“Medic!” she yelled, eyes laser focused on London’s thumb, which was currently leaching blood through her yellow apron.
“Miss Woodson, what are youdoing?” Tavish hissed, laying a hand on her shoulder. “Get back to your station. Seriously, you’re ruining your apron.”
“Oh, whatever, it’ll come out with some hydrogen peroxide. Which I’m sure the medics have. Hey, guys.” Dahlia smiled at the two EMTs who had hustled over, only stepping away when they took over.
London felt it acutely, the moment her fingers left theirs.
Ten minutes later, London sliced a lemon. They had no idea if this was the next logical step in their carefully formulated plan, but the lemon was there, so they sliced it.
Their thumb ached, pulsing behind the lumpy gauze the medics had applied. Good god, London could not believe they had done that. After Audra had cautioned the contestants no less than ten times to keep their handsbehindtheir filleting knives. London deserved to get eliminated for this, probably. In the very first week. Mortifying.
This was why London was upset. Because they were a competitive person who wanted to win this thing, and they’d made a truly dumb mistake. Because cooking with a huge wad of gauze around your hand was a real pain in the ass.
It had nothing to do with Dahlia Woodson’s fingers squeezing theirs. Or the way she had saidoh, whateverto Tanner Tavish, who was, by all accounts, the scariest person on set.
London picked up another lemon.
It matched the color of the tank top Dahlia had worn yesterday perfectly.
She was wearing a raspberry-colored sweatshirt and floral-patterned shorts today. The sleeves of her sweatshirt had been pushed up her forearms when she reached back to grab London’s hand, but the fabric had still brushed their arm for a second, soft and comforting. Her hair was up in that ridiculous bun. She’d put it up right before she started taking notes during Audra’s demonstration. An escaped ribbon of it had fallen over her eyes when she’d leaned over to examine London’s thumb. London had wanted to reach out and tuck it behind her ear.
Oh god.
London wanted Dahlia Woodson.
They sliced a third lemon, for no good reason at all.
They had wanted her, probably, from the moment they first saw her, but the last twenty minutes had really slapped them across the face with it, and this was dumb. London couldn’t remember the last time they had wanted someone real, someone beyond thirst traps on the internet, and now they were in lust with this woman who stood less than ten feet away from them, who they might not ever see again if they were kicked off today anyway, who was recently divorced, from a dude probably, who was a distraction they did not need.
Dumb, dumb, dumb.
London hadn’t dated since they first came out as nonbinary three years ago. Dating while nonbinary felt confusing and intimidating, even though they knew there had to be some dating apps out there with trans-friendly options available. Right? Right. But they still felt so messy inside, most of the time, and on a related note, London hated halibut.
They cooked it anyway. Grudgingly.
Once the hour was up, the cameras turned off for a brief break, and Dahlia turned around.
“You doing okay?” she asked.
London felt a surprising urge to grunt at her again. God, theywerea jerk.
“Sure,” they said.
She stepped toward them. “It was the rib cage, right?”
They nodded, feeling their cheeks flush.
Dahlia held out her palm, traced a white line that ran right near her left thumb. “The first time I tried to gut a fish.” She smiled. “Tricky bastards.”
London wanted to lift that hand and run their tongue along that scar. And then move to that mouth, smiling and red and full, her lips the same color as her sweatshirt, the teeth behind them blinding.
They swallowed.
“Yeah. It was a pretty big mistake, though.”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter if your food’s still good. And it looks great.”
She nodded at London’s plate. She was lying. It did not look great. Her face looked great.
