Page 49 of Hot Chocolate & Hitmen

He waggles his eyebrows at me dramatically and a snort escapes me before I can stop it. I quickly hide my face behind my hands. "A cookie bake-off? Really?"

“You heard me,” he says with mock seriousness, wagging a finger at me. “You’re looking at the reigning cookie champion. I make the best damn gingerbread men this side of the North Pole. You’re going down, Grace.”

“Oh, this is going to be good.” Teddy saunters over, looking like he’s just stepped off the cover of some winter magazine, his dirty-blonde hair perfectly tousled despite the ridiculousness of the situation. “Key, you realize the only thing you won last time was the award forMost Likely to Cause Food Poisoning, right?”

Atlas chuckles from where he’s leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed and a smirk playing on his lips. “And I seem to recall your reindeer having six legs last year.”

Key places a hand over his heart, looking deeply offended. “Those were avant-garde reindeer. They were ahead of their time.”

“They were so ahead of their time, they skipped Christmas entirely, and went straight to Halloween,” Atlas quips, stepping further into the kitchen.

I can’t help but laugh as Key starts pulling out an array of cookie cutters, clearly preparing for war. “You guys have no idea what’s about to hit you,” he mutters under his breath, throwing ingredients onto the counter. “I’m about tosleighthis competition.”

“Oh, for the love of Frosty,” I groan, shaking my head at his pun. “Please tell me we’re not doing Christmas puns the whole time.”

Key narrows his eyes at me, flour dusting his fingertips like he’s about to throw a snowball. “Sugar, I dare you to try and stop me. This is my time to shine, and I’ll be making puns until the cows come home for Christmas.”

Teddy rolls his eyes as he grabs his own bowl from the cabinet, sliding it onto the counter next to mine. “Alright, alright. If we’re doing this, let’s at least make it interesting.” His blue eyes meet mine, twinkling with mischief. “How about a little wager?”

Atlas raises an eyebrow, clearly interested but waiting for the details. “What kind of wager?”

“Well, winner gets…a little taste of Sugar,” Key purrs, leaning in close to me.

I bite my lip, almost losing my grip on the plate of food on my lap. “Deal.”

The kitchen quickly devolves into a flurry of activity. Atlas stands at the stove, whipping up a batch of dough with the precision of someone who’s used to following exact instructions. Key, meanwhile, is all over the place with flour on his nose, cinnamon on his shirt, and a mixing bowl that looks like it’s seen better days. Teddy, of course, is calm and collected, his hands moving with ease as he mixes his ingredients like a seasoned pro.

I’ve polished off my food like a soldier and am in the middle of rolling out my dough when Key sidles up beside me, peeringover my shoulder. “Whatcha got there, Sugar? A little too traditional, don’t you think?” He gestures to my neatly lined-up cookie cutters–stockings, candy canes, and Christmas trees.

I narrow my eyes at him. “What’s wrong with traditional? These are classics.”

“Classics are overrated.” Key wiggles his fingers in front of me like a magician preparing for a trick. “Watch and learn, rookie.”

Before I can protest, he whips his tray into mine, knocking my own cookies out of the way completely. I blink, trying to process what I’m seeing.

“Is that...a warrior gingerbread man?”

Key beams, clearly proud of himself and the bulging arm muscles on his cookies. “Oh yeah. This little guy’s ready for battle. And wait until you see what I’ve got in store for the frosting.”

Atlas snorts from across the room. “Let me guess–you’re going to make an army of gingerbread mercenaries?”

“Exactly,” Key says, not missing a beat. “And they’ll be unstoppable. You might as well give up now.”

I roll my eyes but can’t help the smile creeping onto my face as I quickly change plans for my own cookies. “Well, I hope they can handle mine then. They’re going to be…packing…quite the punch.”

Teddy glances over, raising an eyebrow. “What, are you giving them little boxing gloves?”

I shrug. “I’m not telling.”

Key gasps dramatically, clutching his chest. “Et tu, Sugar? You’re turning on me already?”

“Oh please, don’t act like you didn’t see this coming,” I say, nudging him with my elbow.

The playful banter continues as we work, the kitchen slowly transforming into a winter wonderland of flour, sugar, andfrosting. As I kneel down to check the first batch of cookies in the oven, the smell of sugar and melted butter fills the air, making the entire cabin feel even cozier. I do my best to hide my own creations from view, made easier by the fact that the guys seem so caught up in their own projects, they don’t bother peeking at mine.

Atlas, who’s been dead silent, finally speaks up. “So...what are we judging these cookies on? Taste? Creativity? Or who can make the most outrageous puns?”

Key’s eyes light up. “Oh, puns are definitely part of the judging criteria. I mean, what’s Christmas without a few jolly good groaners?”

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