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“Which only makes me want to prove to you I can do it,” he says, tossing the egg upward with careless confidence.

“Okay, Sheriff,” I say, facing him. “Show me what you’ve got.”

He throws the egg in the air, turns in a full circle, then easily catches it, never fumbling once.

“Impressive. Where did you learn that?”

“Oh, I’ve done it hundreds of times with a hockey puck. I can also do it under my leg.”

“Okay, but can you combine them all in one move?” I challenge.

He smirks. “Only one way to find out.”

He does the behind-the-back catch flawlessly, but when he attempts to transition to under the leg, Uncle Bobby walks by and interrupts his flow. The egg smashes on the floor.

Tate winces at the mess. “Almost.”

I press my lips together. “And here I thought your hockey skills would transfer to the kitchen.” I grab a paper towel and hand it to him. “Maybe save the fancy moves for the ice.”

Tate glances back at Aunt Karen who shakes her head. He leans toward me. “Is Aunt Karen going to kick me out?”

“Not a chance,” I say. “You’re way too charming. You had her at ‘teachers are underpaid and under-appreciated.’ That line bought you a lifetime membership to her good graces.”

Dad strolls by, carrying a pan full of cake batter. “Seems like you two are having way too much fun over here.” He smiles, then nods toward our competitors. “But you’d better hurry—Bart and Abby already have their cupcakes in the oven.”

When I glance over, I notice Abby rubbing her forehead, while Bart lectures her about something. I definitely do not miss that side of him.

“I think the stress is getting to them,” Dad whispers before he leaves.

I elbow Tate in the ribs. “We need to get to work.” I snatch the eggs from Tate’s hands before he can think up any more tricks.

Once the batter is mixed, we pop the cake pans into the only available oven—which, unfortunately, is the same one Bart and Abby are using. Then I start on the frosting recipe.

When Abby pulls her cupcakes out of the oven a little later, she accidentally bumps one of our cake pans while trying to reach around it. The pan tips, tumbling face-down onto the floor with a splat.

My heart sinks as I stare at our chocolate creation now splattered across the tile.

“Sorry,” Abby says, her expression genuinely apologetic as she clutches her cupcake tray. “I didn’t mean to.”

“It’s okay, Abby,” I say, forcing a smile. “Accidents happen.”

That’s when I catch Bart grinning at our mishap. “Karma sucks, doesn’t it?” he says, loud enough for everyone to hear.

Tate steps forward without a word, kneels down, and slides a spatula under our broken cake, scooping it up in one smooth motion. His movements are calm, almost surgical in their precision, but the muscle clenched in his jaw tells me he’s showing grace, even when Bart doesn’t deserve it.

“No problem at all,” Tate says calmly, rising to his full height. “But a word of advice, Bart? Don’t say stuff like that again.”

“Or what?” Bart challenges, his smirk faltering slightly.

Tate gives him what I know is a half-hearted smile. “Or those cupcakes might not make it to the end of the competition.”

I stare at him as Tate returns with our broken cake. “Did you seriously just threaten to destroy their cupcakes?”

“I’m not going to destroy them,” he says, “but if I let the kids run loose in the kitchen with Annie…well, things happen,” he says with a hint of a smile.

I look over the broken cake in front of me. “What are we going to do about that?”

Tate studies the damage, then snaps his fingers. “Candy. What if we just hide the damage with lots of sugar?”

I blink at him. “You do realize the kids will be on a sugar high for the rest of the night?”

He shrugs. “I’ll take them outside and let them run around with Annie. You know, kids are like dogs—all you need to do to keep them happy is feed ’em and run ’em.”

“Since when are you a child development expert?” I ask .

“Since your niece and nephew.” He winks. “They’ve taught me everything I need to know.”

With our candy strategy settled, we get to work on the cake reconstruction effort. The cracked, sunken cake goes on the bottom and we fill the gap with as much peanut butter filling as possible to prop it up. It still looks like the leaning tower of chocolate cake, but at least it’s standing.

“Fifteen minutes!” Aunt Karen calls as she checks her timer.

While I cover the cake with frosting, Tate begins color-coordinating the candy.

“Is that really necessary?” I ask, eyeing his piles suspiciously.

“Patience, woman. The candy architect has a plan.”

When I finally smooth out the last bit of buttercream, Tate gently hip-checks me out of the way. “Step aside and let the master begin.”

“Ten minutes!” Aunt Karen calls.

Tate studies the top of our cake like it’s a game strategy. Then, without a word, he starts arranging pieces of candy with meticulous focus.

“What are you doing?” I ask, watching him set gummy bears and chocolate shavings across the top.

“Creating a masterpiece,” he says, brow furrowed.

“But can you finish it on time?”

“Have I failed you yet, Sunny?” he says, without taking his eyes off his work.

I shake my head, fighting a smile. “No, but there’s a first time for everything, Sheriff.”

I look around the room, taking in the spread of desserts.

Dad and Patty set their gooey pineapple cake on the center island, its golden-brown crust glistening with caramelized sugar.

Next to it, the uncles proudly display their bourbon bacon pecan pie bars, with thick layers of buttery shortbread, toasted pecans, and a bourbon caramel drizzle that makes it look straight out of Southern Living magazine.

Olivia and Jake’s brownies sit beside them, the fudge top decorated with a thick swirl of caramel and dark chocolate glaze, finished with a sprinkle of flaky sea salt.

The only couple still yet to finish is Bart and Abby, who are perfecting their cupcakes like this is the Cupcake Wars . From here, I can see Abby delicately piping soft pink frosting roses on top of vanilla bean cupcakes, each swirl flawless.

Yeah, we’re toast.

When I turn around, I’m stunned to see what Tate has created in just a few minutes. “Tate.” A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Is this…a hockey game?”

He nods. “Our theme is winning, isn’t it?”

The cookies form the rink, with gummy bears serving as players—some skating, others getting “checked.” A single brown candy at center ice acts as the puck. It’s ridiculously cute, and absolutely perfect. The kids are going to go wild over it.

I shake my head. “That’s incredible. How did you come up with that?”

“I used to color-code my Lego bricks, making all kinds of designs with them. Candy isn’t that much different—it’s all about putting the right pieces together.”

We slide our cake next to Bart and Abby’s perfect cupcakes, right as Aunt Karen’s alarm goes off.

“Hey.” Tate nudges me, before sliding an arm around me. “We did it. We should be proud of that.”

We spend the next half hour handing out samples to the entire family as they circle the island, everyone getting a small bite of each dessert. Votes are cast into a cookie jar and the aunts count the ballots while the kids burn off energy running Annie around in the backyard.

When the results are tallied, Aunt Karen calls us together to announce the winners.

“Well, the results were extremely close,” she says. “Only one vote separated first and second place. And the winners are …” She pauses to keep us all on edge. “Bart and Abby!”

A round of applause erupts while Abby hugs Bart. Even from here, I can see the tightness in Abby’s smile, the way Bart stiffens and barely cracks a smile. It’s almost like the stress of the competition has put him in a bad mood.

Aunt Tammy steps next to her daughter and says, “Oh, Abby, honey, you and Bart seem tense. Need some aromatherapy?” She pulls a little vial from her pocket.

Abby makes an exasperated noise. “I’m fine, Mom.” Her face tightens as she glances at Bart, who’s already focused on the fake medal Aunt Karen hands him. Abby mumbles something under her breath before storming from the room, leaving an awkward silence behind.

“In second place”—Aunt Karen scans her notes—“we have a tie! Between Bobby and Ray and…”

“Tate and Lauren!”

I blink. “What?” Then I scream. “We placed?”

Tate lets out a laugh, scoops me right off the floor, and spins me around. “Second place, Sunny!”

When he finally sets me back on my feet, he’s still wearing that ridiculous ruffled floral apron.

“Good news, Sheriff. You can take off the apron now.”

“Hmm, I don’t know. If you think I look so good in this, maybe I should keep it on.”

“In that case, I need another shot to remember it by.” I whip out my phone and take another picture before he can confiscate it.

His eyes narrow. “You’d better not put that on social media. No PR excuses.”

“Nope,” I say sweetly, slipping my phone behind my back. “This one’s just for me. To relive our baking glory in ruffled aprons.”

Tate lunges for my phone, but I dodge, laughing as I dart behind the counter.

“Sunny,” he warns. “Delete that now.”

“Sorry, Sheriff,” I tease. “Evidence of your domestic side stays with me. Along with one last picture of us together. ”

I lean in, angling my phone for a selfie, but Tate stops me with a hand on my arm.

“Wait. You can’t take a picture like that.”

I frown. “Why not?”

He turns me toward him, his gaze dropping to my lips. “Because you have frosting…right here .”

Before I can wipe it off, he reaches up and swipes his thumb over the side of my mouth, his touch purposefully slow.

I look away, thinking I should brush him off, make a joke. But all I can focus on is the warmth of his touch, the way his brow furrows slightly like he’s completely focused on the task.

Just when I think this torture is over, he casually licks the frosting from his thumb.

My heart vaults in my chest.

For a guy who’s all logic and brains, he can be irresistibly smooth when he wants to be.

I clear my throat, my body suddenly aware of his gaze on my lips. “Well, thanks for not letting me take a picture like that.”

His mouth slides into a knowing grin. “That’s what I’m here for.” And then those dimples make a showing, and I know I’m in trouble.