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.
"And in first place..." The announcer pauses for dramatic effect, and I swear my heart stops beating. "With their outstanding combination of artistry, innovation, presentation, and..." She glances at Tank and actually giggles. "...visual appeal—Station Seven! Rosemarie and her pack!"
The crowd erupts. Elias whoops so loudly that people three booths over probably heard it. Julian's grip on my hand tightens, something like genuine joy flickering across his usually composed features. And Tank—Tank leans down and presses a kiss to the top of my head, his rumbling chuckle vibrating through me.
"We won," I breathe, still not quite believing it. "We actually won."
"Was there ever any doubt?" Elias scoops me up in a hug that lifts my feet off the ground. "We're a fucking incredible team."
The prize presentation is a whirlwind. They give us medals—actual medals, heart-shaped and ridiculous and absolutely perfect. Someone takes our photo for the town newspaper. Ruby documents everything, her commentary a running stream of delighted observations about pack dynamics and cookie superiority.
And then the organizer presents us with the grand prize: a voucher for a complete makeover service, applicable to a home room, business space, or shop of our choosing. Professional design consultation, materials, and labor all included.
"This is incredibly generous," Julian says, examining the voucher with his investor's eye. "Who sponsors this?"
"Local business coalition," the organizer explains. "We like to support our community members. You can use it for a bedroom renovation, a living space update, or if any of you own a business, a full shop makeover."
