by Meghan Quinn
“I mean it.”
“I know you do.”
And then we stare at each other again, but this time we’re not avoiding eye contact, we’re not awkward. We’re just observing one another, appreciating the understanding we’ve come to. Maybe we’ve gone from judging the book by its cover to starting a whole new chapter—one where we can be friends.
“Gah, no!” Luna shouts, stopping me from pouring baking powder into the cake batter. “Dry mixture—put it in this bowl.” She hands me a bowl and directs me to dump the rest of the dry ingredients in. “We mix dry and wet separately.”
“Technically, sugar is dry.”
“Sugar doesn’t count.” She hands me a mixing spoon. “Carefully fold the ingredients together, and then we’ll combine everything.”
“Hmm, you left those instructions out when you sent me the recipe.”
“Based on the profile I was sending them to, I assumed that would be common sense.”
“Didn’t even cross my mind.”
She chuckles and leans against the counter while I finish up. “So you’ve really never made a cake before?”
“Nope.” I shake my head. “Growing up, my parents didn’t exactly spend weekends doing fun things with us like making cupcakes or throwing a baseball. We were on our own, which meant I had to learn whatever I could by myself and teach everything to Thad.”
“Oh . . . I didn’t know.” She looks down at the ground. “You had a bad childhood?”
“From the outside looking in, we would have seemed perfect—Park Avenue apartment, fancy private schools, extravagant birthday parties, and even more extravagant presents. Our friends thought we were so lucky, but nothing went deeper than our possessions. We had nannies, but they were there just to make sure we stayed alive. There was no emotional connection because my parents wouldn’t allow it.” I shrug. “Thad and I only had each other.”
“Wow.” She faces me and puts her hand on my forearm. “I’m sorry, Alec. I had no idea.”
“You don’t have to apologize.”
She bites her bottom lip. “What happened between you and Thad that put such a strain on your relationship? And feel free to ignore my question if it’s too personal.”
“Nah, it’s probably good to talk about. I’ve been ignoring our issues since college.”
Luna flips on the electric mixer—the one she was really impressed that I have. “I want to listen, but real quick, gradually add in the dry ingredients, but not too slowly because we don’t want to overmix the batter.”
I nod. “When we were young, I made sure Thad was always taken care of. I never wanted him to have to listen to our parents’ constant fighting, so I was always sheltering him. I had to get creative because there was only so much two young kids could do.” I shuffle the flour mixture in, staring down into the bowl as the wet ingredients mix with it, forming a batter. “When I graduated from high school, I went to Columbia. I stayed close to home in case Thad needed me, but just far enough away so I wouldn’t have to deal with the pain every day. My parents divorced my freshman year, and I thought that it was going to be better for Thad, who was fourteen at the time. But the divorce took a toll on my mom. She lost pretty much everything. She and Thad had to move into a tiny apartment in Brooklyn, which was really hard on Thad. He lost most of his friends and his childhood home. My dad forgot we existed, except to send checks for my room and board and child support for Thad. And I became . . . numb. I was so relieved to be done with my toxic family and to leave my childhood behind that I just . . . left everything behind. I got a job for the summer, rented an apartment with a few guys, and lived my life.”
“Oh no, Thad.”
“Yeah. I left him to face the nightmare alone. But even at that . . . he didn’t care. He still wanted to see me, hang out with me, talk to me. And I’d see him from time to time, but as we got older, those hangout sessions became even fewer and further between. I buried myself in work, and when I finally came up for air, Thad was grown up. He was engaged and going to have a baby, and I’d missed all of it. This competition was Thad’s way of bringing us closer together, and I’ve done nothing but push him further and further away because I’m an asshole who can’t seem to be comfortable with being uncomfortable.”
Luna switches off the mixer, the batter all mixed in, and leans one hand against the counter, facing me.
When I don’t look at her, she pokes me in the shoulder, drawing my eyes to hers.
“You’re not an asshole. You can act like one, but you’re not an asshole. If you were, you wouldn’t be making your third cake of the week, trying to win this ridiculous wedding competition for your brother. Sometimes we need that little push we didn’t think we needed. It’s actually pretty cool of you to be doing this for Thad. I really think if you were an asshole, you never would have said yes in the first place.”
I give her a soft smile. “Yeah, I guess.”
The cake pans have already been buttered and dusted with flour, so Luna places the mixing bowl beside them and hands me a measuring cup. “Start dividing the batter; fill them a little past halfway so the cakes can rise but don’t overflow.”
“Okay.” I start filling them. “He’s mad at me. I can feel it. He usually texts me throughout the week, telling me what kind of challenge we’re going to face, how this is going to be our week, and how he can’t wait to see me on Saturday. He’s even invited me over a few times to practice.”
“Oh God.” Luna brings her hand to her chest. “I think Thad just won a place in my heart.”
“I think he’s won a place in everyone’s heart. He really is a great guy. A little over the top at times, but a truly wonderful soul.” I shake my head. “No idea why he’s been hanging on to me.”
Luna stops my scoops with a hand to my forearm, and I meet her gaze. “You said you’re the one who took care of Thad?”
I nod.
“Then that wonderful guy you talk about? He’s a reflection of you, Alec. He is the way he is because of what you taught him, the love you showed him, despite what might have happened after high school.”
Her earnest eyes, her warm hand, her kindness—it’s all overwhelming and making me feel things I swore I’d never feel. My body desperately itches to pull her into a hug and thank her—for thinking the best of me when she could easily be thinking the worst.
But instead I just whisper, “Thank you, Luna.”
Her eyes still intently on mine, she says, “I only speak the truth.” Then she releases my hand and gets back to work. I’ve never met anyone who speaks about feelings so easily and openly—except maybe Thad, but he only ever talks in hysterics. Luna is different, in so many ways, and I can feel myself growing attached. Especially after our banter and jokes on Instagram. Luna is just fun to talk to, and I can’t remember the last time I actually had fun.
“When the batter is poured, you want to . . . are you paying attention?”
“What? Yes.” I blink a few times. “Yes, sorry. I’m paying attention.”
She studies me for a few beats, her dark eyes a complete mystery I want to figure out. And those lips, plump, glossy—I wonder what they taste like? Just having the thought speeds up my pulse, making me very aware of how close we’re standing. And if I was a braver man, I could pinch her chin and bring her mouth close to mine.
“Okay, because if you still need to talk, we can do that too.”
I swallow hard and shake my head. “No. I’m good.”
“Okay . . .”
She continues, but what she’s saying goes in one ear and out the other, because just one thought circles through my head: When did Luna Rossi become someone I desperately want?
And when would be the appropriate time to go after what I want?
Luna: How did the cakes turn out?
I stare down at my phone and then back at the perfectly round and solid cakes on my cooling racks. After we put everything in the oven, Luna helped me clean up but then said she’d come over tomorrow to
finish up. It was an abrupt end to our night. I’m not sure if it was because I’d creeped her out with my staring or if she really did have to go. Either way, when she asked for my number before she left, a sense of relief ran through me.
And the same relief filled my body when her text popped up on my phone just now.
I take a picture of the cakes and send it to her.
Alec: They look amazing. And they don’t smell like rabbit turd.
Luna: LOL. Do you often smell rabbit turd?
Alec: Only in the spring.
Luna: I heard it’s ripest then.
Alec: Something to do with wanting to help fertilize the spring flowers . . .
Luna: Are we really discussing rabbit poop?
Alec: I would like to say you started it, but we both know that’s a lie.
Luna: Especially because if you scroll up a few messages we have evidence that you in fact started it.
Alec: Moving along . . . the cakes look amazing.
Luna: Once they’ve cooled, wrap them up like I told you to. And I’ll be over tomorrow.
Alec: Does this mean I have to provide more tacos?
Luna: No, I’ll bring over my famous goulash, then we’ll eat some cake after decorating it.
There’s that relief again. Maybe I didn’t creep her out. Maybe she really did just have to go, and I’ve been overthinking all of this way too much.
Alec: Sounds good.
Luna: Same time?
Alec: Yup. And hey, Luna?
Luna: Yes . . .
Alec: I know I said it before, but I figured I would say it again: thank you. I’m not sure you’ll understand how much your help means to me.
Luna: You’re welcome, Alec.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
LUNA
Alec: Thought I would try to impress you and make the icing before you got here. Big mistake.
I chuckle at his text and type him back as I walk to his apartment.
Luna: What happened?
Alec: You’ll see.
Luna: Should I be scared?
Alec: Very.
Luna: Be there in five.
I put my phone in my purse, clutch the container of goulash closer to my chest, and pick up my pace. Not just because I want to see what happened, but also because I’m excited to see him.
Last night was . . . intimate. More intimate than I’d expected. I saw a new side of Alec, one that’s incredibly endearing and sexy. Not many men can admit to their faults, but Alec did it with such ease that it made me realize the kind of man he really is. He might be hard as stone on the outside, but he’s also kind and thoughtful and has a heart I never saw coming.
I meant what I said last night: that Thad is a reflection of him. There is no way he’s not, especially with the hand Alec had in raising him. I can’t even imagine what that must have been like, feeling the need to protect your sibling from your parents while missing out on your own childhood.
Cohen and I didn’t grow up that way. Our family was a solid unit of four. We did everything together. My parents fought, sure, but never in front of us, and even when we knew they were fighting behind closed doors, we never doubted how much they loved each other.
Plus, Alec is . . . fun. He’s different. He makes me smile and laugh. He’s more down to earth than I would have expected. In other words, he’s exactly my type.
I know I should be cautious with him, given our rocky start and the fact that we’re competitors, but hell, I can’t help but want to hang out with him again, especially after last night.
Sheesh, last night.
It was more than intimate. It was intense.
So intense that I felt like if I stayed any longer, I might have done something I probably shouldn’t have, like leaning in for a kiss, caressing his pecs, running my hand down his stomach. Because good lord, did I think about it. I thought about it when we were pouring the batter into the cake pans, when my hand was on his muscular forearm. I thought about it when we were saying goodbye, as he gave me a curt wave and I smiled like a fool. I thought about it afterward, as I lay in bed texting him. Hell, I thought about it this morning when I woke up.
I wonder if his lips are as soft as they look.
I bet they are.
When I reach his apartment building, I tap in the code he gave me and head to the elevator. I was a little surprised that Alec lived off Amsterdam and Eighty-Second. The neighborhood doesn’t scream bachelor pad. It’s nice, but it’s not posh by any means, and given the guy is a top-rated divorce attorney, I’d think he’d be at least closer to Central Park or maybe somewhere a little trendier. His apartment is definitely bigger than mine and he has nicer furniture, but there is nothing ostentatious about the way he’s living. Very modest . . . normal. An apartment like the rest of us have—no personal brownstone or spacious loft, just a normal apartment.
Although, I realize as I step into the elevator, the man does have the KitchenAid mixer of my dreams, and I’m pretty sure he used it for the first time this week.
The elevator doors part, and I head to his apartment. I knock on the door, and it opens immediately.
It takes me a beat to realize what I’m staring at—and then I break out into a fit of giggles.
“Yup, laugh it up. Get it all out,” Alec says, gripping the edge of the door, his handsome face the poster child of a Pinterest fail.
His face is covered in powdered sugar. His eyebrows are caked, his cheeks are washed in white, and it continues down his neck to his chest.
“Turn on the mixer too high?”
“Yup.”
I laugh some more, shake my head, and step into his apartment. I grab him by the hand as he shuts the door behind me and lead him to the kitchen, where I wet a paper towel and start wiping away at his face. He just stands there, letting me take care of him. The paper towel rubs against the hard scruff covering his jaw, and I realize he hasn’t shaved.
“Growing a beard?” I ask, finishing up.
“I have to if I want to be a Saint Bernard in your eyes. None of this greyhound shit.”
“You can’t be serious.” I chuckle.
“So serious.” He winks, then takes the paper towel from me and tosses it in the trash. “Thanks for soothing my distraught baking heart. I had all these hopes of proving something to you, but I just proved that I suck at this.”
“Just a learning curve, that’s all.” I hold up the goulash. “Shall we?”
“Yeah, let me go change my shirt, give my face a good rinse, and I’ll be right out. Think you can handle grabbing some bowls for us? I got some more drinks in the fridge this time.”
“Sure. Should I just dig around in the cabinets?”
“Have at it,” he says as he takes off toward his bedroom.
Have at it. Simple as that. Like we’re longtime friends.
Okay.
I set the goulash down and turn toward his cabinets. Where would he put bowls?
I reach for a cabinet that I would consider a bowl cabinet, and I’m pleasantly surprised when I find them on my first try. Means he has a good sense for organization. I find spoons right off the bat as well and take everything to the table, along with a large serving spoon and napkins.
Drinks are next.
I open the fridge, and I’m surprised again to see that it’s stocked full of Sprite, strawberry Bubly, and cans of my favorite blackberry-lime sparkling tea. Suspicious, because these are all my favorite drinks.
“Find what you need?” Alec asks as he walks back into the kitchen quicker than I anticipated. The sugar is out of his scruff, and he’s wearing an olive-green shirt that makes his eyes stand out even more against his incredibly dark eyelashes.
Yup, he’s handsome. Stupidly handsome. The kind of handsome that makes your hands clammy and your stomach flip in a million summersaults.
“Uh, hard to choose.” I try to gather my wits about me. “This fridge seems to be carrying all my favorites.”
He shrugs. “Saw you drinking them
on set.” He reaches past me, his cologne wrapping me up in his sweet and spicy scent.
“You got me my favorite drinks?”
“Yeah.” He cracks open a Sprite. “Why not? You’re doing me a huge favor—it’s the least I can do. Plus, it’s nice seeing that smile.” He nods and then walks over to the table, where he starts scooping goulash into the bowls.
Umm . . . pardon me as I attempt to catch my breath.
He likes my smile? I shouldn’t feel giddy over that, but I really freaking do. So giddy it’s embarrassing.
Before I let out all the cold air in his fridge, I grab a Sprite as well and shut it, and then join him at the table.
“I’ve never had goulash before,” he admits with a boyish grin. “Does that make me an uncultured swine?”
I snort and shake my head. “Just means you’re not hanging out with the right people. Don’t worry, I’ll change that.”
We both take a seat, and Alec dips a spoon in his pasta, blows on it, and takes a bite. I watch as his eyes light with interest and the corners of his mouth turn up. “Hell, this is good, Luna.”
Pride surges through me, just from a little compliment. I didn’t know how much I wanted to impress him until this very moment.
“I’m glad you like it,” I say after eating my own spoonful.
“Not just like it, love it.” He takes another bite and then asks, “Is this your own recipe or something that’s been passed down? From generation to generation?”
“My mom taught me how to make it when I was seven.”
“Seven?” He looks surprised.
“I was eager. It’s a family favorite. Straight from my nonna’s recipe book. Although, she would use homemade sauce. I cheat in that regard.”
“Tell me more, Luna.” His eyes command my attention and strip me bare as I feel myself wanting to tell him everything.
Clearing my throat, I say, “My mom would serve it every Sunday night. The smell floating from the kitchen into the living room, where Cohen and I would be playing a board game, became so familiar that I wanted to help create it. Technically the dish is supposed have beef in it.” I smile. “But when I became in charge of Sunday-night dinner, I gave it my own twist by adding buffalo as well. I think it adds a richer flavor.”