Flip cake with knife, simple, right?

This morning, after spending two ruthless hours in the gym, I sat down with my lunch—steak salad with gorgonzola sauce—and watched clip after clip of cake week on The Wedding Game. I was really confused at first, wondering why we were going to make a cake for a wedding that’s not going to happen for a few weeks, but I quickly realized the cakes we’re making would be judged for prizes. First place doesn’t just get to work with a top baker in the winner’s respective city, but they also get a dessert bar at their reception and an unlimited budget for their real wedding cake. The second-place team is given a modest three-tier cake and has the option of a dessert bar if it’s within budget. Third place . . . hell, third place is a death sentence. Third place is given a box of ingredients and a Hail Mary. They need to replicate their cake two days before the wedding, which only adds to the stress leading up to the nuptials.

For the love of God, we can’t get third place.

I can’t even imagine the kind of nightmare Thad would be if we were making a wedding cake two days before the wedding.

I hate to admit it, but Luna has been dominating the competition, with Team Hernandez coming in a solid second every time. After the first week, it’s like something lit a fire under her—probably my brilliant insults—good job, Alec—and she’s been crushing all of us. And when I say it’s Luna, I mean it’s Luna. Cohen and Declan are decent supporting characters, but her skills have been on full display this last month.

I even heard some PAs talking about Luna’s YouTube channel and how—

Hold on a GD second.

Luna’s YouTube channel.

I set my beer down and feverishly type “Luna Rossi” into the search bar.

The screen fills with videos of her face, her branding of a blue and yellow stitching lighting up the page along with her smile.

Holy hell, why didn’t I think of this earlier?

I click on her YouTube channel and quickly scroll through all her videos.

How to knit your first blanket.

Hand letter a card from scratch.

Homemade glitter bombs.

Nonna Rossi’s almond drop cookies.

Bedazzling isn’t just for the nineties.

That last one makes me smile as I think of the shirt she wore on the first day of filming and how insulted she was when I dropped my nineties comment.

But holy shit, this girl knows so much. No wonder she’s been leading the competition with such ease, especially since she’s up against such an incompetent moron like me.

Curious, I scroll through her videos, wondering if there’s one on how to master a wedding cake, but the only baking videos I see are for cookies.

Hmm, does that mean she might not be the master she claims to be?

Off to the side, under her profile, there’s a link to her Instagram. I don’t think twice before clicking it.

Instagram is always weird on a computer, but it still allows me to creep on her.

And of course, her Instagram is one of those accounts where everything is color coordinated and aesthetically pleasing. There are pictures of her claiming to “fail” at a craft, where she’s holding up the failed piece of macramé or pottery or sewing. There are pictures of her laughing, smiling, just enjoying life, and as I stare at them, desire jolts through me.

Desire to smile like that. To laugh, feel joy, have fun.

Hell, when was the last time I actually had fun?

I can’t even remember at this point. I’ve had my head down for so damn long, caught up in my job and obsessed with seeking justice . . . for what? For my mom, who’s a pretty shitty mom to begin with?

For fourteen-year-old Thad with his shaggy hair?

For the kid I used to be? Who only wanted his parents to hug him, not turn him away?

Probably all three at this point.

A lit-up rainbow ring encircles her profile picture, which I click on, revealing her Instagram stories. Watching her stories feels oddly more personal than just scrolling through her Instagram page. It feels wrong, but there’s no way I can turn it off, not when I see her smiling face, a swath of colorful pillows behind her.

Is that her bed?

It has to be.

I turn up my computer so I can hear her.

“Thank you for all the recipe suggestions. I really appreciate it. You baking warriors are amazing.”

Recipes? Is she researching for next week too?

Hell, of course she is. It’s what she probably spends every waking moment doing, especially after I foolishly threw down the gauntlet.

“I think I’m going to go for a naked cake, topped with berries.” Oh hell, why does that cake remind me of Thad’s birthday five years ago? He had a cake just like it and gushed about how much he loved it. “It really fits with what I have planned. Which means, Hot-Lanta Baking, you win the recipe competition. I’m tagging you here. Send me a DM and I’ll send you a surprise box of goodies.”

Clever marketing. All right, I can see why she has over five hundred thousand followers.

“Tomorrow, I’m going to hit up Cakes and Bakes downtown to pick up some ingredients and supplies to practice. Don’t worry—I’ll keep you guys updated on the process. That’s it for tonight. I hope you had a wonderful weekend, and, as always, keep it crafty.” She waves to the camera and the video ends.

Huh.

I lean back in my office chair and rock back and forth for a few seconds, my fingers drumming on the desk, a million terrible thoughts coursing through my head.

Terrible thoughts that could be helpful.

Very helpful.

Helpful enough to possibly keep us out of last place.

Before I can stop myself, I log out of Instagram and quickly create a fake account. I connect the account to my work email, ready to cancel it the minute I get what I need, and I create a username. Uh . . .

Hmm . . .

Something that doesn’t give me away. Something that won’t connect me to the account at all. Something that keeps me completely anonymous . . .

Ah ha, I got it.

Smiling to myself, I type out the username, ChrisEcrafts, and hit enter.

I’ve been told a few times that I look like Chris Evans, and Chris can be a male or female name, so it’s perfect. Fucking clever, right there. She’ll never guess.

Once I’m signed in, I go straight to Luna’s profile and follow her. I consider liking a few of her posts, but that might be weird. Is it? Maybe not. A new fan likes things, right? I don’t want to draw too much attention to my fakeness, especially since I don’t have a profile picture.

Shit, I should have a profile picture, make myself seem more legit.

I spend the next few moments searching for a picture of a bird, because honestly, that’s the only thing that comes to mind, and people trust birds, right? ChrisE could be an old lady bird lover.

Hell, ChrisE is an old lady bird lover, and she wears knee-high stockings because she fucking can.

A photo of a cardinal catches my eye with its vibrant colors and proudly puffed chest. I quickly make that the profile shot, and then I sign in on my phone before downloading and posting a few more pictures of random crafts with comments like “Check out this bunting” and “Crochet hooks on fire, am I right?” I add some flavorful hashtags that make me chuckle. A half hour later, I’m completely absorbed in ChrisEcrafts and knee deep in posting other people’s pics.

Hell, I can easily see how catfishing is a thing.

Once I feel confident about my posts, I go back to Luna’s profile and click on the blue message icon.

When the text box pops up, I start typing, hoping she’ll message me back . . . sooner rather than later.

Hey Luna,

Uhh . . .

I sit back, sip my beer, and think about what I want to say. Cake, ask about the cake. Compliment her profile and thank her for her help.

Clears throat, cracks fingers

I don’t mean to gush, but I absolutely adore your profile. I came across it a few months ago and finally had the courage to like it.

Is that weird? I mean, I don’t want to be a flyby fan. She’ll know I just liked the profile.

I’ve kept coming back to your profile, typing your name in the search bar.

Huh . . . is that stalker level?

I think I need to start over.

Backspace, backspace, backspace

I don’t mean to gush, but I absolutely adore your profile. I came across it a few months ago and finally had the courage to like it.

I’ve kept coming back to your profile, typing your name in the search bar.

Cracks fingers, blows on them

Here we go.

Long time crafter, first time follower.

Ha, clever.

I chuckle and roll my shoulders back.

I came across your profile from one of your delightful hashtags. It was #Procraftinating. Should be doing laundry but can’t put down that decoupage. Am I right?

I chuckle even more, down the rest of my beer, flex my fingers.

Anyway, I just saw your story about a cake you’re making and I’m dying to know the recipe. Care to share with a new fan? Tipping my sewing needle at you—your friend, ChrisEcrafts.

There.