“I can’t stop thinking about you,” he said. “And it’s messing with my focus on this job. On everything. It’s why I didn’t think about how there was probably stuff stored in the oven, why I’ve been sweating through this shirt worrying about whether I can keep it together this week, why I’ve reread your texts so many times I can probably recite them back to you from memory.”

Without thinking, I replied, “Me too.” To all of it.

And suddenly it felt like the dam within was bursting, and I couldn’t hold everything in anymore. The desire for him to lean down toward me until our breath mingled was winning, pushing out all the other thoughts that no longer felt so important. How much could it hurt the mission if we did kiss just this once? In that moment, with his glistening lips not far from mine, with the scent of sugar and holiday warmth emanating from his tall, lean body, I couldn’t think of a single reason why this would be a problem.

I glanced at his mouth, then back up at his eyes. “If we give in to what we’re feeling, it would only help sell the story, right?” I whispered, my voice sounding as choppy as I felt.

“Mm-hmm,” he murmured.

My mother burst in, and we jumped apart guiltily even though, what the hell, we were doing exactly what we were supposed to be doing. Except not. Oh my God, why had I spun such a complicated web?

“Oh!” my mother exclaimed, her face turning red. “I hurried home because I felt bad we were losing time together. I, uh, hunh.”

The oven timer went off, and the shock on her face grew. “You used the oven?”

Andrew hurried over, used a rag to take the cookies out, then stuck a chopstick through the thickest one to make sure they were done. “No dough residue—came out great!” he said with way too much enthusiasm.

He transferred a few cookies onto a plate, and the three of us dug in even though they were way too hot; we just needed to fill our mouths so we wouldn’t have to talk about the weirdness in the air, even though there shouldn’t be any weirdness. I’d been caught almost kissing my supposed boyfriend, so why did everything feel so wrong?

The answer: For my mother, because Andrew wasn’t Hongbo. For Andrew and me, because our situation was an Escher drawing come to life. Now that the spell was broken—thanks, Mǎmá—my turned-on-again brain understood how close I’d been to letting momentary pleasure threaten the mission. What if we went down that road and messed up his cover in front of my parents? Because I couldn’t get to know the real him without risking what we were trying to accomplish.