“Whoa, take it easy.”

I don’t even bother looking up. Instead, I step away from him, take his hand in mine, and give it a firm shake while I bow my head awkwardly. “Thank you. Good cake.”

I move past him and over to my shoes as he says, “Not just good cake—moist cake.”

I slip the shoe over my heel and place my foot on the ground, taking a deep breath. He’s trying to lighten the mood, and I appreciate it, given the rather ungraceful exit I’m attempting to make.

“Very moist.” Slipping on my other shoe, I lift my bag over my shoulder and wave at him. “See you Saturday.”

“Hey.” I freeze, and he walks up to me, his eyes never leaving mine. My breath catches in my throat as he comes to a halt less than a foot away. “Thank you for everything,” he says before wrapping both his arms around my back and pulling me into his chest.

Instinctively my arms go around his waist and my cheek lands on his thick pecs. My nerves light up from the warmth he’s spreading through me, from the way I feel so protected, appreciated . . . oddly fragile in his arms. I’ve experienced my fair share of hugs, but there’s something in the way Alec is holding me, the way his body feels against mine, that has my mind whirling into new territory.

This is the type of hug you don’t easily forget. The type of hug you go home and obsess over. The type of hug that keeps you up at night, wishing those arms were still wrapped around you, holding you as you drift off.

I sigh, and my eyes drift shut for the briefest of moments before I pull away and look up at him. I can’t hold back the smile that stretches across my face.

“See you Saturday.”

He steps back and pushes his hand through his hair as he smirks. “See you Saturday.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

ALEC

“What’s with the beard?” Thad asks as he comes up to me and takes a seat on one of the stools next to our designated workbench. He carefully rubs his finger over the dent he put in it a few weeks ago, when he slammed scissors into the top—a total diva moment that’s been etched into my brain, especially the crazed look in his eyes.

I scratch my jaw. “Do you like it?”

“It’s thick.” Thad examines it for a second, but then I think he remembers he’s supposed to be mad at me, because he quickly turns away and starts pulling papers out of Naomi’s purse—which he carried into the studio for her because he’s a confident man who doesn’t give a shit about what people say.

“Hey.” I poke him in the side, and he swats me away. The set is pretty quiet. Most of the contestants are still arriving and grabbing their morning sustenance, so I push him to talk with me. “Thad.” He turns farther away from me. “Thaddeus.” Still nothing. “Thaddeus Marlene Baxter.”

He whips around, his eyes scorching with lightning as he leans in. “How dare you say my middle name in public.”

“Well, don’t fucking ignore me. I’m trying to talk to you.”

“Take the hint, Alec. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Well, that’ll make it difficult to win this challenge.”

“Why? It’s not like you help anyway.”

Okay, I deserved that one.

“About that, I’m sorry I’ve been unenthusiastic about this.”

“That’s stating it mildly.” As he sifts through papers, I pull on his shoulder, forcing him to face me.

“Thad, I’m apologizing. It would be nice if you actually looked at me.”

“Wow, what an apology.”

Christ.

I drag my hand across my beard. “Listen, I don’t want to fight with you. I want to do the exact opposite. I want to . . . to get to know you again. I want to be a part of your life, a real part, not just someone who drops in every few months.”

Thad’s scowl lessens as he leans against the workbench and folds his arms. “I would like that.”

“So would I.” I shove his shoulder. “I miss you, man.”

“You do?”

“I do.”

He nods. “Okay.” I can still sense he’s a little salty, and I can’t say I blame him.

“And the challenge this week—I’ve got it.”

His eyes narrow. “What do you mean, you’ve got it? I told you we’re not paying off the judges. I refuse to win that way.”

“I’ve been practicing.”

Thad snorts, and the residue from his nose hits my hand.

Gross.

I wipe the back of my hand on his pants.

“I’m serious,” I say.

“Pfft . . . you . . . Alec . . . you’ve been practicing?”

“I have.”

“Okay.” He rolls his eyes. “After I asked you multiple times to practice with me, you’re saying you actually practiced?”

I pull my phone from my pocket and quickly locate the picture of me and the cake—minus Luna—and I shove it in his face.

“I’ve been practicing.”

Thad gasps and pulls the phone closer. “You made that?”

“I did, you fuckhead. So when I say I’ve got this, I mean it.”

“Holy shit,” he whispers, staring at the picture. And then slowly, like Tom Hanks from A League of Their Own, he says, “We’re going to win.” He glances back at me, and then the phone. “We’re going to fucking win.” He spins around and presents his backside to me. “Pinch my ass cheeks. Make sure I’m not dreaming.”

“Get out of here.” I push him away and take my phone back, mainly so he can’t scroll through the pictures and find out Luna was involved.

“I can’t believe you practiced. Alec . . . dude.” He opens his arms wide, and before I can sidestep him, he pulls me into a hug. “You care.”

“I care about you,” I say quietly, not wanting to make this a huge moment in front of the whole cast and crew. Luckily, we’re the only contestants at the workbenches right now.

“You’re going to make me fucking emotional, when I need my game face.” He pushes me away and dabs under his eyes. “Okay, this means we don’t have to make the chocolate cake I had planned. Thank God—I attempted the frosting last night, and the powdered sugar sprayed up my nose.” I can understand that more than he knows. “Go get some coffee or something. Leave me be.”

I shake my head and step away. “Don’t fuck with my plans today. Got it?” I call over my shoulder. “None of this ‘Thad surprise’ shit. Follow my lead.”

He holds his hands up in defense. “If you produce another cake like that, I’ll do whatever you say.”

He’d better.

I leave him to himself and head toward the coffee, where I spot Luciana and Amanda talking quietly to each other.

“Good morning, ladies.”

“Hello,” Luciana says, her tone curt.

“Good morning,” Amanda replies, giving me a slow once-over before they both move away.

What the fuck was that about?

I mean, I know I haven’t been the most welcoming person on set, but the slow once-over . . . and then it clicks. I glance down at my loafers and wonder if they’ll be reporting back to Helen, the shoe snob. My guess is yes, because heaven forbid I wear the same shoes I wore during our first filming.

Seriously, what’s wrong with them?

Not wasting any more thought on it, I make myself a cup of coffee.

“Hey.” That sweet, now-familiar voice sends a shiver up my spine. I turn and find Luna smiling up at me. I have to repress the urge to lean down and kiss her. Her hair is tied up in a bun, and her lips are doused in red. I can’t help but stare at them for a few seconds before I return her smile.

“Morning.” I bring my cup of coffee to my lips and blow on it before taking a sip. I glance down at her shirt—and it takes everything in me not to spit out my coffee. I let out a bubbly laugh instead as coffee drips out of my mouth. She hands me a napkin, a knowing smile on her face. “You fucking made it,” I say, dabbing at my chin.

Her smile grows even brighter. “I told you I would.”

“‘Cake: the hostess with the moistest.’” I chuckle in disbelief. This girl is so fucking adorable. “No one is going to get that.”

“We do,” she says with a shrug as she makes herself some green tea. I watch as she puts a teaspoon of honey in it and a squeeze of lemon. “Sometimes it’s nice to be on the inside of an inside joke, don’t you think?” She turns back toward me, and her face brightens my day.

“It is.”

She nods to the side, and I follow her to a sectioned-off area near the cameras, away from the food and drinks, and lean against the wall. “I half expected a text from you last night, a picture of you and another cake, just to show how much you really practiced.”

“Want to know a secret?”

“Always.” She leans in, clutching her tea near her collarbone.

“I made more frosting last night. Made sure I really whipped it long enough.”

“Yeah? What did you put it on?”

I hold out my hand. “My fingers; then I licked it off.”

“Stop, you had icing fingers last night? Please tell me there was dinner involved.”

“First of all, you used the term ‘icing fingers’ as if that’s a normal thing, and of course I had dinner. I finished off the goulash you left behind.”

She smiles softly at the mention of her meal, and I’m overcome with the urge to pull her close and kiss the corners of her mouth, to make that smile even brighter.