The day of the big TV shoot dawns bright and early. “Can you absolutely confirm there’s no orange zest in any of the cakes?” Kimmy the publicist’s assistant says in my ear. “Alice’s sister Ainsley absolutely cannot eat any orange—it’ll throw off her energy diet for the day.”

“Uh, yeah, definitely no orange.” I got the message loud and clear the last five times he mentioned it over the past three days of round-the-clock baking. I shift my phone where I’ve got it wedged against my shoulder as I box the last batch of cupcakes. I’m not really sure how a couple of zest strings could ruin someone’s diet—or why all other kinds of zest are apparently just fine—but I’m absolutely sure I don’t want to know. “And no blue icing on any of them either.”

“A navy blue would be all right,” the assistant says. “It’s just the paler blues—robin’s egg, sky—they totally wash out Alice’s skin tone.”

“Right,” I say, closing the box. To be safe I simply skipped blue altogether. It’s not the sexiest color anyway. Nobody wants blue balls.

“And you’ve got the batch of non-dairy for Pom-Pom set aside?”

Even though he can’t see me, I restrain myself from rolling my eyes. I need the practice, because I have the feeling the questioning is only going to get worse once I make it on set. “Yes, they’re specially labeled.” Alice Astley’s not-very-creatively-named Pomeranian won’t have to worry about any tummy troubles when she joins in the celebration like one of the gals.

The assistant seems satisfied to leave things there, although I won’t be surprised if he calls again ten minutes from now. I’ve been fielding demands and questions from him and his colleagues since the moment I got home with the baking supplies three days ago. But for the amount they’re paying me for the gig, I can’t really complain.

I let out my breath and step back to take in my handiwork. Mom joins me. She shakes her head.

“I do remember there being a kitchen here once upon a time.”

I grin. The counters and most of the floor space are now stacked with boxes of cake, cupcakes, pops, and various novelty items. Enough for two hundred and fifty reality TV show folks, plus extra. I’ve barely left the kitchen except to sleep, but I’m finally completely done. And in a few hours, all my work is going to taking a starring role on camera.

“It’ll all be back to normal once I’ve got this all loaded up in the truck,” I tell her.

“I’m not saying I mind.” She tilts her head to the side. “Look at what you accomplished with just our little space to work with. Don’t you think you could start a business right here in the city? Downtown Philly is dying for some cupcakes like yours.”

“I think the city will survive without them,” I say, not wanting to get into another “put down roots, get married, give me grand-babies” conversation. “They’ve managed to this long already. Help me bring the boxes out?”

It takes several minutes to schlep all the boxes into the back of the van I’ve rented for the day, but I’ve left myself plenty of wiggle room in the schedule. I’m not taking any chances today. The event doesn’t start until early evening, but I plan to be here mid-afternoon for whatever last-minute adjustments that’ll no doubt occur to the staff.

I’m just hopping into the driver’s seat when my phone rings again. I brace myself for more weird food rules, but when I see the caller ID, my face splits with a smile.

“Hello, handsome,” I say.

“Hello, gorgeous,” Drew’s mellow voice replies. Even over the phone line, it makes me shiver in a good way. “I just wanted to wish you luck on your big day. Not that I think you’ll need it.”

“Don’t jinx me.”

“You’re going to rock this, Maggie. The whole world will be in awe of your cocks.” He laughs. “Maybe that came out wrong.”

“I appreciate the sentiment anyway.”

“Well, I know you’ve got to be uber busy, so I’ll let you go. But I’ll be thinking about you tonight.”

“Thinking and doing what?” I tease.

He chuckles. “A gentleman never tells. But if you stop by tomorrow, maybe I’ll give you a hands-on demonstration.”

“A tempting offer. Let me get back to you on that.” As if there’s any doubt that I’ll be heading over to Drew’s place—and Drew’s bed—the moment I have the chance. The guy is more addictive than chocolate. And that’s coming from a lifelong chocoholic.

Being a reality TV starlet, Alice Astley of course didn’t settle for some ordinary bar to hold a bachelorette blowout bash. The show has taken over the full event space of a posh hotel downtown. I drive down the street past it. Trailers and trucks are jammed all along both sidewalks—and parking’s not even technically legal on the one side. Crew members hustle back and forth, everyone yammering into mics hooked into their ears. There’s nowhere for me to squeeze in the van.

I’d better find out exactly where they want me. I park in the first empty spot I can find around the block. Where’s the special ID card Kimmy couriered to me? And the menu list and the contract, in case for some reason someone needs to see one of those right away.

I hustle around the corner to the hotel. A security guy stops me before I’m even halfway to the door.

“I’m Maggie Hayes,” I tell him. “I’m bringing the cakes for the party?”

I show him my ID and he consults a list before he lets me walk by. I guess I can understand. There are already a bunch of passersby gawking around the fringes of the set.

Inside the lobby, I’m momentarily overwhelmed. Staff are racing this way and that, hollering instructions to each other that bounce off the high ceiling. There’ve got to be at least ten cameras being rolled around, spotlights lifting and lowering as the techs work out the best positioning, tables being draped with sparkly linens in the event room to my left. And somewhere a dog is yapping. Hello, Pom-Pom.

In the midst of the chaos is a petite woman in very high heels, who’s brandishing her clipboard and barking out orders from that vantage point. Her carrot-red hair is yanked tight into a ponytail that explodes into a cloud of curls at the back of her head. She looks like the person who’ll know what’s what, if she doesn’t bite my head off for asking.

“Hey,” I say, walking up to her. “I’m—”

“Maggie!” the woman says. “Good, you’re here, you’re here. Early is good.” She jabs out her hand and retracts it after the briskest handshake of my life. “Kimmy. Glad to meet you in person. Let’s get those cakes into the kitchen area so they’ll be ready for final touch-ups.”

“I just need to know where to park,” I say quickly. “The street outside . . .” I motion to vaguely indicate the impenetrable swarm of vehicles.

“We have an entire level of the underground parking for our use.” Kimmy retrieves a pass from her pocket and shoves it into my grasp. “Park as close to the elevator as you can. I’ll send someone down to help with the transport.”

Okay. I can handle that. I dash back outside, make a quick note of the entrance to the underground parking, and jog back down the street. I round the corner—and stop dead in my tracks.

Where’s the van?

I look around, but it’s nowhere to be seen—just an empty space, and the row of trucks unloading.

What the hell?

My stomach flips over. Noooo . . . I hurry farther down the street. I was in a rush. Maybe I just forgot where I parked it?

But I reach the end of the block, and there’s still no sign of a white rental van anywhere. My stomach gives up on gymnastics and starts tying itself into knots. I feel like I’m stuck in one of those awful dreams where I’m back in high school, realizing there’s a midterm about to start that I completely forgot to study for. In my most difficult subject. And I’m buck-naked, to boot.

At least I’m dressed today, but honestly, I’d take a naked stroll just to get my van back. Shit. Shit! But how could an entire van full of cake disappear into thin air? That was three days of baking in the back of the van. If I can’t find it, the only thing that’s going to fix this is a time machine.

I head back toward the hotel, thinking there’s a slight chance it somehow got moved by one of the crew. I’m just passing the main doors when the last person I’d want to see comes waltzing up the street.

It’s Becky, with three women in caterer uniforms behind her. I suppress a shudder at the memory of wearing one of those just a couple weeks ago. Becky gives me a thin but satisfied smile and turns toward the doors. I block her way.

“What are you doing here?”

“Catering,” she beams. “I heard there was a little snafu with your supplies, so I’m here to step into the breach.”

My eyes narrow. A snafu? My van has been missing for all of five minutes, and I haven’t even told anyone yet. She wouldn’t have . . . I pause. But why else would she be looking at me so smugly?

Bitch!

“What did you do with my van?” I demand.

“Your van?” Becky says, all faux innocence. “I don’t know anything about a van. Did something happen to yours? I hope you weren’t careless with the keys.”

The keys. Oh, fuck. My hand flies to my pocket. Empty. I must have left them in the van in my scramble to grab everything else for my arrival.

“Look, Becky,” I say, forcing my voice to stay even, “I know you’re upset about the gig falling through. But this—this is outright theft. You can’t just take off with other people’s property to get what you want.”

Becky shrugs. “I told you, I have no idea what happened to your van. But if it is missing, it’s a good thing I happened to pass by with my crew on hand and plenty of cakes ready to go. I figured I’d check in and see if they need anything extra, but maybe I’ll end up supplying the whole party.”

Every nerve in my body bristles. No. No fucking way. “You are not stealing this gig from me,” I say, and I’d probably have said a lot more, if Kimmy hadn’t stepped out of the building right then.

She glances at both me and Becky, looking puzzled. “Are you bringing on extra staff?”

Becky laughs, as if her working for me is the funniest thing she’s ever heard.

“No. Just a small miscommunication,” I growl. “Everything’s under control. I’m just going to need a little more time to make sure I have everything in order for you.”

“Oh, Maggie,” Becky says. “Why not just admit you screwed up?” She turns to Kimmy. “I’m the owner of Haverton Catering, and I’d be happy to pick up the slack here. We’ve got a whole spread of cakes we can supply immediately.”

Screw up? How about total sabotage? But I can’t see anything good coming of hashing that out in front of the publicist. I take a deep breath.

“Don’t be silly, Becky,” I say in my sweetest voice. “It won’t take long at all. And”—I pull out the papers I thankfully didn’t leave behind in the van—“according to my contract, I’ve got until six p.m. to get the full order here.” I smile at Kimmy. “I’m really sorry for the mix-up, but you can count on everything you requested, sans orange zest and blue icing, with a special set for Pom-Pom, coming in this door at no later than six.”

Kimmy still looks baffled, but I am holding a piece of paper with all the necessary signatures on it, and it does give me until six. Someone calls for Kimmy from inside the building, and she frowns.

“As long as you deliver as expected, that’s all that matters,” she says. “But I’ll be checking in on your progress. We expect you to hold to that contract.”

She ducks back inside. Becky smirks. “Catering a party of three hundred in four hours flat? Good luck with that.” She turns and saunters off with her team in tow. Off to gloat over my cakes, no doubt.

I bite my lip, nausea churning inside me. I’ve got four hours. Four hours to replicate three days’ worth of baking.

I am so completely screwed.