I hit send and get up from my office chair. I go to the kitchen for another beer. When I pop the cap off, my phone dings.

Did she . . . did she already message me back?

In a hurry to get to my phone, I trip over the leg of my dining room table, stumble forward, and crash straight into my couch. By some miracle, I manage to keep the beer held high and avoid any spillage.

Christ.

Straightening up, I laugh and thank the good lord himself that no one else saw that. When I reach for my phone, the screen lights up, announcing a new message on Instagram from LunaMoonCrafts.

And like I’m a damn idiot, my heart skips in my chest.

“Keep it in your pants,” I mutter, flopping on the couch and taking a pull of beer—as my brain starts to inform my sweat glands that I’m about to cross into dangerous territory.

But the sweat that starts to tickle the back of my neck can’t stop me from opening up her message and reading it.

Hey ChrisEcrafts,

Thank you so much for your message and the follow. I love when I get to bring a new friend into my little world of crafts.

Huh, cute and nice. Unlike anything I’ve seen from her.

#Procraftinating all day, every day. I have a mountain of laundry that needs to be done, can’t tell you the last time I cleaned my shower, and my roommate is one half-full mug of tea on the coffee table away from kicking me out of the apartment. But it’s all worth it when I hold up a finished product.

Damn, she really is nice, relatable. Not sure many people fess up to keeping their place less than suitable for company.

And of course you can have the recipe. I’ll link it below. Maybe we can practice together. I’m making mine tomorrow. Send me a pic when you make yours and we can compare and contrast. Happy baking and keep crafting. Lots of love—Luna.

Right below is the recipe for the cake. I feel a bit bad that she’s given it up so easily, but then again, sometimes you have to catfish a little to get what you want, right?

Okay, okay, what I did wasn’t entirely kosher, but I’m telling you, between Thad’s dramatics and Naomi’s vomiting, baking the cake on our own a few days before the wedding is not an option.

A desperate man must resort to desperate things.

I click on the recipe and take a screenshot before messaging her back.

My inner girl comes out.

OMG, you’re the best. Thank you so much. I can’t wait to try it. I’ll send you pictures but there’s no doubt in my mind yours will be so much better than mine.

Send.

She must be perusing Instagram because she starts typing back immediately.

LunaMoonCrafts: A secret between crafters . . . whispers cakes are my kryptonite. I always seem to mess them up somehow, whether it’s forgetting to add the sugar, leaving it on the windowsill for an NYC rat to eat, or dropping my tea on it while dancing to a Bruno Mars song that I couldn’t help but shake my booty to. So, I’m a little nervous about this cake.

Hell, now all I can envision is her shaking her “booty.” And I know it’s a pretty cute ass because I may have looked at it a time or two. You know, researching the competition.

ChrisEcrafts: I’m not much of a baker either. Been known to burn anything I put in an oven, even when I set a timer.

LunaMoonCrafts: That’s really impressive, even with a timer? Burning with a timer takes true talent.

ChrisEcrafts: My talents extend beyond just a kitty cat needlepoint.

No idea what I’m talking about, but it feels right.

LunaMoonCrafts: Are you a needlepointer too? I was sent a kit from a company a week ago, and I’d never heard of them so I was excited to try it. You’ll never guess what it was. I didn’t post it on my IG for obvious reasons.

ChrisEcrafts: From the way you describe it, I’m going to say maybe it was inappropriate?

LunaMoonCrafts: It was a penis. Not just one penis, but a basket of penises with lettering that said “Eat a basket of dicks.”

Beer dribbles out of my mouth as I try to keep it from projecting all over my apartment. I swallow hard and then cough out a laugh. Hell, I would have loved to see Luna’s face when she opened that package. She’s still typing, so I wait before responding.

LunaMoonCrafts: I mean, I like a good penis, but I was not expecting that from a needlepoint company.

Beer shoots out of my nose this time, and I set the bottle down. Drinking while messaging Luna might not be the best idea. I wipe at my nose and chuckle. Damn, she’s funny when she’s relaxed—and not hating me.

ChrisEcrafts: I have to know, did you make the kit?

LunaMoonCrafts: Hell yeah! It’s in our entryway, hanging proudly. No better way to welcome people into the apartment than by telling them to eat a basket of dicks.

I laugh out loud and wish that I had the same greeting in my apartment. Or anything personal. It’s an insane asylum in here. But what am I going to hang? Pictures of my family? Yeah, don’t need to be reminded of that.

A thought crosses my mind: a baby picture I could possibly hang soon, one of my niece or nephew. Warmth spreads through my veins as I stare up at the built-in shelves next to my fireplace. I can see frames lining the shelves, me with the baby, Thad and Naomi with the baby, all of us together . . .

Smiling, I message Luna back.

ChrisEcrafts: I might need you to send me the company name so I can get one. My apartment needs a little basket of dicks too.

LunaMoonCrafts: On it. I got you covered, boo. Keep me updated on the cake. I’ll be shopping tomorrow so keep an eye out for my stories. Keep crafting (or procraftinating)—Love, Luna

Hell, everything about that last message has my stomach turning in anticipation. I need to see her again, to see if I can bring out the sweet, charming person who sent me these messages, to see if she might call me “boo” in person . . .

Christ.

I drag my hand down my face and toss my phone to the side. Reminder, Alec: Luna is the competition, she hates you with more passion than she has for her basket of dicks, and the last time you tried to have a conversation with her, she barked at you.

I lean over to the table, grab my beer, and drain it. Then, impulsively, I pick my phone back up and read over her last message one more time.

Keep an eye out for my stories . . .

Why do I feel like I’m going to graduate from catfisher to full-on stalker?

CHAPTER ELEVEN

ALEC

“Do you have a fake mustache?”

“What?” Lucas says, looking up from his computer. Through the wide picture window behind him, the Manhattan skyline acts as his backdrop. Gloomy skies blanket the city, but I feel invigorated, excited. “A fake mustache? Are you drunk?”

I step into his office and shut the door. My sleeves are rolled up, my tie is loosened, and I know my hair is crazed. I just spent most of the morning going through a bunch of pictures a private investigator sent me that barely prove infidelity in a case I just took on.

But everything came to a halt when I picked up my phone and watched Luna’s stories.

“I know you don’t have a mustache right now, you moron. I can see your face.”

“Can you? You look insane right now.”

“Because I don’t have much time. Do you have a mustache or not?”

Lucas leans back in his chair and crosses his arms over his chest. “In what universe do you think I would have a fake mustache in my office?”

“Fuck,” I mutter, hands on my hips. I knew it was a long shot, but I thought I would ask. “Do you have a hat and sunglasses?”

“What the fuck are you up to, Baxter? And if it’s illegal, I want nothing to do with it.”

“Just . . . stalking someone. Don’t worry about it. I need a disguise, though.”

“Stalking? What happened to the private investigator? Going into fieldwork now?” Lucas stands and goes to the small closet in his office.

“No, not for work.”

He pauses and raises a brow at me. “Does this have to do with Luna and the show?”

“Maybe,” I say, feeling my face flame.

“Christ, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.” He flings a gray felt fedora with a black stripe around the base, and then a pair of sunglasses. I manage to catch them both. “If you’re arrested, I’m not an accomplice.”

I stare at the hat, turning it in my hands. “Why the hell do you have this? I’ve never seen you wear it in my life.”

“There’s a reason you haven’t.”

“Where did you get it?”

“My mom got it for me the last time she was in New York. She thought it was a very old-school city and wanted me to give it a shot, since it’s what they wore in the old days. It’s been hanging in my closet ever since.”

Not going to be picky, I plop it on my head and slide the aviators onto my face. “What do you think?” I ask, holding my hands out to the side. “Do I look different?”

“Sure do.” Lucas holds back a laugh.

“Is it bad?”

“I’ll admit, I feel intimidated by your good looks whenever we’re out together, but I really think you should start wearing this ensemble more often. Really levels you down.”

“Thanks,” I say sarcastically before taking off toward his door. “I’m calling you if I get arrested.”