“‘Icing fingers’ is a very common term in baking.”

“Is that so?” I raise a brow. “Should I look the term up right now to confirm?” I pull my phone out of my pocket, and she pushes it down.

“No. It’s slang. Won’t be on the interwebs.”

“You know, using terms like ‘interwebs’ and being a pro knitter aren’t making you look any younger.”

Her eyes widen. “Are you calling me old?”

“I mean . . .” I shrug.

“Watch it, Baxter.” She points her finger at me. “I could still use the same recipe as you and blow you out of the water.”

I would love if she blew me . . . not out of the water, though.

“Why did your eyes just glaze over like that?”

“Huh? Like what?” Jesus Christ, man. “My eyes are not glazed over.”

“Yes, they are. It’s like they got a fresh coat of shellac.”

“Well . . . you . . . uh . . .”

Think of something, man. Anything . . . just don’t mention her blowing you.

She taps her foot and points at the imaginary watch on her wrist. “Waiting.”

“Uh . . . you’re, uh . . . your lipstick’s nice.”

Makes no sense, but compliments are always a win.

Her brow furrows. “You’re acting strange.”

Probably because in a matter of seconds, I’ve gone from just being attracted to you to being genuinely happy to see you. Because hearing you say hi to me this morning actually filled my lungs with air. Because I’m a hot-blooded man who’s starting to have dirty thoughts about you. Because I really fucking like everything about you.

“Nerves,” I answer, rocking back on my heels, one hand in my pocket as I take a sip of coffee.

Her face softens. “You’ll do great. Just remember what we talked about. Don’t overmix, and for the love of God, don’t let Thad touch anything.”

I laugh out loud. “Trust me, I already told him this morning he is not allowed to help. He can read the recipe to me, but that’s about it.”

“Then you’ll be good.” She winks, and I turn into a fucking puddle of mush inside. “I should find Cohen and Declan to go over our recipe. Good luck.”

She starts to walk away when I say, “Hey, Luna?”

She glances over her shoulder.

“My shoes—you still hate them?”

She looks down and then back up at me. “Why does it matter?”

“Team Hernandez sneered at them. My ego was bruised.”

She rolls her eyes. “Well, if you’re looking for me to mend your ego, you’re looking at the wrong person. Anyway, I’d have no chance of mending it when you’re wearing those shoes.” She smiles and takes off.

“What’s wrong with my shoes?”

No answer.

Smiling to myself, I sip my coffee. I can feel it: it’s going to be a good fucking day.

“One minute!” Mary calls out.

Sweat drips down my back, and my hands shake.

One more minute.

Steady hand, man. Steady hand.

I’ve refused to look around the room. I’ve refused to take in any of the hustle and bustle around us. Instead, for the past hour and fifty-nine minutes, I’ve focused on the cake and the cake alone.

Three tiers is way more of a challenge than the two-tiered cake I made with Luna, but she told me how to handle it, helped me figure out the recipe for the perfect amount, and told me about the stabilizers for the cake so the extra tier wouldn’t flop over or sink in.

So far, so good.

My sponges—fancy word for cake—were firm but also felt bouncy, which meant good things inside. I made Thad check off each ingredient as I went so I didn’t miss anything, and I had Naomi help me measure things out since my hands were so shaky.

The frosting came out amazing, and now we just have to finish decorating.

“Thirty seconds.”

“I think I might pee myself—I seriously think I’m going to pee,” Thad says, bouncing next to me. “Oh God, I am going to pee, it looks so good.”

“Can you stop talking about pee around the cake? Jesus, Thad.”

“I’m sorry. I’m just so excited.”

I lay down my last blueberry and then step away.

“Shit, the mint.” I’ve grabbed it from the workbench and am placing it next to the small pile of blueberries on top just as the timer goes off.

The whole crew applauds as we all step away from our cakes.

My hands fall to my knees as I stare up at my cake in disbelief.

It’s perfectly golden brown with naked white frosting—just a light scrape of it along the edges, but coating the top of each layer. Berries adorn the top tier and cascade down along the sides. It’s nothing of the chaotic mess that’s been the wedding so far, but the bright colors of the berries, the rough edges, remind me of Thad in every way.

“Holy shit,” I whisper. I did that. I fucking made that. Hands still on my knees, I glance to my right, where I see Luna looking at me, a giant smile of approval on her face.

Fuck.

I want to run up to her and give her a hug. I want to lift her up and spin her around, then set her on the workbench and press my mouth to hers. Thank her. Show her exactly what I’m feeling.

Gratefulness.

Happiness.

Pride.

I have some underlying feelings that I can’t quite process at the moment—the type of feelings I never in a million years thought I would ever feel, let alone acknowledge—but seeing Naomi and Thad so happy together, the joy they share, being a part of a competition that celebrates what I demolish . . . it’s all softened me. It’s made me have second thoughts on my ideals of what kinds of relationships truly exist out there and the kind of impact they can have on your life.

I know whatever is going on between me and Luna . . . it’s having one hell of an impact that I don’t want to let go.

Thad claps me on the back. “You’re amazing.” I slip my arm around him and give him a hug. I catch the astounded look on Naomi’s face, the tears welling in her eyes. I motion her in for a hug too, and we squeeze Thad between us.

We’re acting like we just won the entire competition. But fuck, it feels like we won. After one unsatisfying challenge after another, actually succeeding at something feels good.

Diane calls cut and then says something about cleaning up before we move on to judging. The PAs make quick work of all our dirty utensils, which gives me a second to look at the other two cakes.

At the neighboring workstation, it looks like Luna has made a red velvet cake, which is surprising. I wasn’t expecting that at all, because we practiced vanilla. I thought maybe she would change the frosting or the filling, but she changed all of it. I wonder if that was for my benefit, to help my cake stand out.

Secretly, I hope that it was.

I nod at her cake and smile at her, and she smiles back, dark eyes gleaming.

Then I glance over at Team Hernandez, and hope leaps in my chest. They’re covered in flour, and Helen looks half-dead, draped over the workbench while PAs move around her.

Are we going to need a medic?

Neither Amanda nor Luciana looks too concerned about the wilting woman next to them, so I chalk it up to Helen’s normal dramatic nonsense and focus on their cake.

Chocolate—at least I hope for their sake it’s chocolate, and not burned—with minimal frosting, but it doesn’t look purposeful like mine; it just looks like they ran out of time. There are no decorations to speak of, and one side of their cake has no frosting at all.

Just from the look of it, I think we easily secured second place.

“Dude, look at Helen,” Thad says, standing next to me. “Do you think she needs oxygen after all that yapping?”

“She was yapping?” I ask. “I didn’t hear her.”

Naomi joins us. “You were so in the zone that I don’t think you heard anything. Helen was being so loud I wanted to strangle her. No wonder their cake looks so bad.”

Thad turns to me, and the excitement on his face makes me laugh. “Dude, I think we at least got second. I will scream like a lady if we don’t.”

“Which no one wants.” I pat his shoulder and take a deep breath. “I think we got it, man. I think we got it.”

I plop down on my couch, prop my feet up on the coffee table in front of me, and lean my head back. Tension leaves my body as I let out a giant exhale.

Fuck . . .

Knock. Knock.

I glance at the door, and then at the time on my phone. Nine o’clock. Who the hell is here?

Cautiously, I pad across the floor, my legs sore from being tense all fucking day. I look through the peephole and straight into a pair of eyes I’m starting to grow quite fond of.

I open the door. “Wasn’t expecting you to come over.”

She stares up at me, one hand on her hip, the other clutching a Tupperware. “Let me in this instant.”

Chuckling, I push the door open, and Luna walks in under my arm. She slips off her shoes, goes to my kitchen, pulls two forks out of the drawer, and then walks to my couch and points at it. “Sit. Now.”

Unable to contain my smile, I do as she says. She sits next to me and opens the container in her hand; inside are one slice each of our cakes.