"Should we?" I nod toward the tables.
"Sure." He hands me a plate before I can reach for one. "Where do we start?"
“Entry number seven—maple bacon cookies?”
We split one. The sweet-savory combination works.
“Dangerous,” Evan admits, reaching for another half.
At the next table, entry fifteen catches our attention for all the wrong reasons. Dark green cookies with white chocolate chips.
“Are these supposed to be,” I squint at the card. “Mistletoe cookies?”
We each take a careful bite. The taste is aggressively herbal, bitter, with an aftertaste like lawn clippings.
Evan's trying not to make a face. “Is this?—?”
“Actual mistletoe?” I whisper, horrified. “Isn't that poisonous?”
“Let's hope it's just badly judged herbs.” He discreetly wraps his half in a napkin while I scan the crowd, hoping whoever made these isn't watching.
We move to the third table, and I stop short.
“Oh wow, look at these!”
Entry twenty-three: cookies shaped like sturdy mugs, glazed with chocolate swirls, crushed peppermint on top.
I pick one up and bite into it. My knees actually wobble.
It's my peppermint mocha. Not an approximation—it IS my winter morning addiction transformed. The chocolate has that slight bitter edge I love, the peppermint bright but not medicinal, and underneath, the ghost of espresso.
“Oh my goodness.” I take another bite. “Who made these?”
Evan's watching me with his boardroom face except his ears are pink.
“You.” The word barely makes it out. “You made these.”
“I might have.”
“Evan.”
“Jocelyn handled the entry, I experimented with the recipe.” His ears go from pink to red. “The first night, the chocolate ratio was wrong. Wednesday I over-corrected with peppermint. Last night I think I finally?—”
“You spent three nights making me cookies.”
“It seemed important to get them right.”
I feel the unmistakable prickle behind my eyes that means tears are coming. This impossible man who questions the need for Christmas trees spent three nights perfecting cookies for me.
“Holly?”
“They're perfect.” My voice cracks.
“They didn't win.” He nods toward judges, already awarding ribbons elsewhere.
“I don't care. These are still the best. You made them for me.”
“Yes,” he says. “I did.”
