I take the mangled cookie from his hands, examine it with mock seriousness, and then toss it into the discard pile. "Okay. New plan. Julian, you're on typography duty."
"Typography?"
"Writing. Words. Letters." I hand him a fine-tipped piping bag filled with white icing. "You have beautiful handwriting—I've seen your notes. Forget about borders and shapes. Just write pretty things on the cookies once we've got the base layer done."
He takes the bag with the caution of a man handling a live explosive. "You want me to write on cookies."
"I want you to use your one applicable skill in this situation, yes." I pat his arm reassuringly. "You can do this. I believe in you. Now—Elias."
Elias snaps to attention, still grinning from Julian's failure. "Ma'am?"
"You're on base coats and designs. You've got steady hands from all that firefighting equipment—use them. Get a nice even layer of icing on each cookie, then do simple patterns. Hearts, swirls, whatever feels right. Don't overthink it."
"Aye aye, captain." He grabs a spatula and a bowl of pink icing, immediately setting to work with the focused intensity of a man who takes recreational cookie decorating far too seriously.
"And Tank..." I turn to the mountain of muscle currently examining a container of heart-shaped sprinkles like they hold the secrets of the universe. "Tank, what are you good at?"
He looks up at me. "Killing people. Surveillance. Hand-to-hand combat."
"...anything relevant to cookie decorating?"
A long pause. "I can arrange sprinkles with tactical precision."
"Good enough. You're on sprinkle duty. Make them look intentional." I survey my team—Julian squinting at his piping bag like it's a puzzle to be solved, Elias already humming as he spreads icing with surprising skill, Tank organizing sprinkles into color-coded piles with military efficiency. "I'm going to work on the supplementary element. The announcement said theatrical elements are encouraged, and I know exactly what we need."
I spot a small setup at the edge of our station—a portable burner, some basic supplies, and what looks like a collection of drink-making equipment that previous competitors have clearly ignored. Perfect.
If there's one thing I can do, it's make a drink that'll knock the judges' socks off.
The next twenty minutes are a blur of organized chaos.
Elias turns out to be genuinely talented at cookie decorating—his base coats are smooth and even, his swirls elegant, his hearts perfectly symmetrical. He works with the same focused intensity he brings to everything, tongue poking out slightly as he concentrates, flour somehow ending up in his hair despite the fact that we're not using any flour.
Julian struggles with the piping bag for the first few attempts, his letters coming out shaky and uneven. But then something clicks—I watch his expression shift from frustration to concentration to something almost approaching satisfactionas he starts producing elegant script across the cookies Elias finishes. "Be Mine." "Sweet Valentine." "Love." "Forever." Each word written in his precise, beautiful handwriting, the icing flowing smoothly under his careful control.
"Look at you," I say, pausing my drink preparation to admire his work. "The investor becomes an artist."
"I'm merely applying calligraphy principles to a new medium," he says, but there's a hint of pride in his voice that makes me smile.
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'sstanding 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?"
