“She wasn’t being abhorrent. That was the leftover booze talking. It has to seep out of you like the devil, slowly bringing you back to life. Anything you overheard is clearly just Satan himself exiting the body.”

“Interesting.” He scratches the side of his jaw. “So, what explains her behavior yesterday?”

“Simple,” Farrah says. “Your shoes were offensive.”

“Jesus fuck,” he mutters, shaking his head. “Just for that, I’m wearing them again.” He turns toward me. “And I would appreciate it if you didn’t talk about my brother the way you just did. You don’t even know him.”

Guilt floods me. I don’t want to admit it, but . . . he’s right.

CHAPTER EIGHT

ALEC

What are the chances that I would run into Luna Rossi, the diabolical jack of all trades, somewhere other than The Wedding Game set?

She must live close to me if she goes to Dining Hall and shows up in her pajamas. No matter how good the grease tastes here, no self-respecting New Yorker is going to travel farther than a few blocks in their red heart pajama pants.

So the question is, Have we seen each other before? Have we sat back to back at the diner before? Passed each other on the street? Flagged down the same taxi? It’s a weird sensation, wondering if the person you just met might be someone you’ve been crossing paths with for years.

I saw the train wreck walk in. The “hen” caught my eye first because it’s not every day you see a grown-ass woman in a chicken onesie. I didn’t even know Luna was sitting behind me until she said my name. Her rendition of the day before was fun, but hearing her unguarded opinion was even more entertaining—she’s got me all wrong.

Thad, on the other hand. Could not have been more accurate, at least in the dramatics department, but that doesn’t mean she has the right to talk about him like that behind his back. I can say he screams like a girl because he’s my brother, but when someone else says it, they’re crossing a line.

Which, from the look on Luna’s face, she realizes she just did.

Despite the attitude she seems to sport whenever I’m around—and yes, I’ll own up to the coffee mistake that launched this battle—I will say, it doesn’t seem like she’s usually so vindictive.

From the way she was interacting with her brother and soon-to-be brother-in-law yesterday, I could tell she’s compassionate, empathetic—despite all the yelling for burlap—and she listens intently. And the way she nods in agreement; it’s not just a regular nod. You feel she actually believes in what you’re saying.

I know what you’re probably thinking . . . staring at her, teasing her to the point of irritation, calling her names. I’m crushing, right?

Just to clear the air, no. No, I’m not.

Yes, she’s extremely gorgeous, and I may have thought about what her hair would feel like wrapped around my fist, and I really like her fucking name, but that doesn’t mean I have a crush. It means I’m a man who finds a girl attractive. That’s it.

Nothing more.

From the other side of the booth, Luna winces. “I’m . . . uh . . . I’m sorry.”

“What?” The friend, Farrah, who really looks like a good time, frowns. “Don’t apologize to him. You owe him nothing. He should apologize to you for listening in on a private conversation.”

“It’s not very private when you’re talking loud enough for the entire diner to hear.”

“We weren’t that loud,” Luna says, still looking guilty.

“I thought the Satan was oozing out of you. How could you tell?”

“God,” Farrah huffs out, “do you have a comeback for everything? How infuriating—I can see how you lost it on him, Luna.”

“He’s a lawyer,” Luna says casually, as if she knows me. “Of course he’s going to have a comeback for everything.”

“Not true.”

Farrah points at me. “See, right there. Comeback.”

“That’s not a comeback. That’s me engaging in conversation.”

“Well, we don’t want your engagement.” She dismisses me with a wave of her fingers. “Begone with you.”

I ignore her and turn to Luna. “Just because you’re scared we’re going to beat you, that doesn’t give you the right to be rude about my brother.”

“I wasn’t . . . I didn’t mean . . .”

“Your brother is tacky,” Farrah butts in.

“Hey, chicken, stay out of this.”

“Hen,” she mutters.

“I wasn’t trying to be rude,” Luna says, looking up at me with apology in her eyes, and hell, it makes me lighten up for a second.

That is, until she says, “But your vision board was atrocious, and there is no way you could have won unless you were paying the judges off.”

Poof.

Just like that, I’m back to wanting to make her life a living hell.

“Keep thinking that, Rossi.” I throw some bills down on my table and stand from the booth. “Helpful hint: take a shower before you show up today. You have an unappealing stench wafting about you.”

I give her a smile and then take off as Farrah shouts a string of obscenities in my direction. Today should be interesting.

“I have never eaten more buffalo wings in my life than I did last night,” Thad says, holding his stomach. “Dude, I could not stop. When they say endless, they mean it. I was burping hot sauce all night long. Naomi made me sleep on the couch.”

“Why are you telling me this?” I ask, revolted by my very own brother. Mind you, I’m not a snob. I can take down a platter of wings, but why does he have to hold his stomach and burp while talking about it?

“Because, that’s what brothers do: they talk about burping and shit like that.”

“Or they don’t talk at all.” I look across the set at the confessional room, wishing I could hear what Team Rossi is saying.

We just finished up our interview, during which Thad went on and on about the goddamn feathers he can’t seem to stop touching. He talked for five minutes about how they feel against his fingers and how they make him feel young again. The producer finally cut him off and asked us to talk about the other teams and what we thought of them. Naomi took the lead on that question, complimenting everyone. When they looked to me for an answer, I kept my mouth shut. I may have some opinions about Team Rossi and the distaste for my shoes on set, but I wasn’t about to say anything that could be taken the wrong way, especially since I have a job that requires me to be professional.

But that doesn’t mean Luna isn’t saying something nasty about me this very minute.

I sigh loudly, resenting the producers, who insist we stay even after our interviews are over, just in case they want to ask us another question about what the opposing team might have said. So it’s another long day, to say the least.

“Why are you staring at the confessional room?” Thad asks. “Do you want to go back in there?”

“What?” I shake my head. “No. Just wondering how much longer we’re going to have to wait. They should be booking us in time slots rather than making us all come at the same time and wait around. We have lives.”

Just as I say that, the door to the confessional opens and out walk Cohen, Declan, and Luna. They’re all laughing, and it sends a bolt of insecurity through me.

Are they laughing about me?

What does it matter? It shouldn’t.

But for some reason, it does.

Cohen and Declan go to the workstation as Luna takes off for the food table.

Before I can stop myself, I stand from my chair and head in her direction. When she arrived this morning, I did a double take—she looked nothing like the girl I saw this morning. Her hair was smoothed out, straight and silky. Her face was devoid of any leftover mascara from the night before, and instead of smelling like death, I caught a whiff of her as she passed me and she smelled like brown sugar and vanilla. It was incredibly appealing. Almost too appealing.

She’s making a sandwich as I walk up next to her. “Did you have an exorcist come to your place this morning and remove the rest of the devil from you?”

She doesn’t even look at me. “No, you did a good job of that at the diner. You seem to pull the worst out of me.”

Not a pleasant compliment.

Not something I’ve ever heard anyone say to me before.

Not something I’m proud of.

And yet, I can’t quite stop poking the bear.

“Maybe you’re just starting to discover yourself.”

She lifts a brow and glances at me. “Are you saying I’m coming into my womanhood? Because I did that when I was twelve, at my brother’s basketball game. Want to hear the whole story?”

I stuff some pretzels into a cup. “I’m good, thanks.” Turning toward her, I pop a pretzel in my mouth and ask, “Talk about me in there?”

“Who’s the egomaniac now?”

“Seriously.” I nudge her with my foot. “What did you say?”

“Looks like you’re going to have to watch it on TV.”

“So you did talk about me.” I smile.