My hands won’t stop shaking. I wipe them down my jeans nervously. I don’t want to show up on camera with shaking hands. Are there cameras set up around me? There could be, for all I know. I’m not sure how the show works, exactly, but there’s got to be a way for the audience to see what we’re doing.

I look up at the department store. I don’t remember when it was a John Wanamaker’s, but Mom does. They still do the Christmas light show here every year, and we’ve gone every year even though it hasn’t changed a bit in all this time. We would then go for lunch and do some shopping together. It’s something I’ve looked forward to every year.

We won’t go this year.

My heart hurts a little when I think about that. So much is changing so quickly. But next year…next year, we’ll go, because Mom will be alright by then and she’ll be able to do simple things like Christmas shopping.

The thought of her illness and the treatment she needs gives me strength and courage. I’m going to need all the courage I can get, once it’s time to get the stunt started.

And it would be, if Trent would ever show up. I swear to God, if he chickens out on me…

He shows up before I get the chance to complete my thought. “What took you so long?” I ask, telling myself not to notice how utterly, utterly gorgeous he looks in a tailored black shirt and jeans that seem to strain around his thick, muscular thighs. I shouldn’t be paying attention to his thighs. Or his eyes as he slides his sunglasses off.

“Sorry,” he says. “Some of us have to deal with a little thing called traffic.”

“Oh, that’s cute. Because there’s no such thing as traffic, where I come from.” I look around, eyes darting back and forth. People are turning their heads to look at him. At that moment, I realize that I’m really lucky they paired me off with him, because it was obvious he was going to be picked. Who’s not going to watch him? “They’re probably watching us right now.”

“Yeah. Probably.” He grins. “And they probably love it.”

“Yeah, well…” I can’t say what I want to say. I can’t call them a bunch of vultures who get off on watching other people suffer and make fools of themselves. Talk about a sure-fire way to get kicked off the show. I look down at my phone, clutched in my palm. “Did your text say anything other than to be here at this time?” I ask.

“Nope.”

“Terrific.” I feel like a doofus standing around with him. “Are we maybe supposed to check in and announce that we’re here?”

“Why are you asking me these things like I’m gonna know the answers?”

He sounds irritated and I whirl my head around to look at him. We stare at each other for a beat, and it takes everything I have in me not to kick him in the balls. “Why are you in such a crabby mood today? Somebody scratch your precious car again?”

“I’m riding my motorcycle today.”

Yeah, because that doesn’t make him sound like even more of a jerk? The guy’s got a nice car and a motorcycle, and he acted like I just killed his dog when I barely scratched the car. Spoiled baby. “Oh. Well. Very masculine. Congratulations on that.”

He winces and that feels good, somehow.

Our phones ding at the same time.

“Saved by the bell,” he mutters as he pulls up the text.

So do I. And my jaw hits the ground, or just about.

Congratulations. You have made it to the destination of your first stunt. Enter the store, but do not come out wearing the clothes in which you went inside in. You are not allowed to buy any of the merchandise. You have fifteen minutes to complete your stunt. The clock starts as soon as you finish reading this text,’ I read, as I feel myself break out in a cold sweat.

I look up at him and he is staring at me with a frown. Just like that, we’re on the same page. And we’re both gobsmacked.

“They don’t come right out and say it, probably for legal reasons, but they want us to steal, don’t they?” I whisper, horrified.

“I guess so.” He looks inside the building.

My gaze follows his. It is full of people, but worse, a security guard goes through the door. My stomach feels like somebody poured concrete in it. “I’m not doing this. I can’t get arrested.” I start hyperventilating. “I’m not a thief. They can’t force us to break the law like this.” I glance up at him, trying to gauge his feelings.

He nods. “I know. Maybe we can get away with it somehow, and not get in trouble.”

“Are you kidding? The clothes in these stores have tags on them. Security tags. As soon as we walk past the sensors, we’re caught. I’m not going to prison.” My voice is high and squeaky. There is no way I’m going to steal.

“How fast can you run?” he asks, with a wink.

“Can you be serious?” I snap, losing my fear in my anger.

“I was being serious.”

“You’re crazy. I’m not doing it.” I dance from one foot to the other and wonder if the audience will think it’s funny when I pee my pants, because that’s pretty much what I feel like I’m about to do. I can already see myself getting handcuffed and arrested for stealing an outfit I don’t even need. A thought suddenly occurs to me. “What about underwear? Are we supposed to steal that as well?”

“I guess so.”

“Are you okay with us being known as underwear thieves?”

“I don’t give a fuck what I’m known as. I just want us to complete the stunt.”

“Millions of people are going to see us stealing from a department store. I’ll never going to get another job in my life. This is—”

“So you’re just going to give up?” he cuts in coldly.

It’s like a bucket of freezing water chucked in my face. I lose my hysteria instantly. I take a deep breath. “No.”

“Well, then stop wasting time. Let’s get in there, and find a way to complete the stunt inside our allotted time.” He takes my hand.

I’ve never felt such a strong manly clasp before, but I’m too busy being scared out of my wits to pull away.

“Come on. Let’s eat the frog.”

“What does that even mean?” I grumble as he pulls me through the doors.

“It means get the hard stuff over with first.”

“This is all hard stuff, Confucius,” I mutter as I jerk my hand away from his.

We’re standing in the main concourse while three floors of departments loom above us. We both look up at the marble columns and brass railings.

“Shit,” he whispers.

I can hear panic in his voice for the first time. So maybe he’s human, after all. But that’s not going to help us. “Where do we start, do you think?” I ask, glancing around.

“Well, first thing…let’s try to stop acting like shoplifters.” He takes my hand again, this time, gripping it so tight I can’t pull away. He leads me to the escalator. “Just play it cool. We’re here looking for clothes for an event. I don’t care what. Make something up in your head to give you a story, something you’ll believe.”

“Your funeral?” I mutter under my breath.

“Or yours,” he mutters back.

“Is a spangly red dress appropriate for a funeral?”

“Sure, you can wear a spangly red dress to my funeral, Blondie,” he murmurs. “Whatever will give you something to focus on while we’re walking around. If you keep telling yourself you’re going to steal, you’re going to act shady and suspicious.”

That much, I could believe. “Okay, I’ll do my best.” There aren’t many shoppers this early in the day, and on a weekday at that. “We would have be able to blend in better on the weekend, I think. More people. I feel so exposed.”

“I’m sure they think about things like this when they set these stunts up.”

“Yeah. They probably do. Do you think they are filming us right now?”

He stares ahead. “Pretty sure, they are?”

This is for Mom. This is for Mom. This is for Mom. Maybe if I say it enough, I’ll feel better about what I’m going to do.

The women’s section comes up first, and I can barely put one foot in front of another. “What should I choose?” I mutter, looking around.

“Something close to what you’re wearing,” he advises, looking me up and down. “Do they even sell clothes like that anymore?”

“I swear to God.”

“Sorry, sorry. Reflex.”

“It’s a stinking sweater and jeans, dick,” I whisper as we start looking for something suitable through the casuals. “I mean, people wear sweaters and jeans all the time.” I thought I looked pretty cute when I left the house.

“Not in this weather they don’t, but calm down. I was just busting your balls. We need to work together. We have less than ten minutes left.” He picks out a cable-knit sweater in a similar shade of cream to the one I’m wearing. “What do you think?”

“Fine, fine.” I put it over my arm.

We stop in front of a wall of folded jeans. “So. Do I dare ask what size we’re looking for?”

“I’ll look for my own, thanks. Why don’t you worry about you?” I snap hastily.

“Fine. I will.” He turns to leave—then freezes in place.

“What’s the matter?” I ask filled with panic again.

When he spins back around, his eyes are twinkling and he’s wearing a huge grin. “Son of a bitch! We totally missed the obvious.”