And that was when Dahlia started to shake.
Which she hoped wasn’t noticeable in all of these high-definition cameras, or to the judges in front of her, who had been around the world and cooked in Michelin-starred restaurants. Who walked around set like they owned the joint. Because they did. At worst, she hoped her trembles were only noticed by Freckled Grumpypants behind her, whose opinion of her probably couldn’t get any lower at this point anyway.
There was a brief break, as Janet and the production assistants and the judges huddled and pointed and discussed who knew what. Contestants’ plates were adjusted slightly, perfected for the cameras. Contestants ran to the bathroom, laughed nervously with each other. Dahlia stood in place, biting her lip.
And then they were back.
And Audra Carnegie said her name.
Seriously?
She would be the first to have her food judged?
Dahlia had no idea whether this was a blessing or a curse. But she did know her nerves were still recovering from sixty minutes of hyper-focus.
Closing her eyes for just a second, she took another yoga breath. She placed her hands underneath her plate. She stepped away from her station. She rounded the table.
And she tripped.
The world went in slow motion, a torturous horror film. From outside of her body, Dahlia saw Sai Patel rush forward, hands outstretched, brown eyes wide. She thought she heard someone curse. Had there been something in her way? An upturned snag of electrical tape? Or had she, Dahlia Woodson, for the love of all that was holy, really tripped over her own feet after she had made her very first meal on national TV?
Oh dear lord. She was going to literally fall flat on her face.
Somewhere, in the recesses of her brain, she thought,Well, naturally, before her mind went numb. The studio lights were blinding as starbursts of rice, ribbons of purple cabbage, and a playful dash of lime crema took flight moments before her body slammed onto the floor.
CHAPTER TWO
London just needed a moment to themself.
They had stepped into this dim hotel bar to find it, escaping to this grimy table in the corner, crumbs and drink rings littering its surface. Just one moment to themself. They could have continued up to their hotel room to decompress after this entirely too long first day of filming. But their hotel room didn’t have bourbon.
The first taste had felt so good, burning the back of their throat in exactly the way they desired. Cold, strong, a kick of home. It cleared their mind, just a touch. Another glass, and they might clear this whole funky headspace entirely. They had performed well today, but that was likely only because they had practiced making that lamb approximately ninety-eight times.
Tomorrow, the realChef’s Specialstarted. Face-Offs. Ingredient Innovations. Elimination Challenges where they didn’t have weeks to prepare. Real World Challenges. They had to get their mind in order, as soon as humanly possible, if they wanted to succeed.
And maybe they were only here because they got too drunk with Julie last Christmas, when they saw the ad aboutChef’s Specialauditions coming to Nashville. Julie had dared them to try out, and they had never once in their life said no to a dare from their twin sister. But now that they werehere, it was real. And the more London thought about what they would do with that prize money, the better they felt about it.
London wanted to succeed at this more than anything.
So they spent the next two sips of bourbon clearing their head and preparing for tomorrow, for the next day, for every challenge to come.
And then a bag slammed into the empty chair across from them.
The surprising bag was followed by an equally surprising woman, whose wild dark hair framed a face that declared she had had quite enough of the day, thank you very much. She stuck her hands on her hips, visibly huffing, and glared at them.
“Dahlia.” London winced, recalling her spectacular trip on set, which had occurred hours earlier at this point but was still imprinted on their mind. Because how could itnotbe. It had been . . . epic. “I am so, so—”
“Oh, shut up.” She waved a hand. “Everyone is so sorry for me. I know. Believe me, I’m sorry for me, too. I don’t want to talk about that.”
London gripped their liquor, unsure what in the world they and Dahlia Woodson had to talk about, if they couldn’t talk about that.
But Dahlia apparently knew.
“Why didn’t you say good luck back?”
London blinked.
“Or even smile!” She continued, booming with anger when London didn’t respond. “You didn’t have to say anything, but you could have at least smiled back. Or said literally anything to me, after I embarrassed myself at the beginning of the day. All I was trying to do was be friendly. Look for a little reassurance before the most terrifying thing in my life commenced. Why be such a jerk?”
