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I wrap the gift mostly by touch and rage, using my teeth to tighten the final ribbon while Miles gives increasingly useless instructions because—as I discover when the blindfold comes off—he spent the last thirty seconds staring at my ass and accidentally wrapped his own wrist to the gift box.

"Oh, good. You taped yourself to the present," I say.

He looks down at his wrist, festively attached to a box. "It's a statement piece?"

The judges disagree. They give us last place, although the gathering crowd gives us a standing ovation.

By the time the ribbon is cut off his wrist, we're both flushed and laughing, and neither of us is doing a convincing job of pretending this attraction is one-sided anymore.

"Final round!" Big Mike spreads his arms toward tables loaded with fresh supplies. "Each pair will construct an edible gingerbread replica of Madden Mistletoe Resort! I want chalets! Christmas trees! And of course, the centerpiece… the hockey arena!"

Our table is a sugar apocalypse.

Gingerbread panels are stacked like lumber beside icing bags of every color. There are chocolate beams, candy windows and gumdrops.

But my favorite, are the tiny hockey-player figurines with painted jerseys.

Miles cracks his knuckles and surveys the supplies with a boyish grin.

"Finally," he says. "Structural integrity. Stand back, Runaway. This is my area of expertise."

I fold my arms over my chest and raise a brow. "You grow trees. That doesn't make you a gingerbread architect."

"I've built barns, fences, and a tree-baling machine out of spare parts. This—" he taps a gingerbread panel, "—is child's play to me."

"You're awfully confident about this." I lean my hip against the table and look up at him. "Want to make it interesting?"

His eyes narrow, and something hungry moves behind them. "I'm listening."

"If your precious structure survives judging, you win one festive command. Anything you want, and I have to obey."

He swallows hard as his eyes drop to where the apron is covering my cleavage.

"And if it collapses?"

"Then the command is mine."

Miles considers this for exactly one second before offering his hand across the table. "Deal."

Our palms meet as his hand swallows mine. His thumb drags across my knuckles, and I understand with total clarity that neither of us is treating these stakes as innocent.

One festive command.

I am definitely not thinking about what he'd wish for. I am definitely not pressing my thighs together again.

"Build," I say, pulling my hand back before it does something stupid.

The construction becomes war.

Miles approaches the gingerbread like a suspension bridge, reinforcing every wall with chocolate beams, testing joints, muttering about weight distribution. He physically blocks me from the icing bags after I "compromise a corner" with what I maintain was artistic flair.

"You're banned from adhesives," he says.

"You can't ban me from icing."

"I just did. Decorations only."

So I decorate. I also steal an entire bowl of gumdrops from Nate's station while he's arguing with Eden about roof pitch, and I recruit Dylan—who is drifting between tables insisting he's "not an official competitor"—to smuggle me extra candy from the supply table.