpster fire. If you looked up dumpster fire in the Urban Dictionary, you would find a picture of their vision board.”

“And yet we still won,” a very familiar male voice says as the booth behind me squeaks with someone’s movement.

My heart sinks.

Embarrassment screams up the back of my neck, and that familiar Whitney sweat breaks out over my lip.

Farrah’s eyes widen, and she points behind me, mouthing, “Chris Evans.”

Squeezing my eyes tight, I suck in a deep breath and turn around in my booth, my head screaming with pain from the quick movement. My vision blurs, but when it begins to focus, the first thing I see is a pair of green eyes, followed by a smarmy smile and a chiseled jawline.

Yup, it’s “Chris Evans” all right.

“Good morning.” He smiles so wide that I instantly want to wipe the grin off his face with the back of my hand. “Looks like last night treated you well. Is that five-dollar booze I smell on you?”

“Technically, two ninety-nine,” Farrah chimes in with a lift of her finger.

“Oh, even better.”

I narrow my eyes. “What are you doing here? Following me?”

“Yup. That’s what I like to do on the weekends—follow irritable egomaniacs around just to annoy them.”

“Sounds about right.” I cross my arms over my chest and turn to Farrah. “A real creep, this one.” I jerk a thumb toward Alec. “Watch out, total pervert.”

“You can tell he’s a pervert just from his shoes,” she responds with a grin.

“You can’t even see my shoes,” he snaps.

“Heard they were hideous, and that’s all I need to know to label you a pervert.”

“Ah, I see.” He twists so he’s now kneeling on the bench and leaning over the top. “Just like your friend, judging a book by its cover.”

“So, you’re admitting to looking like a pervert?” Farrah asks. Always the best at comebacks, that girl.

“No.”

“Then tell me why you’re not a pervert.”

“Why?” He gives her a good look. “I don’t owe you anything, and honestly, I don’t think you should be throwing stones in a glass house when it comes to looks.”

“Excuse me?”

“Ba-gawk!” Alec says in the best impersonation of a chicken I’ve ever heard. I don’t ever want to give this man credit for anything, but that was good, and it takes everything in me not to crack a smile.

Farrah flips her hood down, revealing her mess of hair, sticking up on all ends thanks to the static electricity formed from the fleece lining of her onesie. Yikes, she looks insane.

“I’ll have you know, I’m not wearing anything under this besides a ten-year-old bra and a pair of underwear that snaps over my belly button, and even though it’s a fashion disaster and I could ruin my budding fashion career by being seen in this, I’ve never felt so breezy and comfortable in my entire life. So judge all you want, ya chump, but I’m way more comfortable than you.”

“I see your friend’s just as feisty as you,” Alec says to me, his eyes quickly traveling up to my hair and then back to my eyes.

“Why are you here?” I ask, exasperated. “It’s bad enough I have to breathe the same air as you in a few hours. Can’t you leave me in peace to cure this hangover the right way, by shoving piles of greasy food into my mouth?”

“I’m here because this is my favorite diner and I wanted some proper coffee this morning.”

“This is not your favorite diner. This is my favorite diner. I’ve been coming here for two years.”

He holds up his hand, fingers spread. “Five years for me—ask Fay. Which means I get squatter’s rights. Pick a different place, Martha, this is my diner.”

“It’s Luna,” I say with such venom that Farrah leans over and taps me on the arm.

“I think he was calling you Martha as in Martha Stewart. Is that correct?”

He nods. “Can’t slip anything past the chicken.”

“I prefer ‘hen’ if you’re going to go the name-calling route.”

“My apologies.”

Farrah smiles, and for a brief second, I question her loyalty—until she points at him and says, “You’re an asshole.”

“Okay, that came out of nowhere.”

“You can’t call my friend ‘repugnant.’ She is the opposite of that. She’s . . . she’s . . .” Turning toward me, Farrah whispers, “What’s the opposite of repugnant?”

“Uhh . . . if he weren’t here, I would totally look it up in my phone—”

“Pleasant,” he groans, dragging his hand over his face.

“Thank you,” Farrah says, but then turns her stern face back on. “She’s ‘pleasant.’”

“Is that so? Do pleasant people usually talk about others behind their backs in such an abhorrent manner?”