The last one is the truth, but malaria is looking like a viable option right about now.

The idea of losing what little freedom I have left in my life to making bouquets and helping my brother prance around with tulle really doesn’t feel appealing in the slightest. Not to mention feeling completely out of my element and having to be recorded while creating an event I don’t necessarily believe in.

Typical divorce lawyer, hates marriage; I get it. I’m a walking cliché, but I have yet to be exposed to a positive, healthy relationship to prove my thoughts otherwise.

I’m sure Thad and Naomi have a wonderful relationship, but I guess we’ll find out once it’s put through the wringer for the next two months.

“You’re so tense—relax,” Thad says, walking up next to me, a sandwich in hand. Is that . . . bologna? Talking with his mouth full, he continues, “Go hit up the craft services table. They have fucking gummy worms, man. I know where I’ll be when we’re taking five.” He taps my arm and points to his pocket. “Already stuffed some in my jeans. They’re free, bro.”

Jesus Christ.

Naomi walks up holding a sandwich as well and smiles. “Can’t have deli meat because of the baby, but I stacked this guy with cheese and mustard, and it’s truly wonderful. Their bread is so crunchy on the outside.”

“But heaven on the inside,” Thad finishes for her. “Never had anything like it.”

“I might ask them where they get it.” Naomi examines her sandwich—it’s overflowing with so much cheese that it actually makes me want to throw up in my mouth.

So much cheese . . .

“I should ask about this bologna.”

“And this cheese.”

Thad wiggles his brows. “And the gummy worms.”

“Probably all from Costco,” I say, rolling my eyes.

“I sure as hell hope so,” Thad says. “With the baby coming along, Daddy Dearest is going to roll in with a membership and buy his weight in diapers.” Thad nudges me. “Did you hear me call myself Daddy Dearest? That was funny.”

“It wasn’t.”

Thad studies me. “Your blood sugar must be low. You’re quite irritated right now. Why don’t you ask a PA for some coffee or something? Liven yourself up. We have a long day of filming.”

Don’t I fucking know it.

The schedule was delivered via email this past week, and I nearly called Thad up and told him I wasn’t coming. We’ll be subjected to filming on every weekend over the course of two months. The weekdays are for us—how kind—Saturdays are for challenges, and Sundays are for confessionals. We are required to show up for both days. Weddings are the last weekend, all in a row—Friday, Saturday, and Sunday—and the results of the winner will be filmed a few weeks later, since there’s a delay in filming when the show airs.

Every weekend we will be presented with a challenge that will either give us opportunities to earn more money for the weddings or decide what kind of decor or design will be incorporated into them. Honestly, I skimmed over that section, not the slightest bit interested. All I could focus on was the fact that my weekends had just been snatched away from me for the summer.

I rub my eyes and let out a long sigh. “Yeah, coffee.” With that, I leave them to their sandwiches and pocket-lint gummy worms, looking for a PA to help me.

The set is bustling with people, everyone walking around, a job to do. Contestants were told to mill about until called upon. Well, I haven’t seen any other contestants, nor have I seen any of the judges or the host Lucas was drooling over.

There is zero direction. There is no schedule for the day. Not one single person is controlling the chaos or communicating the agenda, and I’m the only one who seems to care.

Irritation boiling up inside me, I decide to visit the craft table for some coffee. And, I would like to add, it’s incredibly strange that Naomi and Thad are eating sandwiches at eight in the morning, especially since when I walk up to the table, it’s full of breakfast items.

Spotting the coffee carafe, I snag a paper cup, place it under the faucet, and pull down on the lever. Nothing comes out.

You’ve got to be fucking kidding me. No coffee? Not that I really need it to survive, but there’s no reason it should be empty, not with this many people walking around. I scan the room and spot a coffee station across from me. Thank God.

I go to that carafe, place my cup underneath, and pull down on the handle. Empty again.

Seriously?

“Jesus,” I mutter, whipping around to the first person who passes me. “Hey, are you going to refill the coffee?”

The girl stumbles back, her long black hair floating over her shoulders as her dark eyes widen at me.

“I . . .”

I thrust the cup at her. “Coffee, please. If you’re going to make me get here at seven and then wait around for an hour and a half, the least you can do is get me coffee.”

“That’s not my job,” she says, trying to hand the cup back to me.

“Don’t care. Coffee . . . please.” When she doesn’t move, I grow angrier and lean in so our faces are only a foot apart. “I’m not above reporting you. I said please, so find me some coffee. Thank you.”

Her lips twist to the side as her eyes search mine, fear and anger lacing them before she turns away. “Right away . . . ,” she says before mumbling something under her breath that I can’t quite hear and speeding away. I drag my hand over my face—I just took out my irritation on an innocent PA. Ten bucks says when she returns, there’s something foreign in my coffee.

I’m not in a good frame of mind for this. Crafting, being creative, using my hands to make things . . . yeah, not in my wheelhouse.

Need someone for a debate? I’m your guy.

Need someone to stick up for you, research the facts, and make a valid argument? Look no further.

But wedding invites? Tiered cakes? Wedding playlists? Hell . . . I should have walked away when I had the chance.

Fucking Thad and his guilt trip.

Fingers pressed into my brow, I make my way back to where Thad and Naomi are finishing off their sandwiches and talking to two men. When Thad spots me, he says, “Alec, get over here—I want you to meet Declan and Cohen.” Then his eyes narrow as I approach. “What happened to taming the beast with some coffee?”

“Don’t get me started,” I mutter as I turn to the two men. Both tall, both fit, both looking just as terrified as me.

“Cohen, Declan, this is my brother, Alec. Alec, this is Cohen and Declan, one of the couples we’re competing against.”

Couple? Ahh hell. Hate to admit it, but there is no way we’re going to stand a chance against what I can only describe as a dark, short-haired Thor and an Asian Clark Kent. I love my brother, but he has nothing on these two, especially when his fiancée is chowing down on a triple-decker cheese sandwich and has mustard on her chin.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, giving them both a handshake. I stick my hands in my pockets. “Either of you creative?”

Declan adjusts his glasses. “Cohen is a carpenter, and his sister is our secret weapon. What about you?”

“Well . . . we know how to tie our shoes, so at least we have that going for us,” I say, dread spreading through me at the thought of two months of weekends washed away . . . for nothing.

Thad knocks me in the stomach, buckling me over slightly. “We can do more than just tie our shoes—we are multitalented.”

At bullshitting.

“Naomi has quite the eye for design.”

“Love bright colors,” Naomi chimes in, mustard still on her chin.

So the set must be quite appealing to her.

“And I am an excellent baker,” Thad says. “Just the other day I made a batch of scones that would have had Queen Elizabeth herself kissing my knuckles in appreciation.”

What is he talking about? I’ve had his scones before—they could crack a tooth if you’re not careful.

“And Alec here . . . well, he’s our ringer. A lawyer by day, but a regular old Martha Stewart, minus Snoop Dogg, at night.”

Wow, where the hell is that coming from? Sure, I can make a pot roast in the slow cooker and fold a fitted sheet properly, but that’s the extent of my Martha Stewart abilities.

“We are quite the team to worry about,” Thad adds.

“That’s so great. I’m excited to see what you guys come up with,” Declan says as Cohen stares at the ground. The quiet type, it seems. “I’m here to help, but Luna and Cohen are the ones who are going to lead the team.”

“Luna, that’s a pretty name,” Naomi says, finally wiping the mustard off her chin. At least we have that going for us now—all three with clean chins.

“Speaking of which, there you are,” Declan says as a cup of coffee is thrust toward me, spilling over the side and onto my shoe.

“Luna,” Cohen lightly scolds, but the boldness in her eyes doesn’t waver as she looks up at me.

Fuuuuuck . . . not a PA.