Placing her sandwich on her plate, she faces me. Her dark eyes are framed by black, catlike eyeliner and mascara. Captivating—it’s the only way I can describe her eyes: completely captivating. “I didn’t talk about you, but I did mention Team Baxter and how I can’t wait to see you incorporate feathers into everything you do. I also think I mentioned wanting a pink tux for each groomsman, especially the best man.”

“Cheeky.” She’s turning to walk away when I say, “You’re scared.”

She freezes and slowly faces me, a hand on her hip. “I’m not scared.”

I cross my arms over my chest. “You are. You don’t want to fail your brother.” Her lips purse to the side and her jaw clenches. “You don’t want to fail him, so you’re deflecting and focusing on everything we’re doing.” I take a step forward. “Do you know why we won yesterday?”

“Because you’re paying the judges. I told you that already.”

“No. Because we’re not focused on anyone but ourselves. We’re not overthinking it. We’re just putting together what we like. We’re not screaming about wood and burlap and trying to be the best.”

Her eyes search mine, her nostrils flair, and I can tell she’s not even close to happy about my little moment of advice.

“You lucked out yesterday, Baxter. Enjoy your rare win, because it will be your last.”

“Wow.” I rock back on my heels. “That confident, huh?”

“I know men like you, the ones who don’t care about love or marriage, who think it’s all a joke.” Accurate. “Well, I care.” She points to her chest. “My parents have a beautiful marriage, the kind of love you read about, and they set the perfect example of what my brother deserves. Cohen found his forever in Declan. He struggled getting there, but he found him, and I’ll be damned if I don’t help kick-start his marriage with one hell of a wedding . . . and an equally amazing penthouse.” She gives me another searing once-over. “Stay out of my way, Baxter.”

“Are you declaring war?”

“It’s been war ever since you demanded coffee.”

Dismissing me with her back, she walks away, leaving me to wonder: What did I just start? Or, I guess, What did I start yesterday?

“There’s the craft queen himself.” Lucas pops into my office, a smirk on his face. “How was it?”

“Annoying.” I lean back in my chair and fold my hands over my stomach. “More annoying than I thought it was going to be.”

“A show about love and marriage doesn’t necessarily read Alec Baxter.”

“You could say that.”

I recount how yesterday was a giant waste of time, and that I asked the director if they could schedule out time slots for confessionals so I wouldn’t have to wait around all day for nothing. Diane told me it was a great way to get to know the other contestants. I told her it was a great way to fall behind on my cases. Thankfully, she granted my request, and all confessionals will be specifically scheduled from now on.

“And how was my girl Mary?” Lucas asks.

“No idea.” I shrug. “She wants nothing to do with the contestants. I don’t think she’s talked to one of us without the camera rolling.”

“Damn, a stone-cold bitch?”

“You could say that. Bit of a diva.” Then again, guess I was a bit of a diva with the whole coffee incident, but we don’t need to get into that.

“She just needs me to warm her up. So, you’re going to take me to the set next week?”

“No.”

“Alec, come on. Be a good friend. Introduce me to Mary DIY and make all my dreams come true.”

“Dude, she’s pretty, but there’s no spark in her eyes. She’s like a robot. Zero personality.”

“Doesn’t mean she doesn’t have great tits I can bury my face in.”

Jesus Christ.

I sit up and open an email from one of my clients, who’s been a nervous wreck ever since she decided to leave her husband. She’s shown me pictures of the bruises he’s given her and recounted multiple accounts of assault, but it took months to convince her to actually send the pictures to me, or to even file for divorce. But after some persuading from her friend and getting a safe place to stay—courtesy of me, free of charge—we’re finally pressing charges and divorcing the bastard. And boy am I going to bleed him dry and send his ass to jail.

“Did you hear me?”

“Huh?” I look up from my computer.

“Did you win the challenge?”

“Oh, yeah. We did. Thad put together some feather-boa wedding. I don’t know—I was just there to hand him things.”

“Feather boa? I fear for you.” We both laugh, and then he asks, “I’m guessing you’re not catching the spirit of the show?”

“Not even a little. I’m counting down the minutes until it’s all over.”

“How does Thad feel about that? He doesn’t seem like he’s going to let you skate by.”

I shrug. “I’m there, aren’t I? I’m doing what I’m supposed to be doing.” But even as I say that out loud, I know it’s probably not going to be enough for Thad. Hell, he invited me over again this week to review the next challenge and prepare by watching clips of previous episodes. I feigned work and took off before he could start begging or lecturing me about my participation, or lack thereof.

Here’s the problem: Thad and I are on different wavelengths when it comes to love.

He wants the fairy tale Luna was talking about.

The marriage her parents have.

He wants everlasting love and happiness with Naomi.

And that’s not something I understand. I’ve seen pictures of my parents before everything started going downhill. Hell, I’ve seen videos of them. They were in love. I could see it in their eyes, the way they touched each other, or held hands. But that was in the videos, in the past. In reality, I never witnessed that type of adoration, or any adoration. Dad was always working; Mom was always trying to be the perfect Park Avenue wife. They argued every night about pretty much anything they could argue about: money—always money—engagements, working late, Dad staying at hotels when he should have been home. You name it, they argued about it.

Why is that the life Thad wants?

Naomi is great, and yes, I can see how perfect she is for him. But they’re having a baby. Babies bring stress, stress brings fights, fights bring hatred, hatred brings you right back to where you were—single. Why go through all the pain and heartache for nothing?

“Just remember what I said,” Lucas says, growing serious. “You only have one brother, man. Don’t waste the time you have with him.”

“I know.” I pull on the back of my head and look out my office window. I was so out of my element on Saturday, so uncomfortable in front of the camera.

Showing up is the best I can do right now, because honestly, how am I supposed to help when I don’t believe in what we’re creating?

CHAPTER NINE

LUNA

“Are you ready?” Farrah says, coming from behind me and massaging my shoulders. I move my head side to side while we both hop up and down. “Did you do those finger exercises I told you about?”

I flex my fingers and nod. “Yup, all warmed up.”

“Do you have your game face on?” Farrah spins me around and grips my shoulders as I mean mug it at her. “Ooo, you’ve been practicing in the mirror. I can tell.”

“When I brush my teeth. I really feel like I’ve mastered the scowl.”

“Honey, you mastered the scowl years ago. Now you’re just coming into your own with it.” She holds up her hands, and I start boxing into them as we leap around the apartment. “Quick on your feet, quick on your feet.” Farrah swings her hand at me, and I duck. “Focus, hone your attention.”

“Focused.”

“Tell me, who’s going to kill it today?”

“I am.” I bob back and forth and then give Farrah a one-two punch to her hands.

“Who’s going to do anything necessary, even sit on someone’s face if you need to, in order to win today’s challenge?”

“I am. Show no mercy. My ass is coming for your face.”

Farrah pauses, winces. “I’m not sure I like that.”

“Just go with it.”

“Okay, Luna’s ass is coming for your face.” She shrugs. “Next week let’s work on your trash talk.”

“Might be necessary.”

Circling again, I box at Farrah’s hands, feeling light on my feet and ready for anything that comes my way. “You’re going to ignore all conversations from Mr. Snobby Shoes.”

“I don’t even know he exists.”

“Your eyes are on the prize. And what is that prize?”

“Giving Cohen and Declan the best wedding possible.”

“Exactly.” She lowers her palms. “Quick, flash me your hands.”

I lift my hands, and she inspects them carefully.

“You lotioned—good. Nails are clipped to a perfect length, and those fingers are stretched and strong. Rotate your wrists for me.” She lowers her ear to my wrists as I circle them around. “Perfect, no cracking, no tension.” She points to the ground. “Fast feet.”

My feet start bouncing up and down, like in those football movies, and I hold my hands at my hips, ready for the call . . .

“Draw!” Farrah shouts.

I pull my glue gun from my hip and point it at her. “You’ve been glued.”

Farrah claps her hands. “Reaction time was spot on. You’re ready.”

“Yeah?”

She nods. “You got this, girl. This competition is yours for the taking. And remember what we talked about: don’t focus on what you think will win . . .”

“Focus on what will bring Cohen and Declan joy.”