LunaMoonCrafts: I am scared for your life.

ChrisEcrafts: What I’m really wondering is how it put itself back together and climbed up the trash chute?

LunaMoonCrafts: I would be worried about it having a key to your apartment, and who else it handed a key to.

ChrisEcrafts: Shit, I didn’t even think about that. I just shivered in my briefs.

LunaMoonCrafts: Time to change the locks.

ChrisEcrafts: I’m on the phone with a locksmith now.

LunaMoonCrafts: While you’re on the phone, I’ll let you know, it looks like you overmixed the batter.

ChrisEcrafts: You can overmix batter? Jesus. I didn’t even know that was a thing.

LunaMoonCrafts: Baking is a science. There are many ways you can screw up.

ChrisEcrafts: I’m finding that out. Hell . . . I’m trying here, and all jokes aside, I really feel like I’m going to let Thad down again. It’s a tough pill to swallow.

I feel for Alec, I really do. I couldn’t imagine being in his shoes (or, more accurately, loafers)—having a rocky relationship with my brother already and then feeling like I’m constantly failing him. It tugs at my heart and makes me want to do something stupid.

Really stupid.

LunaMoonCrafts: I can show you if you want.

I press send and realize the mistake I’ve made.

Show him, as in, I would go to his place or he would come here. Wait, no, not here, most definitely not here. Farrah would lose her mind.

Hoping he’s one of those people who says, “Oh no, I don’t want to take up your time,” I hold my breath, waiting for his answer.

ChrisEcrafts: You would seriously do that?

Shit.

Now what?

I bite my bottom lip. The longer I wait to answer, the more it will seem like I didn’t mean it. And I guess I didn’t mean it, but I don’t want him to know I didn’t mean it—then he’d just think I’m rude. And even though we’ve been rude to each other in the past, I feel like we’ve turned over a new leaf. I’ll probably have to go through with the offer, even though it makes me sweaty and nervous, and, oh God, why did I get close enough to smell him the other day, and why does he smell like a man who just came out of a pool of pheromones?

Damn, I really need to stop rambling.

What it comes down to is this: I need to follow through on the offer my fingers tricked me into making, because it’s the kind thing to do.

LunaMoonCrafts: I would. But you’d owe me.

ChrisEcrafts: I’ll provide dinner. Whatever you want.

Crap. Dinner and baking. Feels like a date.

LunaMoonCrafts: I like tacos.

God, why did I type that? My fingers are reacting before I can even fully process what’s going on.

ChrisEcrafts: Perfect, so do I. I’m assuming we live in the same neighborhood, which means you probably know about Stuff My Shell.

Ugh. That’s my favorite tacos place.

LunaMoonCrafts: How do you know we live in the same neighborhood?

ChrisEcrafts: The diner. No one goes there unless they’re in the neighborhood.

I forgot about the diner. Apparently he hasn’t. Does he have the mind of an elephant? They have good memories, right? That phrase elephants never forget . . .

LunaMoonCrafts: You’re an elephant.

ChrisEcrafts: Scratches head Trying to figure out how that came out of the blue, but I’m afraid I’m not putting the puzzle pieces together. A little help, please.

Look who’s panicking now. Might as well be in the middle of the extract aisle, bumbling around with a stack of macadamia nut cans.

LunaMoonCrafts: You know . . . elephants never forget? cringes

ChrisEcrafts: It’s good to know I’m not the only one who can make a buffoon of themselves in this relationship.

Oh, God. Relationship. I know he means it in a friendly way, but my heart trips over the word, which doesn’t help the teeny, tiny, positively miniscule crush I might be—or maybe not; could be indigestion—developing.

I’m hoping that tingle in my sternum isn’t coming from his humor, his humility, his honesty. I’m chalking it up to the pad thai I had for lunch.

But then . . .

ChrisEcrafts: Granted, I’m the bigger buffoon, but at least you’re showing signs of buffoonery and it’s giving me life.

I’m smiling so hard.

Cheek-to-cheek smile.

The kind of smile observant people catch and say, “Oooo, what’s making you all giddy?”

Answer: Alec Baxter, the last person I ever thought would make me smile. He’s made me scowl, but smile? Color me surprised.

ChrisEcrafts: So . . . Tacos and baking? Tomorrow night at six? You in?

I don’t think I even have a choice in the matter.

LunaMoonCrafts: I’m in. Send me your address. Get ready to work.

ChrisEcrafts: I wouldn’t expect anything less.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

ALEC

Fuck, I’m nervous.

Like really fucking nervous.

The type of nervous that rips through your entire body, making you jittery and cold but sweaty at the same time.

Luna Rossi is coming over to my place to teach me how to bake a cake. What are the odds of that happening?

Was I expecting her help?

No, not this kind of help. Maybe tidbits here and there, but not an actual tutorial. Nor was I expecting to invite her over for dinner.

But here I am, pacing the length of my spotless apartment, hand pushing through my hair as I wait for her to come over. I went in to work early this morning so I could get everything done before I took off to grab the tacos and head back to my apartment. I had a cleaning service come by to make sure every surface was spotless, especially the kitchen. I cleaned it myself, but there was still flour everywhere; apparently, a law degree is not useful in figuring out how to gradually add flour while mixing.

I changed out of my suit and into a pair of jeans—my after-work sweats seemed way too casual—and a short-sleeve black shirt. I debated putting shoes on until I realized it would be weird if I wore shoes in my own house, so I stuck with just socks, because jeans with no socks sends a mixed message. I’ve been told jeans with no socks is sexy; I don’t want Luna coming into my apartment, seeing me in jeans with bare feet, and then thinking I have other ideas about the kind of cake we’re going to make. If you know what I mean. Wiggles eyebrows

This is strictly a professional visit, even if I think Luna is gorgeous and she makes me laugh, and I could see myself cuddling with her on the couch . . . or even better, pulling her back to my bedroom and slowly stripping off her clothes before tasting every inch of her body.

Christ, I’m having fucking fantasies after years of swearing off any kind of relationship. Pull it together.

I clear my throat. Business, Baxter. This is strictly business.

Knock. Knock.

My head snaps up to the door. She’s here.

Oh fuck, she’s here.

I spin around in a panicked circle, for who knows what reason.

Answer the door, you raging moron.

Right.

Be cool, be casual, don’t say anything stupid.

With a deep breath, I open the door to reveal Luna standing on the other side, wearing a pair of black leggings that emphasize her petite frame and a red shirt—which is really her color. Her hair is pulled up into that signature bun she likes to wear, large black glasses frame her face, and her skin is practically glowing without any makeup. A canvas bag is slung over her shoulder. Her smile twitches ever so slightly, and I wonder if she’s just as nervous as I am.

“Hey,” I say.

“Hi.” She gives me a curt wave. “You going to let me in?”

“Oh yeah, sure, sorry.” I step aside and shut the door behind her.

She takes in my apartment, and there doesn’t seem to be any praise or disapproval in her eyes. I feel the same way: neutral.

“Did you have an easy time finding the apartment?” I ask, stuffing my hands in my pockets.

“It’s actually three blocks away from my place.”

“That close.” I nod, feeling so awkward it’s painful. “Imagine that.”

“Yeah,” she says, avoiding all eye contact.

Silence coils between us, and I feel like it’s about to eat me alive. This is it, how I go: painful silence with a girl I’ve come to be sort of fond of. And here I thought my impending doom was going to be one of my client’s exes, angry because I won over the prized yacht he never used in the divorce proceedings.

Unsure of what to say, I let out the first thing that comes to mind. “This was easier when we were fighting. Want to fight about something?”

She chuckles, and it eases the tension in my chest. “I don’t know, the night might still end in fisticuffs and a trip to the emergency room. And to be honest, I really don’t feel like driving around in a cop car tonight.”

“Are you implying that I would be the one headed to the emergency room?”

She holds up her fist. “Take a look at this. Total knuckle sandwich. I’d stuff it down your throat before you could even think to chew.”

“Yikes, Luna.” I hold up my hands. “That’s a little aggressive.”