Chapter 32 #2
Tank's sprinkle work is... intense. He's arranged the tiny hearts and stars and sugar pearls with the precision of a military operation, creating patterns that are almost aggressively symmetrical. It works, somehow. It shouldn't, but it does.
And me—I'm in my element. The portable burner heats milk while I mix together a blend of cocoa, cinnamon, and a hint of cayenne.
I've found some vanilla extract and honey among the supplies, and I'm crafting a spiced hot chocolate that will complement the sweetness of the cookies perfectly.
The rich, warm scent starts to rise from my station, and I notice a few competitors glancing over with interest.
That's right. Watch and learn.
"Rosemarie," Julian says, and something in his voice makes me look up. He's holding a cookie—one of the finished ones, beautifully decorated with a pink base coat and delicate white hearts. And across the center, in his elegant script, he's written my name.
Rosemarie, spelled out in sugar, each letter perfect and precise.
"For you," he says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "Since you're the one making this whole thing work."
My heart does something complicated in my chest. This is the same man who, thirty minutes ago, created an icing atrocity that should have been classified as a war crime. And now he's standing here, offering me a cookie with my name on it like it's something precious.
"Thank you," I manage, taking the cookie carefully. "I'll save it for after we win."
"Confident," Tank observes, not looking up from his sprinkle arrangement.
"Realistic," I counter. "Have you seen our competition?"
We all glance around at the neighboring stations.
To our left, a couple is having what appears to be a passive-aggressive argument about whether red or pink should be the dominant color.
To our right, a family of five has descended into absolute chaos, with the youngest child covered head to toe in sprinkles and the father desperately trying to salvage what looks like a cookie that's been dropped on the ground.
Across the tent, another pack is doing reasonably well, but their presentation lacks any supplementary elements.
We've got this.
The announcer's voice crackles again: "Twenty minutes remaining! Remember, presentation counts!"
"We need something more," I say, surveying our station. The cookies look great—genuinely impressive, thanks to our unexpected team synergy. My hot chocolate is simmering perfectly, ready to be poured into the small cups I've found. But we need an edge. Something memorable.
I look at Tank.
Tank looks at me.
"No," he says.
"I didn't say anything."
"You're thinking it. The answer is no."
"Tank." I put on my best pleading expression—the one that's worked on him approximately seventy percent of the time since I moved in. "The judges are mostly older women. And you are..." I gesture vaguely at his entire situation. "You. We need every advantage."
Elias catches on immediately, his face splitting into a grin. "Oh my god. Yes. Tank, take off your shirt."
"Absolutely fucking not."
"For the team," I say. "For the cookies, Tank."
Julian, who has been watching this exchange with barely concealed amusement, adds, "I never thought I'd say this, but I agree with them. Your physique is our most valuable strategic asset at this moment."
Tank stares at all three of us with an expression of pure betrayal. Then he sighs—a deep, put-upon exhale of a man who knows he's outnumbered—and reaches for the hem of his thermal.
The shirt comes off.
The reaction is immediate and enthusiastic.
A gasp ripples through the crowd of spectators that has gathered around the tent.
Several of the older women on the judging panel actually woo—a sound I didn't know judges at a cookie competition were capable of making.
Phones appear in hands all around us. Someone wolf-whistles.
A teenage girl near the front of the crowd fans herself dramatically.
Tank stands there, shirtless, his tattooed chest on full display, looking like he's contemplating murder but committed to the bit. His muscles flex as he crosses his arms, and I swear I hear at least three people swoon.
"This is humiliating," he mutters.
"This is marketing," I correct. "Now look stoic and mysterious while I finish the presentation."
"I always look stoic and mysterious."
"Then this should be easy for you."
I turn back to my hot chocolate, adding the finishing touches—a swirl of cream, a dusting of cocoa powder, a tiny heart-shaped cookie balanced on the rim of each cup.
Behind me, I can hear the crowd continuing to react to Tank's impromptu striptease, their excited murmurs providing the perfect background noise for our presentation setup.
"Rose! Rose!"
I look up to find Ruby pushing through the crowd, her phone already out and recording. She's wearing a ridiculous amount of Valentine's themed accessories—heart-shaped earrings, a pink scarf, what appears to be a headband with bouncing heart antennae—and her grin is absolutely delighted.
"I cannot believe you got him to take his shirt off for a cookie competition," she says, somehow managing to sound impressed and scandalized at the same time.
She angles her phone toward Tank, who responds by flexing slightly—whether consciously or not, I can't tell.
"This is going on every social media platform I have access to. "
"Please don't," Tank says flatly.
"Already posted."
Ruby turns her phone toward me, still recording. "Rosemarie, darling, aren't you jealous that every woman in this tent is currently fawning over your man? Because I'm counting at least fifteen people who look like they're about to throw their underwear at him, and two of them are judges."
I laugh, glancing over at Tank, who is indeed the subject of intense female attention from multiple directions.
An older woman on the judging panel is actually fanning herself with her clipboard.
A group of college-aged girls near the edge of the tent is taking what appears to be an endless stream of photos.
"Jealous?" I shake my head, grinning. "Not even a little.
He's a walking advertisement, and if his abs help us win this competition, then I'm fully supportive of their public debut.
" I lean closer to Ruby's camera, lowering my voice conspiratorially.
"But I'll definitely be getting my payback later. "
Tank's eyebrow arches. Even from across the station, I can see the interest sparking in his eyes—the shift from annoyed to intrigued that tells me he's already thinking about exactly what kind of payback I might have in mind.
Elias cackles from his position at the decorating station. "Oh, you're so fucking doomed, man. She's got that look."
"What look?" Julian asks, pausing his typography work.
"The 'I'm going to make you regret this in the best possible way' look." Elias points his piping bag at Tank. "Memorize his expression right now. That's the face of a man who doesn't know whether to be worried or excited."
"Both," Tank admits. "Definitely both."
The announcer's voice cuts through our banter: "Five minutes remaining! Finish up your presentations!"
We spring into action for the final push.
Elias arranges our decorated cookies on the display stand in an artful pattern—hearts cascading down in a waterfall effect, with the typography cookies featured prominently in the center.
Julian adds a few final flourishes to the remaining cookies, his handwriting now confident and elegant.
I pour my spiced hot chocolate into the prepared cups, arranging them beside the cookies with the mini cookie garnishes balanced perfectly on each rim.
And Tank... Tank stands there looking devastatingly handsome and deeply uncomfortable, which is apparently exactly what the judges want to see.
"Time!" The horn blares again, and everyone steps back from their stations.
The judging takes forever—or maybe it just feels that way because I'm vibrating with competitive energy. The panel of five judges moves from station to station, sampling cookies, examining presentations, making notes on their clipboards. When they reach our booth, I watch their faces carefully.
One judge takes a bite of Elias's perfectly decorated cookie and her eyebrows rise in appreciation.
Another examines Julian's typography work and actually pulls out her phone to take a photo.
A third sips my spiced hot chocolate and makes a sound of genuine pleasure that I'm going to remember for the rest of my life.
And all five of them spend what feels like an inappropriate amount of time looking at Tank.
"Marketing," I murmur to Ruby, who is still recording everything. "Pure marketing."
"I'll say," she whispers back. "The judge on the left hasn't blinked in forty-five seconds."
After what feels like hours but is probably only about fifteen minutes, the judges convene at the front of the tent to discuss their decision.
The crowd presses closer, everyone eager to hear the results.
I find myself holding my breath, Elias's hand finding mine on one side and Julian's on the other.
Tank moves to stand behind me, his warmth radiating against my back even in the February chill.
Whatever happens, this was fun. This was exactly the kind of ridiculous, chaotic, wonderful activity that I never got to do with my old pack. This is what having a family should feel like.
"In third place," the announcer begins, "with their impressive technical execution and creative use of color—the Morrison Family!"
Applause. The sprinkle-covered child from the station near us is hoisted onto someone's shoulders, beaming with pride despite the chaos that had preceded this moment.
"In second place, with their elegant design work and attention to detail—the Hartley-Chen Pack!"
More applause. The pack across the tent cheers, clearly thrilled with their placement.