Page 34

"This is criminal activity," Dylan says, sliding me a fistful of candy windows.

"You're an accomplice now. Welcome."

Miles catches me mid-heist, gumdrops stuffed in my apron pocket, and instead of outrage, he throws his head back and laughs this big, open sound I haven't heard from him before.

That sound of this man's joy is dangerous.

By the time we're done, our tiny little resort is genuinely impressive.

We have little chalets with candy windows, gumdrop Christmas trees with powdered-sugar snow, and the tiny hockey players are all positioned like they're mid-game.

All we need is the resort roof.

I can't reach the center of the structure from the floor.

"Up you go," Miles says, and before I can respond, his hands close around my waist.

He lifts me onto the table like I weigh less than the gingerbread.

I steady myself, kneeling on the tabletop, leaning over our sugar city with the roof panel in both hands. Maybe to try and help, Miles's palms slide from my waist to my thighs to hold me stable.

"Miles."

"You're wobbling." His thumbs settle on the tops of my stockings, right where velvet ends and my bare skin begins. "Stay steady."

"I'm wobbling because your hands are wobbling. Upward."

"They're supporting you."

"They're at my stockings!"

Neither of us notices the central wall beginning to tilt.

The resort goes first. Chocolate beams snap, the roof panel drops from my hands, and dozens of candy hockey players vanish beneath the wreckage.

An entire bowl of powdered sugar erupts in a mushroom cloud that coats us both in white and all around the ballroom, everyone explodes with laughter and applause.

Miles catches me against his chest as the last chalet surrenders around us, icing streaked across his face, powdered sugar dusting my cleavage like the world's most suggestive snowfall.

We're both wheezing with laughter in the ruins of our resort.

We lose the official competition to a Falcons captain whose gingerbread rink has functioning candy-cane goalposts.

We win the crowd-favorite vote by a landslide.

And more importantly—much, much more importantly—I win the bet.

Of course, the Wildcards team decide the only appropriate response to public humiliation is to head to the Ski Bar, so the whole team spills from the ballroom in a rowdy parade, arguing about the judging, drinking leftover champagne and openly looting the surviving gingerbread displays from the other teams.

Aidan is carrying an entire chalet under one arm like a man rescuing it from a fire as Miles and I fall behind the group.

"I still think you sabotaged the arena," he says, brushing powdered sugar off his shoulder. "Admit it. You knew my design would survive, so you took it down from the inside."

"Would you let it go?" I say, bumping him with my hip. "You're emotionally attached to a building made of biscuits. Seek help."

"That building had reinforced corners!"

"Yeah, well. That building is now being eaten by your teammates."