“I’m not bailing you out!” he calls after me.

When I make it outside my office building, I run smack into a line of tourists waiting outside of Papaya Dog, needing their touristy fix. My office building is right next to the Empire State Building, which means I’m constantly fighting through throngs of humans with cameras and wandering eyes. I hurriedly push through the line and make quick work of flagging down a taxi and giving the driver the address of Cakes and Bakes, where I know Luna is headed to right now. Starting in Midtown gives me a head start, and I know I can still beat her, assuming she’s coming from the Upper West Side. I’ll have just enough time to stalk her when she walks through the door of the shop.

Recipe for disaster, right? I know that’s what you’re thinking. Stalking someone in a small shop is never a good idea, but I have to see what she’s getting. And the shop isn’t that small. It’s a supply store for bakers. I checked the website last night and realized exactly why she’s going there: for the best products and tools you’ll need to make a cake. Which is just what I need too, since I don’t even have a cake pan.

And yes, I might not be entirely incognito, but I’m pretty stealthy. I can hide behind pillars and endcaps. I mean, I haven’t done it before, but it can’t possibly be that hard.

I pull up Luna’s Instagram profile and click on the lit-up stories. Shit, I hope she’s not there yet.

There’s a picture of a stray cat on the subway platform. The cat is sitting next to a bowl, and the bowl has a few dollars in it. Her comment is: “I hope she buys a fancy hat for herself. Imagine how perfect this picture would be if she had pearls and a hat. Also, why is this cat so bold?”

Hell, I’m wondering the same damn thing. Now that I know she lives in my neighborhood, based on our diner run-in, she has to be on the 1 train, heading toward Battery Park, where the shop is. We very well might arrive at the same time. Which means one thing: I need to be on my A game the minute I leave the taxi.

Phone in hand, I keep refreshing Instagram over and over again, waiting to see where she is. I’m standing in the shop, off to the side of the entrance, wheelie basket in hand, looking like the creeper who wears sunglasses indoors. I scanned the shop—quickly—and didn’t see her. My eye has been on the door ever since. I checked the subways app for delayed trains, and it’s no worse than usual—yes, I’ve taken my stalking to the next level.

But still, nothing.

Ready to give up and leave, I stuff my phone in my pocket just as Luna walks through the door. Her hair is in a tight bun on the top of her head, showing off the beautiful curve of her neck. She’s wearing one of those one-piece romper things, in navy blue, paired with simple sandals. She lifts her sunglasses on top of her head and takes in a deep breath before smiling, as if she’s just stepped into her happy place.

Relaxed—it’s the only way to describe her as she grabs a wheelie basket of her own and pulls out a piece of paper from her purse. She glances at it, looks up at the signs in the store, and then starts heading back toward the flour.

Stealth, Alec. You can do this.

Keeping my distance, I move along with her, trying to be as casual as possible. I pick up a few things, all the while keeping my eyes on her. I even put some birthday candles in my wheelie basket. I have no intention of buying them, but it gives off the vibe that, yeah, I’m wearing sunglasses inside, but I’m trying to make a birthday cake, so leave me alone.

She stops in front of the flour. I park my basket across the aisle from her and pull a box of molasses cookies off the endcap and make a show of taking in the ingredients. In my back pocket, I have a list of my own, knowing exactly which basics I need when I practice making the cake every night this week. But the question here is: Which ingredients is she buying? Which brands? Because you can bake the recipe all you want, but there’s always something special about the actual ingredients you pick up. It’s kind of like getting that special recipe from your grandma, and it says to add some sugar but doesn’t give you the measurement. Well, how much fucking sugar, Grandma?

This is like that, but with the ingredients themselves, and there are, in reality, a million different flours to choose from. It makes my head feel like it’s about to explode.

I watch her do an IG story about being in the shop and how excited she is; then she reaches up and grabs a bag of flour with blue color squares on it. She returns to her list and goes around the corner. Like a bull out of his block, I toss the cookies away, take off down the flour aisle, and grab the blue flour, which is actually bread flour . . . interesting. See, this is exactly what I’m talking about. The secrets. The fucking secrets.

Pleased already with my idea of ditching work to stalk Luna, I pull out my list and check off flour.

Evil laugh

Smiling to myself, I pocket my list and continue on.

I spend the next few minutes following Luna around, going undetected thanks to her intense concentration on picking the right ingredients—for the both of us.

Item for item, I stack my basket, practically giddy from my brilliant idea. Not only am I going to show up on Saturday with my game face on and perfect ingredients in tow, but I’m also going to make one hell of a cake. A cake that’s going to blow Thad’s mind—show him how serious I am—and shock the judges, the contestants, the entire crew. They’ll see that I’m not just a lawyer but a master baker too.

The Ace of Cakes guy with the goatee will want my number.

Buddy Valastro, Mr. Cake Boss himself, is going to wonder where I’ve been all his life.

Paul Hollywood will fly to America personally to give me the coveted Hollywood Handshake without even taste testing, just on appearance alone.

I’m going to be so damn prepared by Saturday that—

SMACK.

I run straight into Luna and stumble backward, my basket colliding with hers, and careen right into a display of macadamia nuts, knocking them to the ground and creating a giant commotion in the middle of the vanilla extracts.

“Shit,” I say under my breath as the nuts continue to fall. “Shh,” I whisper to the falling cans, trying to capture them before they tumble to the concrete floor. “You’re going to—”

“Didn’t see you there. Sorry about that.”

Luna.

Shit. Shit. Shit.

Lowering my voice to a deep tone I don’t think I’ve ever tapped into before, I say, “Uh, no problem.”

“Why are the nuts even here with the extracts? Poor planning, if you ask me,” she says, bending down to help with the display.

“Yeah, fine. I got it.” I keep my head down and my back to her as much as possible. Please don’t recognize my back, please don’t recognize my back.

Why can’t she be the evil wench who’s been barking at me for the last few weeks, rather than the nice girl in the store helping me pick up my nuts?

The store’s nuts, not my nuts. She’s not picking up my nuts. My nuts are secure in their briefs, not on display.

The store’s nuts.

“Store’s nuts,” I whisper for God knows what reason.

“What’s that?”

Fuck. Get it together, man.

“Nothing, I got this. You can keep shopping.”

“Well, we both made the mess. Here, let me help you.” She moves to grab the cans from my arms, but I twist away, slamming right into the shelf of extracts. Boxes teeter and totter on the edge, and I watch, horrified, as they domino down to the ground.

Fucking hell.

Glass crunches and brown liquid flows over the floor like blood, representing the death of my stealth-like abilities.

“Oh goodness. Uh, let me go get—”

“Everything okay?” a clerk asks, joining us in the extract aisle.

“Think we need a cleanup in the extracts,” Luna says, a note of barely suppressed laughter in her voice. “If you can find me a mop, I don’t mind cleaning it up.”

“That’s okay, we’ll get someone on it. Just don’t touch anything. We’ll clean it up.”

“Thank you,” Luna says so kindly that I actually wonder if she’s the same person I’ve been spending my weekends with. She turns back toward me. “If you let me help you, we might be able to put the display back.”

“Uhh, they don’t want us touching anything. I’ll, uhh, I want these nuts. They’re mine,” I declare, clutching at least five cans to my chest.

“Oh . . . okay.” Luna sounds a little unsure, but then she slowly backs away. Thank God.

She glances back down at her list, then reaches up, grabs some almond extract, and puts it in her basket. Without even thinking, I revert back to my original plan, copying the grab and putting a bottle of extract in my basket.

She pauses, turns, and looks at my cart.

Fuck.

Then she looks at hers.

Back and forth until she glances back at me, still clutching my nuts in one hand. I keep my head tilted down and my body stiff as her gaze sears through me.

She takes a step forward. Sweat breaks out on the nape of my neck.