I pause, touching up my eyeliner. “How is it fair that you look like that hungover, while I didn’t drink an ounce and somehow look like the bride of Chucky?”

He gives me a quick scan and scratches his chest. “I think you look hot.”

“Your eyes are still blurry from sleep.”

He turns the faucet on and dips his entire head in the sink, getting his face and hair wet. I watch in fascination as he takes a bar of soap, lathers up, and rinses everything out.

“What the hell was that?” I ask as he dries off and sets his towel to the side.

“Sink shower.” He picks up his toothbrush and squeezes toothpaste on it. “All-in-one soap bar—works like a charm.” He leans against the counter, his abs contracting as he brushes his teeth.

Irritated that it’s so easy for men, I finish up my makeup and pack everything up. I glance at my phone. Nine o’clock. We are officially late.

“Crap. We are so late. I’m, uh . . . I’m going to go, so at least we don’t show up at the same time. See you there.”

“Hey.” Alec spits out his toothpaste and rinses, snagging my hand at the same time. He pulls me back and wraps his arm around my waist. After wiping his mouth on his arm, he leans down and places a gentle kiss on my lips. “Thank you.”

“Oh . . . no big deal,” I say, trying to be as casual as possible.

“It is a big deal to me.” He smooths his hand up my back, to my neck. “I can’t remember the last time anyone comforted me like that. Thank you, Luna Moon.”

I lift up on my toes and kiss him, letting myself get lost in his lips for a moment. “I care about you. Don’t forget that.”

“Never will,” he says, letting me go. “I’ll pace my time out. Be safe getting there.”

I nod and take off, thinking up all the excuses for why I’m late, and the only thing I can come up with is . . . comforting my broken boyfriend.

Not sure that’s going to fly. Must do more thinking on the way.

“Luna, can I speak to you for a second?” Marco Vitally, beloved judge and the paper genius, says.

What’s he doing here? Judges don’t come in on Sundays. Mary DIY is the only one who has to come in on Sundays, and then she’s mostly in her dressing room. We still haven’t actually met, which is such a disappointment—I really looked up to her. It’s always disappointing when you meet your idol and she turns out to be awful, despite having fantastic taste in macramé.

Gathering myself after the whirlwind that today has been, I plaster on a smile. “Of course.” Cohen and Declan both shoot me a quizzical look before I follow Marco over to the table where the judges watch the challenges.

“Take a seat,” he says. He takes a seat as well, but he leaves one chair between us before turning toward me.

“Different view from here,” I say. “Must be fun to watch us run around like mad people.”

He chuckles. “It’s pretty comical from this vantage point. Especially when Helen gets on one of her rants—priceless.”

I laugh along with him. “I’m sure watching Helen sit on me the first week was a high point.”

“That will go down in history as one of my favorite moments.”

“One of my most humiliating moments, but I can laugh at it now.”

“Good to hear.” He clears his throat. “But . . . what I did want to talk about was invitation week.”

“Oh yeah. I wish I’d had more time to work on the design for Declan and Cohen, but I’m happy with what we could do in the amount of time we had.”

“It was really impressive, actually.”

“Oh, really?” I ask, feeling hopeful butterflies float up in my stomach.

“Yes. I wanted to see what else you design, so I checked out your social media, and you really are the jack of all trades.”

“I’m a little crazy, so it’s hard to choose a lane sometimes. I just really love creating.”

He nods. “And that’s what I saw: the love you put into everything you do. I went back to my team and showed them your designs and your work.” Oh God, don’t cry, don’t cry. He showed my stuff to his team . . . don’t freaking cry. “Everyone was gushing over your creative eye and color combinations. We would love to collaborate with you on a new line of wedding invitations.”

Oh Jesus lord. DO. NOT. CRY.

“Wow, that’s . . .” My eyes well up. Shit. “That’s . . .” I wave my hand in front of my face, and Marco chuckles softly.

“It’s okay, Luna, you can cry.”

Tears roll down my cheeks, and I immediately apologize. “I’m so sorry. I don’t mean to be emotional, but this show has been challenging, and I think it’s all hitting me at once . . . you want to collaborate?”

“We do. We want to put a fresh spin on our designs, create a line that’s a little flashier and more modern, edgier. I know you’re working on a rustic wedding for your brother, but the designs in your shop are exactly what we’re looking for when it comes to catering to a modern bride. We want our invitations to speak to brides who aren’t looking for something traditional.”

“I love the idea, and I’m not just saying that because you want to collaborate with me. I would totally be one of those brides. Bright colors, a graphic feel, but still playful . . .”

“Precisely.” Marco smiles brightly. “Would you like to come down to the offices after the weddings? We can walk through everything, and you can meet the team. I don’t want to take up your time right now, but once we wrap up, we would really like to sit down and see what we can come up with together.”

“I would be truly honored,” I say. “This is a dream, Marco—you have no idea.”

“Well, we’re very excited about you.”

“Would it be okay if I drew up some ideas in the meantime? I don’t want to get too ahead of myself, but my mind is already racing.”

“Then let your mind race. Design to your heart’s content. Bring in what you have, and we can go over it.”

“Fantastic.” We both stand, and Marco holds out his hand, which I take.

“I’m going to have my team email you some contracts and such so we can get right to work after the show. Does that work?”

“Send away.” I know someone who can look at them for me . . .

“All right, have a good week.” He winks. “Rooting for Team Rossi.”

“Thank you, Marco.” I head back to Cohen and Declan, ready to explode with excitement, when something out of the corner of my eye catches my attention.

Alec is leaning against a wall, his head in his hand and his shoulders slumped. I hesitate for a second—my first instinct is to go over and comfort him. But then I realize where I am.

In public.

“Luna, what was that about?”

“Huh?” I say, looking away from Alec and toward Cohen and Declan, still at our workbench, waiting impatiently for me to say something. “Oh.” I smile again, but this time it feels a little forced. “Marco wants to collaborate with me on some wedding invitations.”

“Seriously?” Cohen asks, his face lighting up. “Holy shit, Luna, that’s amazing!”

He picks me up in a giant hug and spins me around. I meet Alec’s questioning eyes from over Cohen’s shoulder, but Thad calls him into the green room, and he disappears.

“That’s so great,” Declan says, taking his turn to hug me once Cohen sets me down. “I knew this show would be good for you. I just knew it.”

“I didn’t apply—”

“We know, we know,” Declan says with an eye roll, “but you being discovered is a huge bonus.”

Cohen pulls me into a hug again. “This is amazing. You have to call Mom and Dad tonight and tell them.”

“I will,” I say, calculating in my head when to call them if they’re currently in Australia. “Hey, when are Mom and Dad getting back?”

“Talked to them last night. They’re headed home the Monday before the wedding, and they said they have lots of Vegemite for us.”

“Oh . . . wonderful.” I laugh and let out a long sigh, pressing my hand to my stomach. “Wow, okay, I was not expecting that.”

“Neither was I,” Cohen says. “But I’m not surprised either. You’re amazing, sis.”

“You’re pretty amazing yourself.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

ALEC

“Next week is our last week before the weddings. Please be on time,” Diane says, looking directly at me. As if I’ve never been on time. One fucking day. One fucking day I’m late, and now I’m the person who gets scolded. I wasn’t even that late. Just twenty minutes late, but I received quite the look from Helen, who had to do her interview first this go-around in my absence—heaven forbid—and the cold shoulder from Thad.

Just add it to the shit-filled twenty-four hours I’m having.