"The competition," Julian repeats flatly, "is decorating cookies."
"Heart cookies," I correct, grinning up at him. "With royal icing and sprinkles. It's the Cookie Decor Wars. Very serious business."
Tank snorts from beside me, his massive arms crossed over his chest. "The man can invest millions in stock portfolios but can't handle a piping bag. This should be entertaining."
"I can handle a piping bag," Julian protests, and the defensive edge in his voice tells me he absolutely cannot handle a piping bag and is already regretting every life choice that led him to this moment.
This is going to be amazing.
The Valentine's Day Fair has transformed the town square of Oakridge Hollow into something out of a Hallmark movie fever dream. Red and pink decorations drape from every lamppost and storefront. Heart-shaped balloons bob in the February breeze. The air smells like kettle corn and hot chocolate and the sugar-sweet promise of romance, underlaid with the crisp bite of winter and the warm scents of the crowd pressing around us—families and couples and groups of friends, all bundled up against the cold and radiating various degrees of holiday enthusiasm.
The Cookie Decor Wars booth sits at the center of the festivities, a large tent with open sides that allows spectators to watch the chaos unfold. Long tables are set up in rows, each station equipped with trays of pre-baked heart-shaped cookies, bowls of royal icing in every color imaginable, and enough sprinkles to give a dentist nightmares. A banner above the tent proclaims "COOKIE DECOR WARS - COUPLES & PACKS EDITION" in glittery letters, and beneath it, a growing crowd of participants and onlookers mills about, waiting for the competition to begin.
This is exactly the kind of ridiculous, over-the-top, unnecessarily competitive activity that makes small-town Valentine's Day celebrations absolutely perfect.
A cheerful Beta woman with a clipboard approaches us, her smile so bright it could power the entire fair. "Welcome to Cookie Decor Wars! Are you registering as a pack?"
"We are," I confirm, gesturing at my three Alphas. "One Omega, three Alphas. Is that allowed?"
She glances at Tank—all six-foot-four of intimidating muscle wrapped in a tight thermal that's doing absolutely nothing to hide his physique—and her smile widens. "Oh, it'sdefinitelyallowed. Station seven, please. Competition starts in ten minutes."
We make our way to our assigned station, weaving through other competitors who are already strategizing over their cookie supplies. I catch snippets of conversation—intense debates about icing consistency and sprinkle distribution and whether fondant is cheating—and I have to bite my lip to keep from laughing.
These people take their cookie decorating very seriously. I respect that.
"Alright," Elias says once we've claimed our station, rubbing his hands together with predatory glee. "Let's talk strategy."
"Strategy," Julian repeats, eyeing the array of supplies in front of us with barely concealed horror. "For cookie decorating."
"Yes, strategy." Elias picks up a piping bag filled with red icing and gives it an experimental squeeze. A blob of frosting erupts from the tip and lands on the table with a wet splat. "Okay, maybe I need to practice that."
Tank reaches past him and picks up one of the heart cookies, turning it over in his massive hands like he's examining a piece of evidence at a crime scene. "These are smaller than I expected."
"That's because they're cookies, not pizzas," I say, plucking it from his grasp before he can accidentally crush it. "Gentle touch, big guy."
He gives me a look that suggests he's perfectly capable of being gentle, thank you very much, and the heat in his gaze makes me flush in a way that has nothing to do with the now February chill.
An announcer's voice crackles through the speakers set up around the tent: "Welcome to the Fifth Annual Oakridge Hollow Cookie Decor Wars! Competitors, you have exactly forty-five minutes to create the most impressive, creative, and delicious-looking Valentine's themed cookie display. Judging will be based on creativity, technique, presentation, and overall wow factor. Any supplementary items—drinks, displays, or theatrical elements—are encouraged and will be considered in scoring. Ready... set... DECORATE!"
A horn blares, and chaos erupts.
All around us, teams spring into action—grabbing supplies, barking orders, immediately descending into the kind of organized pandemonium that only competitive baking can inspire. I turn to my pack, ready to delegate tasks based on our individual strengths.
Julian has already picked up a piping bag.
Julian has already attempted to pipe a straight line.
Julian has already made what can only be described as a frosting crime scene.
"What thefuck," he says, staring at the cookie in his hand. What was clearly meant to be a simple border has become a Jackson Pollock interpretation of icing—splatters and blobs and one sad little squiggle that might have been attempting to be decorative but ended up looking like a dying worm.
Elias loses it. Full-body, bent-over, tears-streaming-down-his-face laughter that draws the attention of at least threeneighboring teams. "Holy shit. Holyshit. Julian. What did youdo?"
"I followed the natural motion of the bag," Julian snaps, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment. "The icing is clearly defective."
"The icing is not defective," Tank says, and even his stoic expression is cracking at the edges. "Your technique is defective."
"I don't have technique. I haveinvestors. I haveportfolios. I have never in my life needed to pipe frosting onto a cookie, and I fail to see why that's suddenly a moral failing."
