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 thecookies, 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 actuallywoo—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 ismarketing," 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 tinyheart-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 cannotbelieveyou 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."
